"doers" poems - Hello Poetry

Gentlemen of Courage and Ladies of Excellence, Toast to stolen prayers with rarer player’s hands; Soft in defiant laughter, when drinking their wine from the bowels of brines Sing along the Ballads of Heritage with Melodies of Exception; Boast, not a breathe, though sullen heirs ghost to fairer wearer’s air(s) of land— A settlement of Rapture and Resurrection, arid, amid dirt and sand and King and thy Kingdom sprout flowering tomb, and rosebud temple reach to the sky during the showers of spring Devours the crescent Moon in big pink petals of bloom; A garden so fertile it could look pretty in wartime— with Gardeners of Courage and Laborers of Excellence; (Lapse, not into digressions of Being and Essence but hands in the soil and planting the actions of kingdom come, patient building of Spring Reign sure as the flame, the architect of rising Sun is (Daughters and Sons of kingdom came, the soldier in a land been conquered and named; abandoned for the greenness of hope. )May it never come, Be All The Same; ( be gentle, though whispering wind) Seeds of Nextyear and the spores of Awhile, carried by the Wasps and the Clouds To the Gentlemen of Excellence and Ladies of Courage, illuminated, eyes from the flora of stars faraway forest floor of foreign fears, as the hungry Owls of Time prepare a final feast— Consume the years between Here and Now; Watching from blank perch, among the Trees of Afterall; a place beyond expectance. Sing the branches of experience, to wake in Siren’s cipher; inelegant forms of waking, ugly sleep on rocks of seabed; once was aboard a marooned skyline— Those Who Are Will Be again, again a serf in a wave of Time’s refraction. Neverending neverbeginning; Those Gentlemen of Courage and Ladies of Excellence, on the Day That Is, arrays of seers sayers doers displayers optimists and pessimists, toast to them and their rarer player’s hands, Boast they, not a breathe, though sullen heirs ghost to fairer wearer’s air and land; Laugh and howl and dine, they drink their wine from disemboweled gourds of their own divine— Warped, in jowls of hungry fix, no feast they fear, for they prey to the Owls of Time.

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Apr 30, 2018

Apr 30, 2018 at 5:28 PM UTC

Sid_Lollan

Gentleman of Courage and Ladies of Excellence

Gentlemen of Courage and Ladies of Excellence, Toast to stolen prayers with rarer player’s hands; Soft in defiant laughter, when drinking their wine from the bowels of brines Sing along the Ballads of Heritage with Melodies of Exception; Boast, not a breathe, though sullen heirs ghost to fairer wearer’s air(s) of land— A settlement of Rapture and Resurrection, arid, amid dirt and sand and King and thy Kingdom sprout flowering tomb, and rosebud temple reach to the sky during the showers of spring Devours the crescent Moon in big pink petals of bloom; A garden so fertile it could look pretty in wartime— with Gardeners of Courage and Laborers of Excellence; (Lapse, not into digressions of Being and Essence but hands in the soil and planting the actions of kingdom come, patient building of Spring Reign sure as the flame, the architect of rising Sun is (Daughters and Sons of kingdom came, the soldier in a land been conquered and named; abandoned for the greenness of hope. )May it never come, Be All The Same; ( be gentle, though whispering wind) Seeds of Nextyear and the spores of Awhile, carried by the Wasps and the Clouds To the Gentlemen of Excellence and Ladies of Courage, illuminated, eyes from the flora of stars faraway forest floor of foreign fears, as the hungry Owls of Time prepare a final feast— Consume the years between Here and Now; Watching from blank perch, among the Trees of Afterall; a place beyond expectance. Sing the branches of experience, to wake in Siren’s cipher; inelegant forms of waking, ugly sleep on rocks of seabed; once was aboard a marooned skyline— Those Who Are Will Be again, again a serf in a wave of Time’s refraction. Neverending neverbeginning; Those Gentlemen of Courage and Ladies of Excellence, on the Day That Is, arrays of seers sayers doers displayers optimists and pessimists, toast to them and their rarer player’s hands, Boast they, not a breathe, though sullen heirs ghost to fairer wearer’s air and land; Laugh and howl and dine, they drink their wine from disemboweled gourds of their own divine— Warped, in jowls of hungry fix, no feast they fear, for they prey to the Owls of Time.