"discerns" poems
Eternal brood the shadows on this ground,
Dreaming of centuries that have gone before;
Great elms rise solemnly by slab and mound,
Arched high above a hidden world of yore.
Round all the scene a light of memory plays,
And dead leaves whisper of departed days,
Longing for sights and sounds that are no more.
Lonely and sad, a specter glides along
Aisles where of old his living footsteps fell;
No common glance discerns him, though his song
Peals down through time with a mysterious spell.
Only the few who sorcery's secret know,
Espy amidst these tombs the shade of Poe.
11.9k
How dull the wretch, whose philosophic mind
Disdains the pleasures of fantastic kind;
Whose prosy thoughts the joys of life exclude,
And wreck the solace of the poet's mood!
Young Zeno, practis'd in the Stoic's art,
Rejects the language of the glowing heart;
Dissolves sweet Nature to a mess of laws;
Condemns th' effect whilst looking for the cause;
Freezes poor Ovid in an iced review,
And sneers because his fables are untrue!
In search of hope the hopeful zealot goes,
But all the sadder tums, the more he knows!
Stay! Vandal sophist, whose deep lore would blast
The grateful legends of the storied past;
Whose tongue in censure flays th' embellish'd page,
And scorns the comforts of a dreary age:
Wouldst strip the foliage from the vital bough
Till all men grow as wisely dull as thou?
Happy the man whose fresh, untainted eye
Discerns a Pantheon in the spangled sky;
Finds sylphs and dryads in the waving trees,
And spies soft Notus in the southern breeze
For whom the stream a cheering carol sings,
While reedy music by the fountain rings;
To whom the waves a Nereid tale confide
Till friendly presence fills the rising tide.
Happy is he, who void of learning's woes,
Th' ethereal life of bodied Nature knows;
I scorn the sage that tells me it but seems,
And flout his gravity in sunlight dreams!
7.9k
285
The Robin’s my Criterion for Tune—
Because I grow—where Robins do—
But, were I Cuckoo born—
I’d swear by him—
The ode familiar—rules the Noon—
The Buttercup’s, my Whim for Bloom—
Because, we’re Orchard sprung—
But, were I Britain born,
I’d Daisies spurn—
None but the Nut—October fit—
Because, through dropping it,
The Seasons flit—I’m taught—
Without the Snow’s Tableau
Winter, were lie—to me—
Because I see—New Englandly—
The Queen, discerns like me—
Provincially—
3.8k
Sometimes it is, poor Sylvia,
that we cannot find the answers. They're
not to be found clinking about in the stars,
blowing about in the August wind,
or blooming among the tea flowers, no matter
how scented. No charlatan soothsayer discerns.
No pull of the cards deciphers. If answers come
at all they'll be found deep within yourself, only.
Don't we all prove that countless, wretched
times? But know this, dear Sylvia, even though it's too
late for your sanity and your life, your daddy didn't
die because of you, for you, by you. Death simply
drew the line and pulled him across.
What were you to do when life puzzled you
to the limit, when all poems disappointed,
when the ink failed to flow smoothly,
the pen tore at the paper and the paper
turned to ash before a line could be written down?
What to do when your child's smile failed to ignite
motherhood, when Daddy's image floated in and out, when
emotional pain dragged you terrified under its
black cerement, that cold, wet, smothering grave cloth?
Fear, oh my God, fear, and the doubt that you had,
the whirling about of a shattered mind, bouncing
from this trap to the other - your muted, stifled inner
screams unheard, or worse, unexpressed. Yes,
you found a solution, poor Sylvia, but suicide
doesn't always equate with an answer. You found a
sad poem, a dirge to be exact, something that moves
us, but there is no rhyme to it and the ending is an
enigma, a great puzzle yet to be invoked, understood.
----
Dec 8, 2011
Dec 8, 2011 at 4:51 PM UTC
I reach to feel your lips
But the net of night discerns
So I adore your cheek
My hand at your side
Strives to pull you in
Like the moon
That drags the waves nearby
Your words to me so soft
They rival a subtle breeze
As your eyes unveil the stars
To display them for the first time
I want to say, "I love you"
And cut the Heaven's floor
But I know time will not come swift
So I will cast my stillborn heart
Until the day we meet again
May 5, 2016
May 5, 2016 at 11:18 PM UTC
The pattern on the underside confused
By snarl and tangle, jumbled, twisting knot.
Its warp and woof constructed without thought
It seems: the flawless linen now infused
With spots of wreckage--perfect weave abused.
“A waste of thread,” I cry, upset, distraught,
And try to pluck the mess now sewn in taut,
Then see the Eye that watches me, amused--
Whose Hand now turns the underside to light.
Amazed, I view a matchless, pristine shawl,
Embroidered dosser, interlaced with shine
That stirs me as I contemplate the sight
Of faultless weft, undamaged after all.
Eternity alone discerns design.
Feb 17, 2017
Feb 17, 2017 at 8:56 PM UTC
The crowd discerns you
a mundane nature
owing to the dark shades
you drape around your skin.
Darling, note this,
"Your daily deeds
And the words you speak
display the colours
From within."
Mar 5, 2018
Mar 5, 2018 at 10:53 AM UTC
On a rickety bridge,
across roaring Rubicon,
in spate, he stands,
holding on to a
Janus faced moment,
that will decide his fate,
once and for all.
He gazes at the rushing-
red waters, from the hills,
madly impatient to reach the sea,
at the earliest,
akin the ****** frenzy at the ******
or life racing towards death, to culminate, dissolve.
Some message, he has in it.He looks on, in silence.
*Two options, his mind discerns,
cross the river and trudge
to the rendezvous, where
the union has to take place,
with his sweet heart, of long years,
or jump in to the surging waters
that tempts, from the time of birth,
and submit oneself
to the hands of nature,
and thereby forget all tribulations.*
**He shuts his eyes and contemplates,
then, his moment of truth comes.**
Nov 21, 2012
Nov 21, 2012 at 10:09 AM UTC
He trails.
He turns.
He falls behind.
But always discerns.
Fortunately our tastes for this
sort of life coincide,
except in the matter of sunrise,
which he likes to see up and dressed,
and I from my bed.
Jun 14, 2021
Jun 14, 2021 at 8:57 AM UTC
928
The Heart has narrow Banks
It measures like the Sea
In mighty—unremitting Bass
And Blue Monotony
Till Hurricane bisect
And as itself discerns
Its sufficient Area
The Heart convulsive learns
That Calm is but a Wall
Of unattempted Gauze
An instant’s Push demolishes
A Questioning—dissolves.
1.6k
*Pixie dust to soar up high
Magic carpet gliding through the sky
Pumpkins giving carriage rides
True love's kiss for eyes to open wide
Her head nestles on her cloud of pillows
Her mind welcomes the Sandman's approach
A pinch here and there taking form
Exuberant fairies waltz around her head
Carelessly dropping twinkling specks
Strewn and sparkling around her bed
Her world is perfect, as you will soon see
She swims with Ariel, deep under the sea
Her best friend is Genie, she gets wishes! Three!
Unfazed by ticking, Pan always helps her flee
A carefree child, she's got the key
A sprinkle of magic solves everything because*
She believes...
His forehead hits the tabletop
Exhaustion winning out
The corner of his eye catches sight
A book flecked with glittery spots
His lips curl in distaste
These tales are not to be believed in haste
His gaze alight upon
The little girl deep in slumber
The outside world is a scary place
He wants her well-prepared
He fights the knowledge he has to face
He'll shatter her dreams with words because
He doubts belief...
**Belief is not a terrible thing
It offers great resolve
It strengthens hope
And doles out joy
Imagination lavished upon
Belief can come in many forms
Especially when facing a storm
When all you see are clouds' anger festering
Belief discerns a silver lining
Even when fairytales are all grown out
In memory they abide
Fairies wink as they sip from buttercups
Awaiting the mind's rollercoaster ride
When trouble arrives, emotions run high
Their lazy potion licks at the tracks
A shower of sparks
And there a new path lies
A yellow brick road so tranquil and wise**
*It's simple really
Simply believe*
May 2, 2016
May 2, 2016 at 11:54 AM UTC
Is Social Media, a bermuda triangle,
Hauling ourselves into the deep entangle.
That, unfortunately for a couple of likes from strangers,
We overlook the likes of our own folks.
The anxiety turns to frustration,
As it embraces anger in gestation.
The phase you reveal as a vent out,
Gradually stumbles the bond throughout.
The more you love the unknown appreciation,
The more you miss the love of real conversation.
Open up your hearts for the pire souls,
Who yearn to lean on you, so close.
Life with it's twists and turns,
Perpetually fixes the discerns.
Look around at the authenticity,
And leave behind the complexity.
For, you the epitome of tomorrow's inspiration,
Fly on, with adept determination.
Jul 29, 2020
Jul 29, 2020 at 8:41 AM UTC
Your eyes are sockets of disapproval
My eyes are sunk in their reticence
Would I be the flustering morning sun?
No I'm not, I only break the dawn
When, creeping from my slothing insolence
I enter the world afresh to some harried call
A new day stretching my body from contortion
To a slumbered, slouched hunch
With bags afrenzy under these eyes that stare back
Are portals to my soul, which is also empty
Reflections of woeful, haggard dejection
Which, in my mind's eye, which is yours,
Give me call to curl back to my hibernation
To recede like my own vacant eyes do,
To my seat of morose repose
Senseless, as I stare thickly into space
Beholding my dreams strewn before me
As I curl away from them, and they seem ever reachable
Moments ago, I used to speak to myself
A mutterance for the day's outlook
Something to find a more suitable reflection
Waiting for me at the day's end
A worldly philosophy, or mind set proposal
But a strange shame spoke back at me,
As I perceived my speaking of these words
That with each day's turn only mildly echoed
As I turned from monotony with each night
To mediocrity of passionless habit
With a pinch of thought each glance conjures
I look upon myself in years,
My futile vision, my rampant egoism
With which the twinkling eye discerns me
At my now stage, and with
Reassuring confidence tells me not to change
As with time's growth will I become you
But blink and I return to forever
For without vigor and drive will this image
Imprint and stagnate its glare upon this glass
My eternal face, my motiveless eyes
Which so piteously transfix themselves on wonder
But turn up only rubble and soil
Now, I turn in disgust, relinquishing my desires
And, turning to the hour, feel slowly
The weight of each second's thunder
Crash upon my shoulders as it is snatched from me
And now I must not lounge through this new morn
I must not lessen with the tide
What I have stored up in greatness
But instead find the key to my ghostly heart
Bring myself back,
Forward into each new life
Nov 12, 2012
Nov 12, 2012 at 11:09 AM UTC
Her love, for long a thorn
now an ornament of pain
on her numb heart, pierced,
that has suffered in vein.
lovelorn and desolate,
she collects words in hope,
even from still night air,
but that work against often;
a vocabulary
of intense desire
she discerns at once,
from the scent
of jasmine
blooming at midnight
disturbing her peace
wave after wave.
Mate call of
a night bird
late for its date,
hurriedly searching
the rendezvous
and its sweetheart,
makes her sad.
Sky full of stars'winks
stringed together
as a song,
suggest daring things
she wouldn't think
attempting even much later.
She would send sighs
dry her tears rolling down,
and just suffer in silence,
till the sky open its eye,
when tired she will close her eyes.
Aug 9, 2013
Aug 9, 2013 at 2:17 PM UTC
[and scarcely worth the trouble, at that]
The same to me are somber days and gay.
Though Joyous dawns the rosy morn, and bright,
Because my dearest love is gone away
Within my heart is melancholy night.
My heart beats low in loneliness, despite
That riotous Summer holds the earth in sway.
In cerements my spirit is bedight;
The same to me are somber days and gay.
Though breezes in the rippling grasses play,
And waves dash high and far in glorious might,
I thrill no longer to the sparkling day,
Though joyous dawns the rosy morn, and bright.
Ungraceful seems to me the swallow's flight;
As well might heaven's blue be sullen gray;
My soul discerns no beauty in their sight
Because my dearest love is gone away.
Let roses fling afar their crimson spray,
And ****** daisies splash the fields with white,
Let bloom the poppy hotly as it may,
Within my heart is melancholy night.
And this, O love, my pitiable plight
Whenever from my circling arms you stray;
This little world of mine has lost its light....
I hope to God, my dear, that you can say
The same to me.
1.4k
The same to me are sombre days and gay.
Though joyous dawns the rosy morn, and bright,
Because my dearest love is gone away
Within my heart is melancholy night.
My heart beats low in loneliness, despite
That riotous Summer holds the earth in sway.
In cerements my spirit is bedight;
The same to me are sombre days and gay.
Though breezes in the rippling grasses play,
And waves dash high and far in glorious might,
I thrill no longer to the sparkling day,
Though joyous dawns the rosy morn, and bright.
Ungraceful seems to me the swallow's flight;
As well might Heaven's blue be sullen gray;
My soul discerns no beauty in their sight
Because my dearest love is gone away.
Let roses fling afar their crimson spray,
And ****** daisies splash the fields with white,
Let bloom the poppy hotly as it may,
Within my heart is melancholy night.
And this, oh love, my pitiable plight
Whenever from my circling arms you stray;
This little world of mine has lost its light ...
I hope to God, my dear, that you can say
The same to me.
1.4k
Big black rocks are singing a mellow song,
emanating from the warmth daylong,
received from the sun, that left them behind,
melted in to a red haze and gone in to ocean.
The dusky night moving on tip-toe is pleased
all ears, discerns and imbibes its meaning
for her to join seamlessly at the right moment.
The stars, gentle still, are thrilled by this musical's
complex emotions, join in with their contribution,
subtle notes of winks, gleams and twinkle.
Oct 8, 2013
Oct 8, 2013 at 2:41 PM UTC
I’ve always hoped to have my father’s eyes
the kind that “smiles wrinkles” without a smile
that discerns with wisdom and fills up with pride
there jolly joy resides
I’ve always dreamed of having my grandfather’s ears
and all the stories they would hear
with a mouth to match and tell me true
to whisper to me lullabies too
I’ve always wanted my mother’s hands
that brought love and calm without demand
the ones that enveloped me with love
and kisses I’d never get sick of
I’ve always adored my grandmother’s laugh
as she cuts her doughnut to give me half
which echoed the halls every night
divine, delicious, delight
But nothing has passed on except what I know
of my ancestors and their quirky shows
that taught me how to appreciate
and enjoy the simplicity of traits
So here, I am me with simple eyes
stout little ears filled with lullabies
entangled with love and peace and quiet
until laughter comes knocking at night
Sep 23, 2013
Sep 23, 2013 at 9:01 AM UTC
Seeking refuge,
I appeal to your memory
of love.
If you remember blithe abandon,
the thump and swing
of a heart unhinged,
then light a fire for me in this dark night;
if you know that
what the eye discerns as reluctance
is often fear
then kindle something brave in me
and fan the flames with patience
until they become
inferno.
Jan 31, 2011
Jan 31, 2011 at 6:02 AM UTC
In this rare natural preserve,
cardinals cheer from nests in tree towers
sheltered by veils of plush green leaves
as frisky herds of baby deer
hop, skip and dance
with the grace of ballerinas
on the grassy knoll below.
The keen ear discerns
the whisper of streams
spilling over shallow beds
of igneous rocks
spearing through the translucence
of aqueous purity
not yet muddied by elements
destructive to the green movement.
Far removed from the huff and puff of industry,
where a breath of fresh air
is a luxury long forgotten,
and wheezing lungs abound,
the natural preserve
takes us to higher ground
where the scenes and sounds
of natural synergies
touch the heart,
cleanse the spirit,
and soothe the soul.
~ P (#Pablo#hg)
Aug 10, 2013
Aug 10, 2013 at 11:43 AM UTC
Two protruding supple *******
on much toned down
lactating, tender *******
swollen, in anticipation
of thirst, awaiting open mouthed,
---are gently pushed in between
pursed, eager, fumbling lips,
of the newborn, who in no way knows,
what happens, in this world of strangers.
When milk in one is fully drained, as if by prompt,
it's the turn of the other full one, he knows.
Each one is avariciously taken in
by saliva dripping cute baby lips,
instinctively discerns it as "Mama dear"
even without opening tired eyes
that fear the rushing, hurting light.
Motherly warmth, the distinct scent,his nose smells first
the bonding felt, when held close to her warm *******
incessant flow of lukewarm milk of love;
aren't these enough to make her presence felt
in the baby's nascent mind, that craves for a mom?
This is the precise moment, of the 'new born mother'
Mother, the flowing milk of life, protector, care giver.
As if in a dream just began to unfold,
the new born, like a bloom disarmingly smiles!
Closing her eyes as if to join in the baby's dream,
the mother suckles the infant in self oblivion.
The meaning of the pride written on her face
in hues of crimson, only a mother could fully discern.
Apr 16, 2016
Apr 16, 2016 at 6:53 AM UTC
A normal being is living right
and reacts on the level of reality.
He works for subsistence and luxury,
and is contented with satisfaction.
A special being is living tight
and reacts on the level of complexity.
He dwells in his own world alone,
and is perplexed with the surrounding.
A poetic being is living bright
and reacts on the level of madness.
He discerns beyond the limit of reality,
and explore the depths of the human insanity.
Aug 2, 2018
Aug 2, 2018 at 5:28 AM UTC
Something stirs as numbing ache
Clawing she falls na’er to wake
A vengeful hiss, it slithers out
Signifies the calf’s mistake
Fangs from which the poison drips
eyes black and cut like arrow’s tip
Regards the cow it’s hollowed place
Sees mind through mind’s eye
And from mind discerns its lie
For all things are cows with both within
Often poisons slowly seep, or teeth will quickly sink
With mistake the calf will die, what some call sin
the snake calls mistake, with venomous grin
What are we to say to this?
Half serpent half calf- am I to choose?
Snakes will leer the vengeful wrath
And calf to mother, looks for the stamping feet
What may be, it is then
If serpent strike first
Then venom is righteous and just
And if cow succeed
Then hoof has stamped in moral deed
7-9-18
Sep 28, 2018
Sep 28, 2018 at 6:25 PM UTC
.
" 'I know not
what is coming,
but be what it will
I will go to it laughing.
Better to sleep with
a sober cannibal th
an a drunk Christia
n •It is not down on
any map; true place
s never are. • Tell m
e not of blasphemy,
man; I'd strike the
sun if it insulted me.
... and Heaven have
mercy on us all-Pres
bytarians and Pagans
alike for we are all
somehow dreadfully
broken, and sadly n
eed mending • There
are certain occasions
in this strange mixed
affair we call life
when a man takes this
whole universe for a vast Practical
joke, though the wit thereof he but deepl
y discerns, and more than suspects that th
e Joke is at no body's expense
t h a n his own.' "
Feb 7, 2015
Feb 7, 2015 at 11:54 AM UTC
~
may you ne’er reach
wealth without a struggle;
may you ne’re grasp
success without the pain;
for ’tis life’s struggle
that purifies one’s soul,
and ’tis his pain
that will make
the broken more whole.
but a silver spoon feeds
the want of one’s ease,
and a deep-cushioned couch
gathers only the
lazy and thieves.
for...
wealth is the great insular,
and money is a magnifier;
the core of one’s heart
that beats deep within;
success is the incisor,
that lays bare the soul.
place one the other afore,
regret will sorely follow;
for it magnifies a fool!
but the one who earns,
by grace discerns,
virtue’s voice to listen learns,
attains a stage from which to lead;
his a stature most uncommon,
by wisdom’s mere simplicity
were his mouth to ne’er open
his footsteps and his life
would surely, loudly speak!
this the cost, the
elusive expense,
this the price
of un-common sense.
~
*post script.
i am no philosopher;
these are but a lifetime
of observations made;
and mine are mere shadows
’midst an elusive sun’s shade.
the precise formula
i profess to know not
but of this i am quite certain
wisdom isn't given
to any without cost.
yet she is less elusive
than one might think...
for,
“wisdom calls aloud
in the open air
and raises her voice
in the public places.”
Proverbs 1:20*
Nov 19, 2016
Nov 19, 2016 at 12:11 PM UTC