Hello Poetry
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"eddying" poems
Today the winter is not as chill, nor as gray.  An azure depth backdrops the "fade"-to-white and the eyes remember what to see beneath patterns that shift and flow.  You hear your footsteps and ...feel the silence leave your mind. "Inside A Snowdrop..." Driplets - droplets pitter and pat echo and float ...and the sun is here its touching tracing edging patterns smooth and flowing. Feel the air - its fingertips grasping finding each bit of you all at once ...teasing and tickling your cheek, nose THEN down the throat filling and growing 'til becoming an exhale becoming you out and upon the world. Feel as each hair lifts and spreads, gathers and becomes waves eddying and rising free freefalling and floating and rising again - riding the unseen exhales as the world - your world - flows by-and-by grasping and tasting life grasping and BEING life for all the other exhales to find and feel and be felt in turn. Reach - palm up... wait ...wait then      catch a miracle! - a world within worlds within - a snowdrop a single glass to gaze in-and-in to focus - deep deeper still ... 'til I see you ...behind my eyes and the shadows and shades surround and enfold tightening tighter still... holding me gentling me becoming ...me. I am lavender ghosting in the air the taste and sweetness of your skin the softness of each lil hair flowing by the lips that found their home on mine. Breathing is one long purr and life is gently kneading into the softness ...of you. Chris
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Feb 17, 2012
Feb 17, 2012 at 1:15 PM UTC
"Inside A Snowdrop..."
Today the winter is not as chill, nor as gray.  An azure depth backdrops the "fade"-to-white and the eyes remember what to see beneath patterns that shift and flow.  You hear your footsteps and ...feel the silence leave your mind. "Inside A Snowdrop..." Driplets - droplets pitter and pat echo and float ...and the sun is here its touching tracing edging patterns smooth and flowing. Feel the air - its fingertips grasping finding each bit of you all at once ...teasing and tickling your cheek, nose THEN down the throat filling and growing 'til becoming an exhale becoming you out and upon the world. Feel as each hair lifts and spreads, gathers and becomes waves eddying and rising free freefalling and floating and rising again - riding the unseen exhales as the world - your world - flows by-and-by grasping and tasting life grasping and BEING life for all the other exhales to find and feel and be felt in turn. Reach - palm up... wait ...wait then      catch a miracle! - a world within worlds within - a snowdrop a single glass to gaze in-and-in to focus - deep deeper still ... 'til I see you ...behind my eyes and the shadows and shades surround and enfold tightening tighter still... holding me gentling me becoming ...me. I am lavender ghosting in the air the taste and sweetness of your skin the softness of each lil hair flowing by the lips that found their home on mine. Breathing is one long purr and life is gently kneading into the softness ...of you. Chris
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54
Bless love and hope. Full many a withered year Whirled past us, eddying to its chill doomsday; And clasped together where the blown leaves lay, We long have knelt and wept full many a tear. Yet lo! one hour at last, the Spring’s compeer, Flutes softly to us from some green byeway: Those years, those tears are dead, but only they:— Bless love and hope, true soul; for we are here. Cling heart to heart; nor of this hour demand Whether in very truth, when we are dead, Our hearts shall wake to know Love’s golden head Sole sunshine of the imperishable land; Or but discern, through night’s unfeatured scope, Scorn-fired at length the illusive eyes of Hope.
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Love And Hope
'O babbling brook,' says Edmund in his rhyme, 'Whence come you?' and the brook, why not? replies. I come from haunts of coot and hern, I make a sudden sally, And sparkle out among the fern, To bicker down a valley. By thirty hills I hurry down, Or slip between the ridges, By twenty thorps, a little town, And half a hundred bridges. Till last by Philip's farm I flow To join the brimming river, For men may come and men may go, But I go on for ever. 'Poor lad, he died at Florence, quite worn out, Travelling to Naples. There is Darnley bridge, It has more ivy; there the river; and there Stands Philip's farm where brook and river meet. I chatter over stony ways, In little sharps and trebles, I bubble into eddying bays, I babble on the pebbles. With many a curve my banks I fret By many a field and fallow, And many a fairy foreland set With willow-weed and mallow. I chatter, chatter, as I flow To join the brimming river, For men may come and men may go, But I go on for ever. 'But Philip chatter'd more than brook or bird; Old Philip; all about the fields you caught His weary daylong chirping, like the dry High-elbow'd grigs that leap in summer grass. [grig = cricket - m.] I wind about, and in and out, With here a blossom sailing, And here and there a ***** trout, And here and there a grayling, And here and there a foamy flake Upon me, as I travel With many a silvery waterbreak Above the golden gravel, And draw them all along, and flow To join the brimming river, For men may come and men may go, But I go on for ever.
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The Brook (excerpt)
'O babbling brook,' says Edmund in his rhyme, 'Whence come you?' and the brook, why not? replies. I come from haunts of coot and hern, I make a sudden sally, And sparkle out among the fern, To bicker down a valley. By thirty hills I hurry down, Or slip between the ridges, By twenty thorps, a little town, And half a hundred bridges. Till last by Philip's farm I flow To join the brimming river, For men may come and men may go, But I go on for ever. 'Poor lad, he died at Florence, quite worn out, Travelling to Naples. There is Darnley bridge, It has more ivy; there the river; and there Stands Philip's farm where brook and river meet. I chatter over stony ways, In little sharps and trebles, I bubble into eddying bays, I babble on the pebbles. With many a curve my banks I fret By many a field and fallow, And many a fairy foreland set With willow-weed and mallow. I chatter, chatter, as I flow To join the brimming river, For men may come and men may go, But I go on for ever. 'But Philip chatter'd more than brook or bird; Old Philip; all about the fields you caught His weary daylong chirping, like the dry High-elbow'd grigs that leap in summer grass. [grig = cricket - m.] I wind about, and in and out, With here a blossom sailing, And here and there a ***** trout, And here and there a grayling, And here and there a foamy flake Upon me, as I travel With many a silvery waterbreak Above the golden gravel, And draw them all along, and flow To join the brimming river, For men may come and men may go, But I go on for ever.
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I come from haunts of coot and hern; I make a sudden sally; I sparkle out among the fern To bicker down a valley. By thirty hills I hurry down, Or slip between the ridges, By twenty thorps, a little town, And half a hundred bridges. At last by Philip's farm I flow To join the brimming river, For men may come and men may go, But I go on forever. I chatter over stony ways In sharps and trebles; I bubble into eddying bay; I babble on the pebbles. I chatter, chatter as I flow To join the brimming river, For men may come and men may go, But I go on forever. I wind about, and in and out, With here a blossom sailing, And here and there a ***** trout, And here and there a grayling. And here and there a foamy flake Upon me, as I travel With many a silvery waterbreak Above the golden gravel, And draw them all along, and flow To joing the brimming river; For men may come and men may go, But I go on forever. I steal by lawns and grassy plots; I slide by hazel covers; I move the sweet forget-me-nots That grow for happy lovers. I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance Among my skimming swallows; I make the netted sunbeams dance Against my sandy shallows. I murmur under moon and stars In brambly wildernesses; I linger by my shingly bars; I loiter round my cresses; And out again I curve and flow To join the brimming river; For men may come and men may go, But I go on forever.  ~Alfred Tennyson 1809-1892~
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Oct 31, 2012
Oct 31, 2012 at 9:24 AM UTC
The Brook
I. TO DIONYSUS (21 lines) (1) ((LACUNA)) (ll. 1-9) For some say, at Dracanum; and some, on windy Icarus; and some, in Naxos, O Heaven-born, Insewn (2); and others by the deep-eddying river Alpheus that pregnant Semele bare you to Zeus the thunder-lover. And others yet, lord, say you were born in Thebes; but all these lie. The Father of men and gods gave you birth remote from men and secretly from white-armed Hera. There is a certain Nysa, a mountain most high and richly grown with woods, far off in Phoenice, near the streams of Aegyptus. ((LACUNA)) (ll. 10-12) '...and men will lay up for her (3) many offerings in her shrines. And as these things are three (4), so shall mortals ever sacrifice perfect hecatombs to you at your feasts each three years.' (ll. 13-16) The Son of Cronos spoke and nodded with his dark brows. And the divine locks of the king flowed forward from his immortal head, and he made great Olympus reel. So spake wise Zeus and ordained it with a nod. (ll. 17-21) Be favourable, O Insewn, Inspirer of frenzied women! we singers sing of you as we begin and as we end a strain, and none forgetting you may call holy song to mind. And so, farewell, Dionysus, Insewn, with your mother Semele whom men call Thyone. __________ The Homeric Hymns in the Hello Poetry collection are provided by: Online Medieval and Classical Library. Source site: http://omacl.org/Hesiod/hymns.html
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The Homeric Hymns: 1- To Dionysus
The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year, Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sear. Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the autumn leaves lie dead; They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's tread. The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrubs the jay, And from the wood-top calls the crow through all the gloomy day. Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprang and stood In brighter light, and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood? Alas! they all are in their graves, the gentle race, of flowers Are lying in their lowly beds, with the fair and good of ours. The rain is falling where they lie, but the cold November rain Calls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely ones again. The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long ago, And the brier-rose and the orchis died amid the summer glow; But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in the wood, And the yellow sun-flower by the brook in autumn beauty stood, Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, as falls the plague on men, And the brightness of their smile was gone, from upland, glade, and glen. And now, when comes the calm mild day, as still such days will come, To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home; When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees are still, And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill, The south wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late he bore, And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no more. And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty died, The fair meek blossom that grew up and faded by my side: In the cold moist earth we laid her, when the forest cast the leaf, And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief: Yet not unmeet it was that one, like that young friend of ours, So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers.
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The Death Of The Flowers
The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year, Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sear. Heaped in the hollows of the grove, the autumn leaves lie dead; They rustle to the eddying gust, and to the rabbit's tread. The robin and the wren are flown, and from the shrubs the jay, And from the wood-top calls the crow through all the gloomy day. Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprang and stood In brighter light, and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood? Alas! they all are in their graves, the gentle race, of flowers Are lying in their lowly beds, with the fair and good of ours. The rain is falling where they lie, but the cold November rain Calls not from out the gloomy earth the lovely ones again. The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long ago, And the brier-rose and the orchis died amid the summer glow; But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in the wood, And the yellow sun-flower by the brook in autumn beauty stood, Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, as falls the plague on men, And the brightness of their smile was gone, from upland, glade, and glen. And now, when comes the calm mild day, as still such days will come, To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home; When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees are still, And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill, The south wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late he bore, And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no more. And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty died, The fair meek blossom that grew up and faded by my side: In the cold moist earth we laid her, when the forest cast the leaf, And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief: Yet not unmeet it was that one, like that young friend of ours, So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers.
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Earth is rocking in space! And the thunders crash up with a roar upon roar, And the eddying lightnings flash fire in my face, And the whirlwinds are whirling the dust round and round-- And the blasts of the winds universal leap free And blow each other upon each, with a passion of sound, And æther goes mingling in storm with the sea! Such a curse on my head, in a manifest dread, From the hand of your Zeus has been hurtled along! O my mother's fair glory! O Æther, enringing All eyes with the sweet common light of thy bringing, Dost see how I suffer this wrong?
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Prometheus Amid Hurricane And Earthquake
When biting Boreas, fell and doure, Sharp shivers thro’ the leafless bow’r; When Phœbus gies a short-liv’d glow’r, Far south the lift, Dim-dark’ning thro’ the flaky show’r, Or whirling drift: Ae night the storm the steeples rocked, Poor Labour sweet in sleep was locked, While burns, wi’ snawy wreeths upchoked, Wild-eddying swirl, Or thro’ the mining outlet bocked, Down headlong hurl. List’ning, the doors an’ winnocks rattle, I thought me on the ourie cattle, Or silly sheep, wha bide this brattle O’ winter war, And thro’ the drift, deep-lairing, sprattle, Beneath a scar. Ilk happing bird, wee, helpless thing! That, in the merry months o’ spring, Delighted me to hear thee sing, What comes o’ thee? Whare wilt thou cow’r thy chittering wing An’ close thy e’e? Ev’n you on murd’ring errands toil’d, Lone from your savage homes exil’d, The blood-stain’d roost, and sheep-cote spoil’d My heart forgets, While pityless the tempest wild Sore on you beats.
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A Winter Night
*hard skin of life to penetrate soften that piercing stare* 1. seems a shot spiked with kindness does the trick that’s how we button up the moon’s sides with silver thread to keep its seams from splitting solemn sides and spilling all its jolly secrets: whorls of fingerprints sinking steadily into luna-grooves like a neat domino-stacked roll on a never-ending trip into black holes not far from Ursa Major 2. to grant a delightful hop up and throw seeking eyes over the orb’s gentle curve take a little look-see the tiniest peek into Tucanae where tidal forces push small clouds and outstrip the western winds towards cunning straits to subtly tie into bows cut ribbons of fate drink a dram of mercy from a well-behaved thimble yet poems don’t pay no bills now when words tinker with heart’s mettle 3. wonder if sagacious rue repays in full or satisfies the exceeding cost   of the hankering in a vessel caught eddying in giant nacred jetsam while casting minute gems before the moon’s eyes it’s nigh impossible to hide behind the sun 4. best be ready with prêt-a-porter life-pennies and be wise to always carry a pocket full of sorrys *stitch 'em seams together now it all comes together nice and neat* S T, Moonday, 15 July 2013
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Jul 15, 2013
Jul 15, 2013 at 6:08 AM UTC
seams
Even as a child, of sorrow that we give The dead, but little in his heart can find, Since without need of thought to his clear mind Their turn it is to die and his to live: Even so the winged New Love smiles to receive Along his eddying plumes the auroral wind, Nor, forward glorying, casts one look behind Where night-rack shrouds the Old Love fugitive. There is a change in every hour’s recall, And the last cowslip in the fields we see On the same day with the first corn-poppy. Alas for hourly change! Alas for all The loves that from his hand proud Youth lets fall, Even as the beads of a told rosary!
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Pride Of Youth
XXI. TO APOLLO (5 lines) (ll. 1-4) Phoebus, of you even the swan sings with clear voice to the beating of his wings, as he alights upon the bank by the eddying river Peneus; and of you the sweet-tongued minstrel, holding his high-pitched lyre, always sings both first and last. (l. 5) And so hail to you, lord! I seek your favour with my song.
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The Homeric Hymns: 21- To Apollo
To you, it is a spectacle You watch with congealed disgust and cloying pity Perverse satisfaction oozes from your pores But you dare not to push back the velvet curtain And glance behind its inky whisper For you know deep in the soft malleable crevasses of your mind That the walls will stand firm with time, That the flowers breathe, That the lamps light. You compare each life like photographic negatives Whispering affirmations My dishes are whole My walls are smooth My curtains match Standing ***** on a pedestal of entitlement A halo of ivy above your eyes Gleaming incisors bared. You meditate only on the dysfunction You hear only raised voices You see only the shards, never the whole But behind that silky curtain are eddying currents of actuality Fluidly changing Even as you enjoy the show.
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May 31, 2013
May 31, 2013 at 11:51 PM UTC
Spectacles
When the pall of gloom overcasts my mind And at cross roads bewildered I stand I tell myself This shall pass When my mind is full of fear And I find no single soul to share I tell myself This too shall pass When darkness invades my abode And there is not even a ray of light inside I tell myself This too shall pass When my burdens weigh heavier than I can bear And when no one around seems to care I tell myself This too shall pass When storm clouds gather in the sky And my tensions rise high I tell myself This too shall pass When the road ahead stretches strenuous And the distance makes me nervous I tell myself This too shall pass When those I love and trust let me down And look upon me with scorn and frown I tell myself This too shall pass When misfortunes flow in torrent And am caught in the eddying current I tell myself This too shall pass When the cycle of seasons keep changing Life, from sorrows to joy will surely be shifting Let us wait for the pendulum to have its full swing And let our hopes heavenward steadily wing! Love will again fill the air Doves of peace will coo in pair The wintry chill will lose its frosty bite Spring will come on wings like a sprite ‘‘Nevertheless, the hilltop hour Would not be half so wonderful Were there no dark valleys to traverse” Helen Keller’s words resonate in my ears
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Jun 7, 2016
Jun 7, 2016 at 7:39 AM UTC
A Song of Hope
I stood on the bridge at midnight, As the clocks were striking the hour, And the moon rose o’er the city, Behind the dark church-tower. I saw her bright reflection In the watrers under me, Like a golden goblet falling And sinking into the sea. And far in the hazy distance Of that lovely night in June, The blaze of the gleaming furnace Gleamed redder than the moon. Among the long, black rafters The wavering shadows lay, And the current that came from the ocean Seemed to lift and bear them away. As, sweeping and eddying through them Rose the belated tide, And, streaming into the moonlight, The seaweed floated wide. And like those waters rushing Among the wooden piers, A flood of thoughts came o’er me That filled my eyes with tears. How often, oh how often, In the days that had gone by, I had stood on that bridge at midnight And gazed on that wave and sky! How often oh how often, I had wished that the ebbing tide Would bear me away on its ***** O’er the ocean wild and wide! For my heart was hot and restless, And my life was full of care, And the burden laid upon me Seemed greater than I could bear. But now it has fallen from me, It is buried in the sea; And only the sorrow of others Throws its shadow over me. Yet whenever I cross the river On its bridge with wooden piers, Like the odor of brine from the ocean Comes the thought of other years. And I think how many thousands Of care-encumbered men, Each bearing his burden of sorrow, Have crossed the bridge since then. I see the long procession Still passing to and fro, The young heart hot and restless, And the old subdued and slow! And forever and forever, As long as the river flows, As long as the heart has passions, As long as life has woes; The moon and its broken reflection Aand its shadows shall appear, As the symbol of love in heaven, And its wavering image here.
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The Bridge
I stood on the bridge at midnight, As the clocks were striking the hour, And the moon rose o’er the city, Behind the dark church-tower. I saw her bright reflection In the watrers under me, Like a golden goblet falling And sinking into the sea. And far in the hazy distance Of that lovely night in June, The blaze of the gleaming furnace Gleamed redder than the moon. Among the long, black rafters The wavering shadows lay, And the current that came from the ocean Seemed to lift and bear them away. As, sweeping and eddying through them Rose the belated tide, And, streaming into the moonlight, The seaweed floated wide. And like those waters rushing Among the wooden piers, A flood of thoughts came o’er me That filled my eyes with tears. How often, oh how often, In the days that had gone by, I had stood on that bridge at midnight And gazed on that wave and sky! How often oh how often, I had wished that the ebbing tide Would bear me away on its ***** O’er the ocean wild and wide! For my heart was hot and restless, And my life was full of care, And the burden laid upon me Seemed greater than I could bear. But now it has fallen from me, It is buried in the sea; And only the sorrow of others Throws its shadow over me. Yet whenever I cross the river On its bridge with wooden piers, Like the odor of brine from the ocean Comes the thought of other years. And I think how many thousands Of care-encumbered men, Each bearing his burden of sorrow, Have crossed the bridge since then. I see the long procession Still passing to and fro, The young heart hot and restless, And the old subdued and slow! And forever and forever, As long as the river flows, As long as the heart has passions, As long as life has woes; The moon and its broken reflection Aand its shadows shall appear, As the symbol of love in heaven, And its wavering image here.
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60
The wind gently blows cooling ivory skin In it's breeze eddying souls stir Many eyes stare coldly at the starred sky above Footsteps echo silently moving among the fallen Cries of grief call between the hills
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Apr 12, 2014
Apr 12, 2014 at 8:21 PM UTC
Wake of the Valkyries
She wraps me in her  icy flow and chills me 'til I'm warm Soothes away the open space With sand and pebbled shores She tries to lull me downriver Gently pulling, drowsing Massaging the miles off me Relaxing I know she lies I know she'd take me to the big river Carrying me like an eddying breeze But I want to lay back and dream And slowly drift away
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Jan 24, 2014
Jan 24, 2014 at 4:39 PM UTC
Cold river
He Fill your bowl with roses: the bowl, too, have of crystal. Sit at the western window. Take the sun Between your hands like a ball of flaming crystal, Poise it to let it fall, but hold it still, And meditate on the beauty of your existence; The beauty of this, that you exist at all. She The sun goes down,--but without lamentation. I close my eyes, and the stream of my sensation In this, at least, grows clear to me: Beauty is a word that has no meaning. Beauty is naught to me. He The last blurred raindrops fall from the half-clear sky, Eddying lightly, rose-tinged, in the windless wake of the sun. The swallow ascending against cold waves of cloud Seems winging upward over huge bleak stairs of stone. The raindrop finds its way to the heart of the leaf-bud. But no word finds its way to the heart of you. She This also is clear in the stream of my sensation: That I am content, for the moment, Let me be. How light the new grass looks with the rain-dust on it! But heart is a word that has no meaning, Heart means nothing to me. He To the end of the world I pass and back again In flights of the mind; yet always find you here, Remote, pale, unattached . . . O Circe-too-clear-eyed, Watching amused your fawning tiger-thoughts, Your wolves, your grotesque apes--relent, relent! Be less wary for once: it is the evening. She But if I close my eyes what howlings greet me! Do not persuade. Be tranquil. Here is flesh With all its demons. Take it, sate yourself. But leave my thoughts to me.
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Chiarascuro: Rose
He Fill your bowl with roses: the bowl, too, have of crystal. Sit at the western window. Take the sun Between your hands like a ball of flaming crystal, Poise it to let it fall, but hold it still, And meditate on the beauty of your existence; The beauty of this, that you exist at all. She The sun goes down,--but without lamentation. I close my eyes, and the stream of my sensation In this, at least, grows clear to me: Beauty is a word that has no meaning. Beauty is naught to me. He The last blurred raindrops fall from the half-clear sky, Eddying lightly, rose-tinged, in the windless wake of the sun. The swallow ascending against cold waves of cloud Seems winging upward over huge bleak stairs of stone. The raindrop finds its way to the heart of the leaf-bud. But no word finds its way to the heart of you. She This also is clear in the stream of my sensation: That I am content, for the moment, Let me be. How light the new grass looks with the rain-dust on it! But heart is a word that has no meaning, Heart means nothing to me. He To the end of the world I pass and back again In flights of the mind; yet always find you here, Remote, pale, unattached . . . O Circe-too-clear-eyed, Watching amused your fawning tiger-thoughts, Your wolves, your grotesque apes--relent, relent! Be less wary for once: it is the evening. She But if I close my eyes what howlings greet me! Do not persuade. Be tranquil. Here is flesh With all its demons. Take it, sate yourself. But leave my thoughts to me.
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Eddying currents In its churning funnel face Sea weeds swirl quivering
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Jun 2, 2016
Jun 2, 2016 at 9:08 AM UTC
Haiku- Seaweeds
My breath rose above my head, the cold gushing into my lungs The wind rattled the barbwire fence as I waited there so quiet, so alone The warm cup of coffee rested in my hands, its aroma engulfing my station I looked out over the barren fields in which I was positioned to look over I could see the watch tower high, above the roofs and chimneys vast Snow began to fall, large flakes and eddying flurries Getting up from my seat I gazed out at winters first storm *A ****** war it had been, so many soldiers lost, friends and families gone* Wind seemed to pass through my jacket, it whipped my cheeks and brow I needed only to clear the trek of land between the wall and the brush, I ran Hoisting my gun upon my shoulder I walked out onto the ledge I spotted a shadow dancing through the light, I called out but it was no use "Stoppen!" I hear through the scream of the wind, I looked back for only a second The lone guard reaching his hand across the rail, begging me to halt Stop I say, as I grasp my cap, Please stop or I will shoot *I lift my gun around my head and **** back the metal bolt* Ground beneath me thumps against my boots And the guard's voice is no longer heard My hands do tremble in the cold, but also from the sorrow I aim down my sights and with a loud ring the rifle lets out a howl I tell myself I am finally free, from the jail which held me back I feel a sting in my shoulder and I fall to the powdered ground, my  scarf falls off of my neck The runaway then loses his footing and slumps to the ground without noise I dip my head low and carry on with my duties, as the snow is painted scarlet red
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Nov 14, 2013
Nov 14, 2013 at 6:35 PM UTC
Red Snow in the Ghetto
My breath rose above my head, the cold gushing into my lungs The wind rattled the barbwire fence as I waited there so quiet, so alone The warm cup of coffee rested in my hands, its aroma engulfing my station I looked out over the barren fields in which I was positioned to look over I could see the watch tower high, above the roofs and chimneys vast Snow began to fall, large flakes and eddying flurries Getting up from my seat I gazed out at winters first storm *A ****** war it had been, so many soldiers lost, friends and families gone* Wind seemed to pass through my jacket, it whipped my cheeks and brow I needed only to clear the trek of land between the wall and the brush, I ran Hoisting my gun upon my shoulder I walked out onto the ledge I spotted a shadow dancing through the light, I called out but it was no use "Stoppen!" I hear through the scream of the wind, I looked back for only a second The lone guard reaching his hand across the rail, begging me to halt Stop I say, as I grasp my cap, Please stop or I will shoot *I lift my gun around my head and **** back the metal bolt* Ground beneath me thumps against my boots And the guard's voice is no longer heard My hands do tremble in the cold, but also from the sorrow I aim down my sights and with a loud ring the rifle lets out a howl I tell myself I am finally free, from the jail which held me back I feel a sting in my shoulder and I fall to the powdered ground, my  scarf falls off of my neck The runaway then loses his footing and slumps to the ground without noise I dip my head low and carry on with my duties, as the snow is painted scarlet red
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24
a tiny droplet of dream plops from the lips of overhanging creeper leaning on my placid lake and circles of emotions emanate to burst into bloom in the dead of night its solemn note reverberates in the whole ambiance though illusive in its effect staying- and- shifting at the same moment I try to grasp the ripples eddying out and go adrift counting the cascades in my mind....
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Jun 21, 2012
Jun 21, 2012 at 2:34 AM UTC
Illusion
'More than my brothers are to me,'-- Let this not vex thee, noble heart! I know thee of what force thou art To hold the costliest love in fee. But thou and I are one in kind, As moulded like in Nature's mint; And hill and wood and field did print The same sweet forms in either mind. For us the same cold streamlet curl'd Thro' all his eddying coves; the same All winds that roam the twilight came In whispers of the beauteous world. At one dear knee we proffer'd vows, One lesson from one book we learn'd, Ere childhood's flaxen ringlet turn'd To black and brown on kindred brows. And so my wealth resembles thine, But he was rich where I was poor, And he supplied my want the more As his unlikeness fitted mine.
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957
In Memoriam A. H. H. OBIIT MDCCCXXXIII: Part 079
Taking his time, bathing in the blue smoke, memories whirling and eddying in the grey wrinkles, his brow furrows. All being one, he searches deep She rushes from one errand to another, living to serve, dying to love. Sighing, often Her calculations demand symmetry; feelings just don't add up and lonely men wait in grey shadows on the fringe. Random elements It's a twisted pile of flesh for some   while others only get to **** the swollen **** or get stuck being the fifth wheel on a broken cart. It's what they want He remembers the smell of Texas flowers shining through his deep Nothing and knows he is too far from home. Sugar... Tasting the pale one, with her bugs and her dead things living under her milky skin and pretty dresses, is still his favorite sin because she is the only one that can keep him warm in her sweaty folds and wet sheets. Bury me in your sweet blood At the train station, he sees her in a sundress while the sun and moon both die according to prophecy. See you there, darling You can make it seem just like home if you listen to the night because all we need is waiting for us, somewhere. Somewhere
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Nov 11, 2014
Nov 11, 2014 at 1:47 AM UTC
This now, this freezing night
temporarily the currents shift to polarity stars aligned, planets aligned event horizon, singularity. vision stretched to infinity what it means to see me wihte room, empty spaces black sea fibonacci randomized perfection crystalline & unstratified limitless, free direction open palms, third eye to truly live, and happily die beneath the ground, above the sky this union of the soul to the peace found inside of the cosmic energy that flows- eddying currents, the tides that wash away the woes of life
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Sep 13, 2023
Sep 13, 2023 at 12:05 PM UTC
No Avail
The river’s still up in the park, and brown, drowning the swingset, eddying around the bottom of the slide, like a trapdoor out of childhood. I never needed one. I used to dream of the waters sweeping over my head and now I remember the way blood looked circling the drain, fainter and fainter pink and then gone, lost forever. I wonder how it would have felt, to never know the deeper pools, to never be dragged down into the darkness that lies beneath the surface, the unending roiling of the sea inside. I bite my tongue, turn the saliva red, so that even my mouth is full of dark water, and I keep the words to myself, trapped behind the blades of my teeth, locked in the viscous fluid behind my eyes.
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Nov 28, 2012
Nov 28, 2012 at 3:23 PM UTC
The Sea Inside
Along the mountain crest you arrived ever so quietly like an old yearning at dawn. But you are nowhere here, only a ghostly glow that breaks out to the world to come into the stillness that remains. A translucent light in this moment’s calm fleeting from time to time. Is this another shade of the moon? Or another haunting— a dredging up of memories from some stranger’s eyes that you may be buried deep amidst the horizon or the mountain hollows always disappearing when the wind gets cold. No traces of your last movement. Still wondering why you left and why I’ve always remained to look at the world's beauty awning until the sun gathers its light and carry me by the eddying water to find my own heart’s flow.
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Dec 19, 2017
Dec 19, 2017 at 12:25 PM UTC
Alpenglow