"drowse" poems
The other day while driving down
a winding country road,
I passed a house that took me back
to days so long ago.
The shaded porch, the hanging swing,
the oak trees standing guard,
The carefully tended flower beds,
the wide expanse of yard,
The big ol' wooden rocking chairs
where a soul could sit and drowse,
Made me recall so clearly,
time spent at Grandma's house.
Grandma's house was always open
to all who happened by.
Kith and kin or long-lost friend
were met with a welcome cry.
"Come, sit and eat, we'll set another place,
there's always room for one more".
And when you left you could look back and see her,
still waving from the open door.
Many years have passed, the family is scattered,
And that house is no longer home.
But whenever I should happen to pass,
the feeling still comes so strong.
That I should stop and visit a while
and a secret or two we'll share.
And then on its heels comes the knowledge,
that Grandma's no longer there.
All that's left are fond memories
that all of us grandkids have,
That we can recall so clearly,
time spent at Grandma's house.
Apr 22, 2011
Apr 22, 2011 at 12:25 PM UTC
Up, O ye lovers, and away! 'Tis time to leave the world for aye.
Hark, loud and clear from heaven the from of parting calls-let none delay!
The cameleer hat risen amain, made ready all the camel-train,
And quittance now desires to gain: why sleep ye, travellers, I pray?
Behind us and before there swells the din of parting and of bells;
To shoreless space each moment sails a disembodied spirit away.
From yonder starry lights, and through those curtain-awnings darkly blue,
Mysterious figures float in view, all strange and secret things display.
From this orb, wheeling round its pole, a wondrous slumber o'er thee stole:
O weary life that weighest naught, O sleep that on my soul dost weigh!
O heart, toward they heart's love wend, and O friend, fly toward the Friend,
Be wakeful, watchman, to the end: drowse seemingly no watchman may.
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Shake out your shining tresses, Love
Undress their dark contour as the pink stars rise
And drowse around the smoke-ringed moon,
Like roses in a whiskey glass.
Take time to dream a dream, my Love,
Tresses fallen across the curve of your face --
Sleep away the late summer moon,
Spooning the stars asleep in pink lace.
Lay down your weary bones, my dear,
Stretch out on vanilla feather-winged dreams
My whisky rose petal kisses blown into the night
Finding you on glittered opalescent moonbeams
Grab hold of pink-starred sweet slumber
As silken tendrils puddle upon your chest
Tangled up in each other's lithe limbs
Our blissful hearts beat together in tender rest
Aug 28, 2015
Aug 28, 2015 at 12:20 PM UTC
supple and orange to the taste
like a water slide to a desert
in a wild goose chase
just a hair short of a bone
ninety nine of the smallest ones
cracked open ventilating
dancing vapor
a slow shift in flowing feel.
soak up the gray
you turn to cellophane
only on the inside
you're alright
the ball keeps on rolling
around that big old fire
the cushion smiled
warmed by your seat
pressed into a drowse
you catch the change
wonder the time
about that
settled cataracts
smooth rolling cadillacs
big old Adirondack
smiling in the cottage.
Dec 18, 2014
Dec 18, 2014 at 4:52 PM UTC
As a seed, I was shot out the back end of a blue jay when, heedless, she flew over the meadow. Now, a willow, I drowse above the pond where their bodies float—skin gilded with algae, lips parting the surface, chests arching to the sun. Her sighs ripple outward—her lover drinks them in.
They are wet-silk hair, glistening sweat. Tracing each other’s folds, a slow, open arc startling minnows. Their toes stir the mud where my roots explore.
The blue jay died mid-migration. I barely recall her. Here, they are the only sonnet: lips on sun-warmed skin, their kiss that bends reeds. Below, their legs tangle like my branches—fluid, unpruned.
A heron spears the pond. Startled, they sink. For a breath—water holds them. When they rise, the town whispers of hauntings.
They are not ghosts—just peaches overripe in August.
Apr 14, 2025
Apr 14, 2025 at 7:09 PM UTC
All Nature seems at work. Slugs leave their lair—
The bees are stirring—birds are on the wing—
And Winter slumbering in the open air,
Wears on his smiling face a dream of Spring!
And I the while, the sole unbusy thing,
Nor honey make, nor pair, nor build, nor sing.
Yet well I ken the banks where amaranths blow,
Have traced the fount whence streams of nectar flow.
Bloom, O ye amaranths! bloom for whom ye may,
For me ye bloom not! Glide, rich streams, away!
With lips unbrightened, wreathless brow, I stroll:
And would you learn the spells that drowse my soul?
Work without Hope draws nectar in a sieve,
And Hope without an object cannot live.
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I have Scratched your name
into my Calendar
Your name sits on the lined of my diary
poised for consistent use
At what point did you become
so natural to me
So that when I said your name,
it tasted like nostalgia and hope
and the Cool Fire of our words
warms me to contentment
It wasn't until you spoke and
I smiled
That I knew I missed you when you
were gone
But how can I miss you
When you're only an hour away
Still
I'm regretting the wasted July Mornings
When my nerves swallowed up the sentiments that said
that I think of you sometime, even when you aren't around
It sounds frivolous to say that I'd hope for events
that would draw your lens near
But now I'm budgeting you into my time
and Just hope that it's not wasted
The effort it takes to write these sentiments down is
Nearly incomparable to that effort which must be taken
to Remind the heart on my Sleeve to stay put
and not seep into that vein that will Surely carry dreams across my body
The word that I could entitle
Perfect
And since that word is unattainable here
I'll only say all the others
You're that feeling right after a pull
And you feel yourself slip under the friendly drowse
You're that feeling when you feel a set of eyes on your
blushing cheeks
You're the laughter of
a clever retort
You're a Melody thats gives spirit to my word
You're that fire that burns with
a bravery that you cannot see
You're that ticking clock, there to remind me
that Time is Precious
and Soon I hate that circled square on the
Calendar
&
I pray that that circle does not act as a deadline
for when your heart can be
mine
Because I like the sweetness of our fresh beginnings
And I do hope I may call it a beginning
Instead of a short story.
I'm all over the clock,
Yearning for more firsts with you
But even still, hoping for a second or 12.
And some first that could count
in a way that didn't get chalked up to
Naive Sentiments
Meaning I want you too much
And My head is rushing
Hours into this Instant.
Fast Forwarding to our Next Kiss
Sending me on a Clockwise Whirlwind
to times that may not even exist
But I still hope and Gamble
for More hours to play
Procrastinating the Seconds into convincing us all
That It's Casual
It is not Casual, to me.
Sep 29, 2014
Sep 29, 2014 at 2:29 PM UTC
CHATTER of birds two by two raises a night song joining a litany of running water-sheer waters showing the russet of old stones remembering many rains.
And the long willows drowse on the shoulders of the running water, and sleep from much music; joined songs of day-end, feathery throats and stony waters, in a choir chanting new psalms.
It is too much for the long willows when low laughter of a red moon comes down; and the willows drowse and sleep on the shoulders of the running water.
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784
Bereaved of all, I went abroad—
No less bereaved was I
Upon a New Peninsula—
The Grave preceded me—
Obtained my Lodgings, ere myself—
And when I sought my Bed—
The Grave it was reposed upon
The Pillow for my Head—
I waked to find it first awake—
I rose—It followed me—
I tried to drop it in the Crowd—
To lose it in the Sea—
In Cups of artificial Drowse
To steep its shape away—
The Grave—was finished—but the *****
Remained in Memory—
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The abysm of the unbodied Infinite;
A fathomless zero occupied the world.
A power of fallen boundless self awake
Between the first and the last Nothingness,
Recalling the tenebrous womb from which it came,
Turned from the insoluble mystery of birth
And the tardy process of mortality
And longed to reach its end in vacant Nought.
As in a dark beginning of all things,
A mute featureless semblance of the Unknown
Repeating for ever the unconscious act,
Prolonging for ever the unseeing will,
Cradled the cosmic drowse of ignorant Force
Whose moved creative slumber kindles the suns
And carries our lives in its somnambulist whirl.
--By Sri Auro,Book I,Canto I
Mar 16, 2016
Mar 16, 2016 at 8:14 AM UTC
Your innocent eyes lightly closed
Your tender limbs partly stilled
In swaddling linen’s comfort wrapped
You sleep within your mother’s girdling arms.
Away from all care you drowse
Away from the snares and sorrows of the world
With Heaven smiling from the heights
And swarm of angels keeping guard round
Fresh as the freshest vernal green
Lovely as the loveliest summer bloom
Soft as the softest silky fleece
You rest, a priceless gift wrapped in grace
Blissful is your sleep
Envious is your state
But weep not, when you wake
Bursting this cocoon to the chill and heat
For on your sides, colorful wings will sprout
With iridescent shades, curves and spots
To carry you over frost and snow
And to feast on the dew served in floral cups!
Feb 17, 2018
Feb 17, 2018 at 8:30 AM UTC
sometimes, late at night
i lie awake, or sit, or even dance
i do not "sleep"
i might drowse, or snooze,
but only temporary reprive-
The Dark
holds its monsters and
pattering, clawed steps
outside of my candlelit chambers
and beyond the fragile makebelieve walls
of my lurking consciousness-
light a candle.
burn the Night.
Smolder your eyes upon the smoke
banish my fears, faint light-
but do not destroy my peace-
morning Light, cast not your hands over
this black scry-stone!
Look but so gently into the Dark's swirling
and staring stars
down upon a ritual laid bare-
agate eyes upon the crown
upon the head of the young Oracle
a story for another time, a
prayer for a beating heart
in another place,
another darkened midnight womb
or perhaps an obsidian tomb--.
fill a chalice and not a mind
tip the contents to then find
a wandering flame spread to the wind
devouring those violent souls that have sinned
as such, topics change like Gaia
dear, as such my mind roams when
I cower in fear--.
in the imaginary arms of a
man I love, the one who can't be near.
Night sings a quiet song of insane
love and gentle terror, a soft-soft
sound that rings eternal
and lulls its listener not to sleep
but into a spell that gathers deep
within the core of the mind
behind the third,
before the eye,
but loud and deafening guilt
that keeps the shade-drawn witch
awake, and the quivering fear
racing in their youthful heart--.
Ladle the light of the stars above
into the cupped hands tonight
and sing the damnation back
to the groping clouds
on the black horizon, the violet and
blue and grey and white
swirling in cohesion and roaring into a wave of
conscious nightmares
i cannot deal with these thoughts
on my mind, resting upon
my heart
my eyes
my mind
my very soul.
May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014 at 2:34 PM UTC
His gait is like the sea,
a steady rise and fall,
when once he greeted me
last summer, I recall.
‘Twas once a fleeting spark
there ‘neath the willow boughs
where chimed the sassy lark
and sun allowed me drowse.
But nomad was he then,
and traveler still now--
for gone he was again
with no “I’ll see you” vow.
A fortnight passes thru
--no promise of his face--
and time is timed by two
when once more enters grace.
For Summer wind is odd,
and once again with it
Returns that fair façade--
The princely, I admit.
Greetings last mere moments,
I’m told they often do,
But in them remnants sleep
For future seconds new—
Rejoin the instants passed
when troubles seem to scorn
and obstacles steadfast
across your path adorn;
From moments such as these
much comfort can be drawn:
Mem’ries of beauties,
softest touches now gone.
For me, that one embrace,
The one from nomad, dear,
Of sweetest scents I trace
And ringing laughter hear—
No other pair of arms
could hold me closer still
no other voice thus warms
a deeper winter’s chill.
Jul 4, 2010
Jul 4, 2010 at 10:32 AM UTC
The soft chilly crystals
Falling from the sky
Has beauty of their own
Alluring than the beauty in summer lie
Flowers aren't dead everywhere
They are just in a deep slumber
Resting till the show begins
Then will blossom from their chamber
The routes all are covered in a veil
Like a child wrapped in a quilt drowse
And when the morn arrives
He will vibrantly from his bed arouse
Rubbing their eyes & smiling at the world
The chilly cold winter will surely subside
And when the spring arrives
The bloom in a valley will reside...
© by Ruman Hafsa
2016
Dec 27, 2016
Dec 27, 2016 at 2:31 PM UTC
Sea pulse asurge, your pores brace for influx:
the scrub of sixteen salts whose rigid karma
scrapes us down. So sound the signals
(likely sales) from shoehorned sleeper
towns. Their patron wasn't long for earth;
a grid (what genius!) takes a bow,
puts slideshow on, and all we hear is how.
When sunlight stirs again we'll chisel
feeble errors, chip a bullet
out of stone. We'll see which skulkers
have a six at home, and toast
the night in sheetery. When devils
drain the foosty runoff of
your prim report to primal center,
sweep up white-horse myths bleached out
of paved-gray lots. Submerge in steam
of favor, frenzied in unseen replies
(no sharper catching eyes as coffees,
tipped to spoon in drowse-A.M.s
from furtive nights) -- Behold (unsold to rights)
uncensored action, living truth!
Untempted nine-percenters,
go-betweens for stunning tens
ground out of poison pens.
Abrade with noise what was to clean our lens.
Oct 1, 2018
Oct 1, 2018 at 11:58 PM UTC
Sit with me
Here right close to me
Whisper me your secrets
Felt tip Rembrandts
The ones your grandma touched
The ones you felt
With a soul ill and in crutch
Granite corner stores
Marble ****** bores
Cone stuck n' lucky
I remember rabbit and ducky
The way they hopped and quacked
No one else
Could ever call them fat
Cruise for me now do not drowse
Music is pouring
My grandmas dead but not snoring
Storming red cloud triple seductively
The Gods will their way
You fight
You may be blessed to stay
Look forward from here
Look far to the future
Loaded lily lies yellow foreground poses
Models of ancient molds
Pictographs in ancient like snaps
Marble statue marble sneeze
Marble meanings underneath they are still dreaming
K n yellow way you are leaving from me tomorrow and today
Today was yesterday last month was tomorrow but who can say?
Poetry is dead
Poetry is not learned
So instead
We have this dribble
To read
Sep 4, 2011
Sep 4, 2011 at 12:18 AM UTC
She wanted the waves
Of the bounding main
To lull her
To blanket her
To drowse her
With their lethargic drift
To sway her tired limbs
And pull her deeper
Into the blue, sedating tides
Jun 21, 2013
Jun 21, 2013 at 6:34 PM UTC
Dashing, charming,
full of foolery,
She unwinds with legs of poison
sitting still on top the table,
seeping deep into my mind.
The image stains the flesh
and how I wish I could undress
the bottle of her sickly cyanide.
But taste testing pills and potions
made to drowse and **** the roses
are not nearly as sweet as implied.
So I admire from afar
oohing and awing at the bar
staring at the glass
and not taking a bite.
May 30, 2024
May 30, 2024 at 7:04 PM UTC
My love lies 'neath the fragrant boughs
of pine, within yon stand of trees.
Where upon a bed or ferns he did deeply drowse,
whilst locks of hair were tickled by the breeze.
I sat near to count the seconds pass,
till he would wake and espies my vision there.
Then into his arms I would fall at last,
loving away the longing of these past years.
Silver moonlight contrasts a God like form,
in leather breeches and shirt of linen.
Four years he was gone, I had been forlorn.
There he lay so close to home and kin.
Lashes rest upon sculpted cheeks of bronze,
hiding from me eyes of liquid brown.
Eagerly I awaited the sun of dawn,
to show me more of the marvel I had found.
Yes, my love lies now 'neath the fragrant boughs
of pine within yon stand of trees.
Now eternally he does drowse,
as I fatally grieve down upon my knees.
For as the sun rose upon his stubble face,
I saw the lines of pain and of bloom erased.
Of life, my frantic hands, could find no trace.
What game is this so cruelly played by fates?
Jun 9, 2010
Jun 9, 2010 at 6:13 PM UTC
"where the sun smoothes the dust-dry earth"
the summer is not poetic,
what is there in the gold
of the sun to write about?
just the heat and the stones
washed flat.
the signs say you can't swim.
everything has stopped.
there is no music in the air,
the mornings shrill and hum,
the afternoons drowse with beer.
is the ocean going to wake for me?
will it dance like a flower?
along the dust black roads
the tarmac starts to sweat.
torn open the thundering roads,
there is no poetry in them either.
everywhere there are green leaves
and little drops of peace in the shade.
Jul 31, 2016
Jul 31, 2016 at 8:03 AM UTC
When the wind storms by with a shout, and the stern sea-caves
Rejoice in the ***** and the roar of onsetting waves,
Then, then, it comes home to the heart that the top of life
Is the passion that burns the blood in the act of strife--
Till you pity the dead down there in their quiet graves.
But to drowse with the fen behind and the fog before,
When the rain-rot spreads and a tame sea mumbles the shore,
Not to adventure, none to fight, no right and no wrong,
Sons of the Sword heart-sick for a stave of your sire's old song--
O, you envy the blessed death that can live no more!
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I'm really not at work right now.
I'm really not.
instead as my body feigns the motion of purposeful key strokes
and as my mouth forms the shape of requisite responses to work place witticisms,
I'm really in bed with you
feeling the curve of your body fit against mine,
watching your chest rise and fall slowly in that moment right before you awake.
I love to look at you in the soft glow of the shuttered window
peacefully slumbering in my arms
as I brush my lips across your cheek
feeling thrills steal over the length of my body
when a sleepy smile turns up the corners of your mouth
as I kiss you awake.
all at once my
hands are gliding over your smooth skin,
lightly tracing the softest parts of you,
memorizing the feel of your body beneath my fingertips.
even as you drowse,
your hips rock gently against mine
echoing in steady rhythm
my own need to hold you closer and closer still.
Oct 6, 2010
Oct 6, 2010 at 2:33 PM UTC
O sink not down in that corrosive couch,
Docile before the Orwellian screen
That regulates the lives of the servile,
Dictating dress and drink, demeanor, dreams;
Declare your independence from the sludge
Of vague obedientiaries who drowse
Away their empty lives in submission
To harsh, diagonal inches of rule
Poor weaklings chanting tainted tribal songs
In chorus hamsterable, huddled, heaped,
While costumed in their masters’ liveries,
And feeling little while thinking even less
The very model of the State’s non-men,
Predictable and dull, submissive ghosts
Crowded, herded in cosmic cattle chutes,
Reflected in dim, noisy nothingness
But you, O you, be not of them, but be
A wanderer in the moonlight, one known
To God, there in His holy solitude
Feb 3, 2019
Feb 3, 2019 at 8:33 AM UTC
In a last emotional csardas,
A hurry dashed in hectic trip,
From the sidewalk as she slipped,
Icy kerb afronts her eyes,
Slipped in front of cargo truck,
After a darkened dawn,
Of much deliberation,
Had enough insanity's pain,
Stage one, a drowse in melancholy,
In dream state,
She knew she had to go,
Made last retreat in sorrow's march.
Life became a chore,
Wanted it no more,
From melancholy stroll she rushed,
Stage two in dance's wild entrance,
Under the truck in disregard,
Felt the fender hit her hard,
Nothing else remained,
Except her disregard,
For driver,
The fear he felt trying to drop his speed,
Scarred for life by her own selfish deed,
Take this as a cautionary tale,
For this is write of fantasy,
May be feeling life is an evil curse,
Give help a chance,
May take a while,
Every cloud shrouded in darkness,
Conceals a new bright light,
Not always so forthcoming,
But, things will turn out right!
A Csardas is a Hungarian dance in two stages
I wrote this as a result of many train journeys to work being disrupted by desperate people throwing themselves in front of the train! It affects the driver, the passengers, and lots of others...no I'm not being harsh...trying to remind sad people that things do improve.
I'm afraid I don't do religion, but my regards to those who do **
By ladylivvi1
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Aug 23, 2013
Aug 23, 2013 at 3:52 AM UTC