"deigns" poems
MESSENGER
Now at the Seventh Gate the seventh chief,
Thy proper mother's son, I will announce,
What fortune for this city, for himself,
With curses he invoketh:--on the walls
Ascending, heralded as king, to stand,
With paeans for their capture; then with thee
To fight, and either slaying near thee die,
Or thee, who wronged him, chasing forth alive,
Requite in kind his proper banishment.
Such words he shouts, and calls upon the gods
Who o'er his race preside and Fatherland,
With gracious eye to look upon his prayers.
A well-wrought buckler, newly forged, he bears,
With twofold blazon riveted thereon,
For there a woman leads, with sober mien,
A mailed warrior, enchased in gold;
Justice her style, and thus the legend speaks:--
'This man I will restore, and he shall hold
The city and his father's palace homes.'
Such the devices of the hostile chiefs.
'Tis for thyself to choose whom thou wilt send;
But never shalt thou blame my herald-words.
To guide the rudder of the State be thine!
ETEOCLES
O heaven-demented race of Oedipus,
My race, tear-fraught, detested of the gods!
Alas, our father's curses now bear fruit.
But it beseems not to lament or weep,
Lest lamentations sadder still be born.
For him, too truly Polyneikes named,--
What his device will work we soon shall know;
Whether his braggart words, with madness fraught,
Gold-blazoned on his shield, shall lead him back.
Hath Justice communed with, or claimed him hers,
Guided his deeds and thoughts, this might have been;
But neither when he fled the darksome womb,
Or in his childhood, or in youth's fair prime,
Or when the hair thick gathered on his chin,
Hath Justice communed with, or claimed him hers,
Nor in this outrage on his Fatherland
Deem I she now beside him deigns to stand.
For Justice would in sooth belie her name,
Did she with this all-daring man consort.
In these regards confiding will I go,
Myself will meet him. Who with better right?
Brother to brother, chieftain against chief,
Foeman to foe, I'll stand. Quick, bring my spear,
My greaves, and armor, bulwark against stones.
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The Boxer stands alone tonight.
There are no crowds to cheer him on.
There are no opportunities to pass him by.
The Boxer stands alone tonight.
His head is bowed, no longer strong.
His heart no longer knows what's right.
The Boxer stands alone tonight.
He can't remember for how long.
He can't remember what it felt like
to live
carry on
to be strong
to fight.
The Boxer stands alone tonight.
There is no one here to hear him cry,
alone in the ring, as baroque music flies
through the air; through his soul,
and at last lets him sleep.
There is not a soul left there that cares to cheer him on;
When he passes, there is no one left that deigns to weep.
Mar 17, 2015
Mar 17, 2015 at 10:27 PM UTC
Quaking Earth shattering Revolting
And I'm in the middle of it
My heart is at least
I didn't realize or notice that it got so big able to lumber out of my chest
I guess that's ok because I can't do anything about it
Just like I couldn't do anything about the fire rising up behind "me"
You aren't with me I don't get to hear your laugh anymore
Sprinkling down through ivy covered walls
You aren't with me
I've realized that a lot
But I also realize that when I get up in the morning
Or in most cases never going to sleep to begin with
The moon a lovely
Complicit pale lover
Never questioning me
Never worrying me
Listening when I need to talk
And instead of telling me what to do
Or telling me what I'm doing wrong
it just listens
I knew it wasn't a mistake when I fell for your pale face
It was a mistake when I started liking someone
Who's face didn't stay impressively passive when looking at me
It was a mistake to fall out of orbit
For someone who never wanted to be free
From the confines of gravity
To come into my sky
You know sometimes
I can still see your shadow
Just out of the corner of my eye
The way your hair would fall
How your eyes would even enrapture the sun
You aren't mine anymore
But the sun still deigns to rise
And the moon still loves me
I can't get back the love and adoration
I gave you over the past five years
And as I said I still see your shadow sometimes
But you aren't mine
And that's ok
Because even though you never cared
About being the meteor that knocked me out of orbit
I still cared about you being happy
Even when it wasn't with me
Even when it isn't with me
And each day since
I've gotten off of the ground
More and more
So thanks
For the broken insecurities
For the things that I never wanted
Thanks for submerging me into a vat
Made out of stress and emotional pain
Thanks
For the new sense of orbit
And the new outlook
And that sometimes
Dreams shatter
Possibilities shatter
But that's ok
Because when they shatter
The fractures
Lead to new doors
Jul 18, 2018
Jul 18, 2018 at 2:02 AM UTC
Why did I laugh tonight? No voice will tell:
No God, no Demon of severe response,
Deigns to reply from Heaven or from Hell.
Then to my human heart I turn at once.
Heart! Thou and I are here, sad and alone;
I say, why did I laugh? O mortal pain!
O Darkness! Darkness! ever must I moan,
To question Heaven and Hell and Heart in vain.
Why did I laugh? I know this Being's lease,
My fancy to its utmost blisses spreads;
Yet would I on this very midnight cease,
And the world's gaudy ensigns see in shreds;
Verse, Fame, and Beauty are intense indeed,
But Death intenser—Death is Life's high meed.
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What is the sorriest thing that enters Hell?
None of the sins,—but this and that fair deed
Which a soul’s sin at length could supersede.
These yet are virgins, whom death’s timely knell
Might once have sainted; whom the fiends compel
Together now, in snake-bound shuddering sheaves
Of anguish, while the scorching bridegroom leaves
Their refuse maidenhood abominable.
Night ***** them down, the garbage of the pit,
Whose names, half entered in the book of Life,
Were God’s desire at noon. And as their hair
And eyes sink last, the Torturer deigns no whit
To gaze, but, yearning, waits his worthier wife,
The Sin still blithe on earth that sent them there.
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Our Father
Woe! to these demonic determined downtrodden deceivers,
Woe! Oh Thine merciless mendicants of misery and maleficent mendacity
Woe! Oh common corrupt conniving cunning calumnious crusaders of crucifixion...
scurrilous screeds scribbling sorrows
The Lord will sharpen thou pencils...
Thou pocket protectors whilst melt into thine *******
Thou spectacles opaque and permanently smudged...with other assorted
myriad miseries
Thou mittens will be smitten with interminable degeneracy...
Oh languid leaders of licentious lubricious larceny..
Oh craving calculating copious concupiscent calumnious falsifiers...
Oh maudlin mocking manipulators, multitudinous marauding machinations
**Thy God is an angry God
a vengeful God
a jealous God**
Oh **** pots and gall! Oh sordid ****** insalubrious denizens of depraved degeneracy
Take heed thou names mightn't appear in the almighty book of life when judgement deigns an
opprobrious order of objurgation
terrible tragic tempestous tribulations of treachery
Oh Woe! Alas!
They are fallacious febrile fabricators, fallen , fragmented flawed fugacious furtive falsifiers!!
scalawags and rapscallions..rascals of ribaldry..forlorn fallen away backslidden recalcitrants…
Oh misguided miserable miscreants, maladies and agitation be thy lot!
This rant has been brought to you by:
The Most High and Holy Priest of the Ignoble Church of Alliteration & Utter Skepticisim
Aug 8, 2013
Aug 8, 2013 at 5:54 PM UTC
“Words are beautiful, but emotion is divine” (patty m)
~these are the divine words of a beautiful soul, patty m~
this Missouri grandmother writes and I am willfully, duty-bound,
to comply for she commissions a poem with every insightful pithy and
ever one of her dear hugs, of which these is no limit and each one a treasure of a gratitude that flows contra-directionally, surpassing given-grace and lawful gravity, for all of her words flow simultaneously north and south, heavenwards, and earth planted, east / west, magnetic poles attracting divinity wherever it can be found
and all I can do is proffer
just one more only love poem, which is the blessing and the curse the lord blessed me with, love is beautiful and it is divinely originated in each of our humble hearts, plucked from trees and fed to us wherever fruit of the fields grows, shaped like sweet and **** berries…not all that is divine, of necessity to be beautiful, words, them too, a mixed blessing, vulnerable and subject by the abuse of human weakness and fragility…but this much I assure myself with confidence,
and you too,
her words, well,
limitless, her every poem is hand woven, unhid, in the fooling
plain earthenware that the potter’s wheel created,
all gifts to each of us;
*But my fragility mandates I speak slow and hesitantly of things beautiful that contain the white glow sparkler light of divinity, for I have attracted and deserved many failures, far greater than the rarer success, so my knowledge yet oft suspect, is mostly merely well imagined but know this:
her skill,
her expertise
her intimate comprehension
within the beautiful and divine expressions of her kind appreciation she deigns to share…words like a mighty, beautiful like a powerful Missouri river, driven by all specie of love…but none more powerful, more divine than that of a loving womanly grandmother*
this, yes, only a love poem to be sure,
for the beautiful,
The Divine Miss (Patty) M.
Jul 24, 2023
Jul 24, 2023 at 5:44 PM UTC
Observation. the act. a frenetic rat
turning the cheese around.
Twisted little turning fingers.
a scientist looks at two peas
in a pod, and deigns to his ******* child.
His spectacles reflect the world
and classify to a faulty eye.
As fingers manipulate the strings;
connected to divinity
or the prison-within-ity?
A man long flown towards freedom...
hanging high from the telephone line...
Triumphant introspection;
chains inwardly strewn;
a thrall to the matterless dark.
A slave to the unreal Master;
now free to plot against his enemies,
he curses the baker’s wife.
Turning the cheese around
the rat sniffs and inspects
with an eye for ratio,
a life applied ambitiously,
to the Holy cheese and gold trophies.
A ticket to the image of love
But how will he trust her fidelity?
The mail-order bride, she cries.
Jan 16, 2015
Jan 16, 2015 at 9:14 PM UTC
Sometimes I fain would find in thee some fault,
That I might love thee still in spite of it:
Yet how should our Lord Love curtail one whit
Thy perfect praise whom most he would exalt?
Alas! he can but make my heart’s low vault
Even in men’s sight unworthier, being lit
By thee, who thereby show’st more exquisite
Like fiery chrysoprase in deep basalt.
Yet will I nowise shrink; but at Love’s shrine
Myself within the beams his brow doth dart
Will set the flashing jewel of thy heart
In that dull chamber where it deigns to shine:
For lo! in honour of thine excellencies
My heart takes pride to show how poor it is.
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There once was a TV network
That made me want to exult
But now I am sad and despondent
And it’s mostly Steven Moffat’s fault
I enthusiastically started Doctor Who
Who’s chronology is twisted and bizarre
It seemed like such fun to travel through time and space with a man
Who used a blue box as his car
But soon the companions’ aspirations
To travel to planets and stars
Were crushed by the Void, lost love, and gargoyles
And the Doctor is lonely and scarred.
Not yet wise, I began watching Sherlock
His deduction left me amazed and bamboozled
He and John drank some tea, and solved crimes with glee
Although each case took quite some perusal.
They lived happily with their cool flat decorum
Mrs. Hudson made biscuits below
Then along came the menacing, mean Moriarty
There was nothing that he didn’t know.
Because of the fallacy that Sherlock’s a fake
He’s dead and John’s in the doldrums
The only thing done to commemorate him
Are John’s “I do believe in Sherlock Holmes”
Hoping for a show that was boisterous and happy
Instead of the peaceful, yet sad
I turned to the medieval Merlin
who was quite a cheery lad
He worked for the king’s son, Arthur
who eclectically chose his knights
There were sirs Lancelot, Gwaine, and Leon
The bravest people in sight.
Merlin used his job as camouflage,
His secret he did not divulge
for if they all knew he was a powerful wizard
In his execution King Uther would indulge.
Since Merlin’s destiny was to keep the prince safe
He faced many scary things
He would cower in fear, but when Arthur was near
He felt brave enough to sing
Merlin’s feelings for Arthur were obvious
But does Arthur feel the same way?
When Arthur deigns to exchange dialogue with him
It instantly brightens his day.
But Lancelot died doing Merlin’s job
And Arthur is in love with Gwen
Morgana, a wizard who was once Merlin’s friend
Is evil and wants Camelot dead.
So the Doctor is lonely and growing old
Sherlock left John all alone
And Merlin feels guilty and outcast
They’ve lost all the good they’ve ever known.
And I am left crying and angry.
How could the writers do this to me?
But still, they’re the best shows I’ve ever watched
And I’ll always love the BBC.
May 19, 2013
May 19, 2013 at 11:36 PM UTC
Jax slinks to the bowl
swipes a paw across the brink
litter in his drink
Java to the sink
jumps up to drink faucet drops
before they ker-plink
M J stops to think
before deigns to take a drink
lynx philoso-fur
Aug 16, 2010
Aug 16, 2010 at 3:27 PM UTC
1.
My mother hates me!
My father hates me!
Oedipus screams to the
stealthily silent Sphinx.
He scatters riddles like laurel leaves
waiting to be braided into
a playwright's crown. It is too
grandiose to fit his cracked. cramped cranium.
His unconscious mind flies open
like the Sphinx rocketing to the sky.
Sacred haunches soar. Wings beat
steadily to reach titanic heights.
Blind to his murderous fate, Oedipus
cannot know himself. Before the
Delphic Oracle, his life shrivels,
unexamined by his bleeding eyes.
2.
Freud exults in triumph.
Maternal love births eternal love:
endless comfort and affection
for the newly bloomed beloved.
Soon, comfort metamorphoses
into feral eros, unspeakable, unthinkable,
beyond the bounds of catastrophic evil.
Submerged desire sullies the chastest kiss.
Jacosta embraces her son
as her new living king, her husband's
royal blood bubbling brazenly
on the bitter road to Thebes.
His hands stained, Oedipus strives
to transmute his trauma as our own.
We become him when Freud deigns
to interpret our darkest, direst dreams.
Blindly, we mimic him: carnal union
with the mother, lethal rage against
the father. Mourning Becomes Electra
beckons to the wary second ***
3.
The Sphinx belies its own riddle:
How can prophecy spring from
the sculpted, smooth stone
of these perfect *******
Only blind Teiresias plumbs the depths
of Oedipus' fate: Judgement lies blinded,
action lies blinded by the ventricles of
violence, the twisted telos of the mind.
Humans sin against the world, against
nature, siphoned of joy. They sin without
a sacred perch to rise from. Blood and *****
mud and blindness fashion their Oedipal souls.
Feb 21, 2020
Feb 21, 2020 at 3:21 PM UTC
Bitter Water
This is prompted by the death of TV actor Peter Breck the emotion is defiantly not nostalgic
All though it can cause that strange feeling of bitter sweet sorrow no his is the images and the loveliness
Of the man to catch that certain something the endowment of grace that is set apart and alone
Expressions that linger like the sight and smell after a fresh rain as if you tried to hold that which is
Exquisite and fragile it can only be observed and honored but never possessed it is the richest and rarest
It is life’s human brevity like art’s master pieces they appear unbidden they blaze they ignite the very air
Then evaporate but at times the right person is there when contact is made and they are gifted in a way
That they are not only able to capture wonder and appreciate it but they are able to reproduce it in the
Most extraordinary way that baffles and enthralls everyone else with shadings of colors that are alive it
Parades magnificence in common paths that cause the piece to resonate the divine impetus of creation
Spell binding earthmoving in the true and great idea of what art is supposed to be to see what is
Forgotten and missed by most but through intensity of vision you quell chaos peace assuredly is
Harnessed a new never was it viewed in this dimension and grandness of scale impart to me thy secrets
And give visitation to strains that are the bleeding forth of Heavenly deigns in the mix of earthen woes
Treasures are indifferent to me after this awaking I wonder seeking another glimpse and then at a great
Distance the slightest glimmer a tiny spark of promise causes the eyes to brighten the pulse rate to
Increase you are closing in on the mystifying impetus of creative power you begin a dance that recedes
Only after fire has spent its glory through your veins such was the life Peter lived and gave to us all
Thanks Peter you will be sadly missed
Feb 12, 2012
Feb 12, 2012 at 1:01 AM UTC
Ages past and ages new are swirling in my mind.
Devils' broth and angels' brew are stirred…and then combined.
From that I spring and stand aloft the precipice~ balanced on a dime!
On one side hovers lightning, on one side shines the sun.
'Twixt them both I dance and whirl, my heart and soul undone.
Nothing hidden, all is bared: which way shall fall the dice?
"Neither nor!" I shout
then soar to fuller heights where coolness reigns
and the Goddess deigns to hold me.
Open arms enfold me: Soft are Her delights!
Her kisses soothe my fevered brow. Our hearts gently beat as one.
All parts of me become one Whole and then! Her work is done!
I glide through clouds and waterfalls~ my laughter fills the air.
My soul is one great Fullness~ I am neither here nor there.
My wings unfurl their splendor embracing all below.
For I have reaped a Lover's harvest.
And its seeds I now shall sow.
~~R. Leo 10-15-16 (C)
Oct 16, 2016
Oct 16, 2016 at 12:22 AM UTC
little ***** and rings
of metal move
as he talks
three studs,
on his eyebrow
wander like a slugish
overfull caterpillar
the bullring ring in his nose,
condenses with each breath
of the frigid winter morn
and his earlobes swing and dangle
with blocks and spheres
of a dark wood like substance
I ask him, does that hurt,
he deigns not to answer.....
We get on with the matter
at hand, his idea for a thesis;
with regard to dramatic reflection
in Shakespearean adaptations
He speaks of Othello, Richard III
and Romeo and Juliet....
the use of water, sunglasses and mirrors
I ask if he believes there is 70000+ words
in his exploration of reflection....
all the time watching the metal caterpillar
try to escape the forest of his eyebrow....
He sighs, and the bullring mists over
the ears lobes waggle and waft around.
He states not really sure......but he likes the idea
I send him off to look for other plays
Shakespearean or not that he could include
in this work.....and to come back in a month
with a precis and chapter plan....
He leaves, shoulders slumped, muttering
and I think....I may have added one more peircing
to his intellectual life
Jun 26, 2016
Jun 26, 2016 at 5:16 PM UTC
Weeping Winter
Deigns his spine
In small whispers of magic.
The fingers of a ghost
He Almost
Mourned the loss of them.
Until he tastes
The fruit of rot.
And felt
Old daggers in the dark.
Like a drop of dew
In Summer heat,
He recedes towards the Sun
To await the Winter Mourn
And scorn
A mother of her forgotten son.
Oct 9, 2020
Oct 9, 2020 at 12:28 PM UTC
When does,
the cobra strike?
When it deigns so?
No...
The cobra strikes when you...
Flee!
Parade before it.
Drink your fill,
and a little more...
Be merry,
that it knows its greatest weapon,
is laughing stock.
Mar 5, 2016
Mar 5, 2016 at 4:09 AM UTC
Timpanic membrane mumbles transform into
Crescendoes, dumb except within skull walls.
Not quite like a burn, not quite like a sting this
din deigns to drag out old heartaches and new
failures and fresh ideas and stale aspirations but
stuck in staccato can any one idea stay or are
they doomed to rattle, to deafen? They come
and go and is the thought even finished with
these streams of consciousness up against
dull tasks, wasting commands and all these
commands waste so much energy. When I just
want the world to stand still is there any
one – yes it is who weaves
back in and YOU that resonates
in overtones. have made the
mental madness manageable when you quietly
stop the leaking gap.
A plane on which to balance. A grip with which
to bolster stronger blisters.
A quieting yes to block out
out the trembling timbre.
You are order out of chaos.
In the evening’s repose,
My silent film dreams
honor you, and
in the morning
I wake to noiselessness
and a thunderous heart
Aug 13, 2019
Aug 13, 2019 at 6:33 PM UTC
Me, whom no Muse of heavenly birth inspires,
No judgment tempers when rash genius fires;
Who boast no merit but mere knack of rhyme,
Short gleams of sense, and satire out of time;
Who cannot follow where trim fancy leads,
By prattling streams, o’er flower-empurpled meads;
Who often, but without success, have pray’d
For apt Alliteration’s artful aid;
Who would, but cannot, with a master’s skill,
Coin fine new epithets, which mean no ill:
Me, thus uncouth, thus every way unfit
For pacing poesy, and ambling wit,
Taste with contempt beholds, nor deigns to place
Amongst the lowest of her favour’d race.
Oct 20, 2017
Oct 20, 2017 at 12:40 PM UTC
Funny, really, how we
All refer to love and practical jokes,
Broaching the subjects from the same angle.
Referencing both the feeling and the prank,
I lament: "I fell for it/I fell for her",
Concerning the lies I've been told,
About the playful manipulation of truth.
Tall tales told to exploit one's trust.
Eccentric bedfellows, if you ask me.
Though, at least the infamous 'prank',
Has the integrity and the courage to
Enter the frame without a pretty facade.
Graced with either, I'd choose falling for a joke
Over falling for another human being, because
One is light-hearted, and the other
Deigns to light this heart afire.
Apr 19, 2018
Apr 19, 2018 at 8:36 AM UTC
All about the geometry,
getting tangled in
her sorcery when the
Angels
want you too.
Muse.
And I use Chanel to attract,
my lips are dry and cracked so
I ladle on some balm,
calm?
nope,
but
I live in hope as most of us do.
The low down on the cosine is a
sign for me to come up and see her
sometime and I've heard that one
before.
These are the searchlights.
Flares that bring night down
and candles to warm Saki.
Back at the Inn
Ingrid
deigns to let me enter and
pin my colours to her mast,
happiness.
That's all a man can ask
unless he's an absolute cad
and although I'm a bounder
I've
never been that bad.
At Andrews,
we are back to the base
counting to ten with
mud on my face,
flying to
Dallas
and all of us
laugh wildly at the child that's
inside of me, but I know he
left years ago and
is still on the
way.
Mar 10, 2016
Mar 10, 2016 at 5:03 PM UTC
The moon above Maracaibo
Deigns to lower its great arm,
Sending broad white streaks
Across the mighty dark.
Around the lakeside chanting
Songs of the evening hum,
Couples dwell beneath her,
Drinking their watery ***
The moon above Maracaibo
Likes to glint in your glass,
Tasting a bit of that mixture,
Dabbling in perfect romance.
But when the day arrives
To turn the blue grass green,
It waits for pitch-black night
To make Maracaibo sheen.
Oct 19, 2018
Oct 19, 2018 at 9:59 PM UTC
'THE PAST IS ANOTHER COUNTRY."
July 16th
day after my 61st birthday
in the year of our Lord
2017.
And with a flick
of a switch
Big Ben strikes
half past ten
but in the July
of 1890.
The Past is
present again.
I wash up a cup
as Trumpeter Landfried
sounds the charge
as he did at Balaclava
as if 1854 had never
faded away.
And now the kettle boils
Earl Grey in a blue and yellow cup.
Florence Nightingale enters and
interrupts, with:
"When I am...no longer..."
she says so quietly
inserting a pause
like a book mark in her voice
then deigns to go on
again.
"...even a memory...just
a name..."
I sip my tea
as Lord Alfred recites
in a heavy pendulous voice
"The Charge of the Light Brigade"
thanks to Mr. Edison's
brown wax cylinders
as they bring back the Past
even with a trace of
fungus upon it
to live another day
and Florence's voice
once under glass
steps out of the museum
into the newly fashioned
light of 2017
blinking
here she is again:
"...I hope my voice may
perpetuate
the great work of
my life."
Just then the phone
rings and I
tumble back into
the here
and now.
Nov 28, 2017
Nov 28, 2017 at 12:54 PM UTC
So it finally happened.
And I'm feeling so philosophical.
So I'll drop this paragraph I'm supposed to purport Toulmin in and instead, drop a beat through pentameter that means nothing like it should.
Those words were spoken in the right order, in the right way, at the right time, when I needed to hear them most. He knew. YOU KNEW. How, I can't exactly be sure. Hell, I don't even know if your conciousness deigns to dwell in the reaches of digital activity where my poetic inner goddess reigns, but I can hope.
If you're reading this....
Tell me.
Feb 22, 2016
Feb 22, 2016 at 10:21 AM UTC