"entreating" poems
Gave energy and time
Rose gladly to inspire.
Aiding a brother's climb
Exiting worldly mire.
Music flowed out in rhyme
Entreating to aspire.
Building box, bench or plane
Impressing with his skills.
Riding, paddling, flying
Daily seeks nature's thrills.
Jul 11, 2014
Jul 11, 2014 at 5:22 PM UTC
When you walked out the door
I fell to my knees entreating
Baby, please!
I begged for you to come back
And did everything I could to have you
But having you came with a price
My dignity
Jun 4, 2016
Jun 4, 2016 at 10:11 PM UTC
If this hallmark of a romantic gift
I give
is a bit fumbled,
and its professions of heartfelt wishes
feel
slack in their graham-cracker-box repackaging;
If the candy-coated wrapper’s fit
is left
misfitting around its dented-in red corners,
and the lippiness of its stick
has come
unstuck at each crushed-down end;
If the pink bow
stands unbowed
and frowns as unpretty as any crime-scene picture,
while it raises
a frayed end with the victim’s gone-through motion
entreating
death for its last tug free;
It could be
my feeling heart’s once-bold youth
isn't
entirely found in it,
or it could be
the entirety
bound in it,
my heart,
couldn’t find its way out.
Feb 12, 2011
Feb 12, 2011 at 9:03 AM UTC
I dwell alone,--I dwell alone, alone,
Whilst full my river flows down to the sea,
Gilded with flashing boats
That bring no friend to me:
O love-songs, gurgling from a hundred throats,
O love-pangs, let me be.
Fair fall the freighted boats which gold and stone
And spices bear to sea:
Slim, gleaming maidens swell their mellow notes,
Love-promising, entreating,--
Ah! sweet, but fleeting,--
Beneath the shivering, snow-white sails.
Hush! the wind flags and fails,--
Hush! they will lie becalmed in sight of strand,--
Sight of my strand, where I do dwell alone;
Their songs wake singing echoes in my land,--
They cannot hear me moan.
One latest, solitary swallow flies
Across the sea, rough autumn-tempest tost,
Poor bird, shall it be lost?
Dropped down into this uncongenial sea,
With no kind eyes
To watch it while it dies,
Unguessed, uncared for, free:
Set free at last,
The short pang past,
In sleep, in death, in dreamless sleep locked fast.
Mine avenue is all a growth of oaks,
Some rent by thunder-strokes,
Some rustling leaves and acorns in the breeze:
Fair fall my fertile trees,
That rear their goodly heads, and live at ease.
A spider's web blocks all mine avenue;
He catches down and foolish painted flies,
That spider wary and wise.
Each morn it hangs a rainbow strung with dew
Betwixt boughs green with sap,
So fair, few creatures guess it is a trap:
I will not mar the web,
Though sad I am to see the small lives ebb.
It shakes,--my trees shake; for a wind is roused
In cavern where it housed:
Each white and quivering sail,
Of boats among the water leaves
Hollows and strains in the full-throated gale:
Each maiden sings again,--
Each languid maiden, whom the calm
Had lulled to sleep with rest and spice and balm,
Miles down my river to the sea
They float and wane,
Long miles away from me.
Perhaps they say: "She grieves,
Uplifted, like a beacon, on her tower."
Perhaps they say: "One hour
More, and we dance among the golden sheaves."
Perhaps they say: "One hour
More, and we stand,
Face to face, hand in hand;
Make haste, O slack gale, to the looked-for land!"
My trees are not in flower,
I have no bower,
And gusty creaks my tower,
And lonesome, very lonesome, is my strand.
1.7k
I venerate and hold memories
That cover my hands like you did
Conforming to my flesh and warming me
A pair of gloves to stave off the cold of missing you
I taste what you left me
And I am reminded of your lips
That impressed upon me
What it means to wish
I am ardent for that seeping joy
The deep chords that your hands would play
Softly and sweetly entreating me
To desire and sing for you
I hear your voice transmitted
Missing inflections and a face
You are half realized
In this way- but
You still cover me with care
Your affection tailored to my tiny hands
Love is all encompassing
You are my definition.
Apr 18, 2011
Apr 18, 2011 at 10:10 PM UTC
Content, with a tinge of love,
I repent
All I've given up.
Realize what I've surmised
Is a traversed trial of fire.
Higher, higher;
The atmosphere you admire:
Lighter breathing,
Muscles beating,
Entreating my desire.
A pyre,
The phoenix feeling renaissance:
The lover's having ---
Once the want to be satisfied ---
Which was, while shattered, reconciled ---
Compiled a mile-long list
To mist the ever-flowering tree
Of prospect,
Respecting past
Opinion.
Your dominion over my
Ever-subjugating heart
(Pulsating a Morse message)
Belittles meaning in
Stockholm Syndrome,
For I am no
Shackled drone;
And, forever,
This you've known.
We are symbiotic.
We are psychotic.
Celeritous symbols
Sampling this:
Extended metaphor.
Extempore, we entertain and
Adore each other,
The world we are to each.
So: teach me how you look
With beseeching reach
Into deep territory in sleep;
Incept directly
And affect me
Romantically.
Augment what is meant and true.
Oct 4, 2010
Oct 4, 2010 at 11:20 PM UTC
The storm passes, winds once upliften have spent their embrace
and Nature calls anew to the ripening surges, budding grass once slumbered burst to life
while birds in willful glee dance the verge, whistling delight
to drink the freshened Air, our thundering night torn through the wastes
or swept swiftly along, kissed the Earth in glance of praise-
Our glad meeting, greeting and raucus entreating.
Here calls like clarion tones, like silver bells, attuned for an ascending climb
and scale of seeming or believing, less tightly held to vagrant wishing
but embraced in sight of sure horizons, traveling on like Osprey on the hunt
or Otter dove for the rivulet streams our minds intend, or hands direct-
a tinkling on the wire, vision, strength against the currents of our times
two matched in each, Above/Below...corresponding on.
Mar 21, 2012
Mar 21, 2012 at 1:35 PM UTC
*Among the giant pale mountains of the north,
Lies a small shelter not too far of heavens core,
As a glittering star upon the valleys that worth,
The iciness of the wandering wind sailing north,
Thriving the ghastly stillness with a stern roar,
There, under an old decaying oak tree,
He often dreamt wondering lost and sore,
Pleading and entreating murk ravens that bore,
This silent cry of his urges that implore;
**"God, mighty God, to thou and only thee,
I beg thy mercy, I beg thou to let me see,
Her Seraphim countenance that I adore,
Which I have seen once and nevermore,
As she came like a leaf during a windy fall,
Leaping and dancing with bare nimble feet,
As tender as a spring wave she yielded a call,
To my vacant heart to love a love so sweet,
Conquering my psyche with a mere smile,
So gentle, as a warm Dutch summer heat,
Her peculiar eyes mischievously took my all,
Making my heart intensively vivaciously beat,
Lord! Bring us together once and for all,
As the first seed of love and life, Adam and Eve."**
While the mountains murmured the echo of this call,
His days became dull of melancholy and grief,
Like a saint praying for a sinful deed,
A sinful love of wicked desires and deceit.*
© copy right protected
Jun 18, 2014
Jun 18, 2014 at 3:11 PM UTC
Beauty and despair hold my hand in theirs,
Hopelessly departed beating hearts without repair.
Repeating words bleeding from your mouth into my soul,
Lie awake at night entreating all the things that keep me whole
To please just stay a while longer while weeping out the words
That keep my body stitched together from the curses and the slurs.
Broken down in tears from all the fears of passing years,
Constantly approaching a future that seems unclear.
But I keep myself intact because, in fact, I'm doing well,
Beauty beats despair, carries my mind out of its hell
On white wings, the choir sings, "it's you and we together,"
Beating back the blackest nights, always and forever.
May 19, 2015
May 19, 2015 at 4:06 PM UTC
Some poets will
W
R
I
T
E,
Just for the
F
A
M
E.
Having
To
Send
Requests,
For someone
To like their poem's
Again. They'll befriend,
And put on a smile,
While asking by inbox
'Can you share my poesía for a while'.
Yet poesía isn't inboxing
To get a quick like,
That's just new
Age poesía, sickening to my
Dislike, I understand if one
Wants to get known,
Though just send us your
poesía, other poet's who like it
Will surely make you known.
I will speak out
Against this invasion-------of the sending and begging
For the liking
For the gain of many's
Own self wanting ambitions.
I will no longer share
Anyone's writes
Who beg for me to share,
If one has to beg
poesía isn't your fair.
Noone else will speak out
So I will do dare.
Poesía, if we like
We'll click and we'll compare.
Poesía isn't sending a write
To every rhymester and
Imploring. Poesía shares itself
In the world of poetry
That's been mourning.
So please I ask kindly
No more entreating me with inboxed writes,
If others like, we will share
As we're together
In this fight.
Mar 14, 2016
Mar 14, 2016 at 1:09 PM UTC
A peddler on a mission
Entreating for loose change
deeking reserves that no other man wants
His expectations are low, but his heart is high
Roaming the streets for simple mementos
Can hardship be so enrich to one's soul
Gravel is his bed to sleep
Cardboard is his shelter to hide
Old blankets is his comfort
But happiness keeps him free
To be poor is not an endless journey
But a constant reminder
An everlasting pursue
Is nourishment to your spirit
Being able
To envision you
Jan 19, 2010
Jan 19, 2010 at 6:11 AM UTC
Misty mountain heights
too precipitous and craggy to tread.
We imagine infinite possibilities
and traverse the talus instead.
Wandering through frost bitten landscapes
the macabre gruesome of yore.
Sentience breeds visions of panacea
entreating us to ask for more.
But enigma is a treacherous tirade
and the berserker is at the door.
Revulsions list toward recompense
reality seems a *****
The wanton wayward gist of pith
is diabolical dementia.
How to accomplish bailiff’s rake
while preserving in-absentia.
There is no more impunity
for those who live with sooth.
And yet our souls would long for grace
and try to call it truth.
Mar 16, 2017
Mar 16, 2017 at 1:29 PM UTC
I
In the sunny backyard, all was motion.
The grass, flowers, trees, fountain, birds, cats,
Flies, earthworms, and small snakes,
All moving.
Only one thing was not moving:
Buddy.
II
Sleep, nap, or doze.
Buddy could not choose,
So he did all three
III
At dusk all over the neighborhood
Dogs were coming to their owners
With hope in their eyes.
Buddy was no different.
I picked up the leash.
IV
Buddy does not know whether to prefer lying in front of the back door
Or lying in front of the front door.
When lying in front of the front door
Buddy does not know whether to prefer
The anticipation of the mailman’s arrival
Or the satisfaction of chasing him away with savage barking.
V
Rain falls from the sky and from the porch roof.
Buddy stares.
He needs to go out and ***
It is a conundrum.
VI
O thin, starving dogs of the street
Do not give up.
You can have a bed of your own, a doggie pal,
And cats to lick.
They will all worship you, and you will grow fat with contentment.
VII
The grass grows.
The clouds move across the sky.
A shallow hole in the dirt is cool and relaxing.
Buddy knows this.
VIII
Buddy turned and turned and turned on the carpet
When he lay down
The circles remained.
IX
As Buddy walks down the street
From every house, barking,
Heralding, warning, entreating, scolding.
The cacophony swells to the treetops.
X
In the dark night
On the way to get a drink of water
I stepped on a pile of clothes on the floor.
Alas, it was Buddy.
XI
Buddy and the kitten lie side by side at the front door.
Dog is in his heaven.
XII
Buddy shook all night during the thunderstorm
When the sun came out, he slept,
Exhausted.
Jan 23, 2016
Jan 23, 2016 at 5:26 PM UTC
*The wanderers lips chapped thirsty
peeled and parched in deserts inhuman
of love bereft,sought hard but unfound!
a search on legs last,romance unfazed,
for that mirage shimmering hazily afar
of her eyes, face and lips softly smiling.
so dear once,long abandoned in betrayal.
a heartfull of love unrelinquished still,
throbbing unforgotten in existence skeletal
pausing for breaths last, a hoping soul numb,
now sighting that luscious red neon cherry
the glossy round O of Marylin the pretty
a wan smile just, of a small solace strange
lit up on a face entreating so desperate.
paving happily the deaths way at last
blown in the wind final,an abstract kiss.*
Feb 9, 2013
Feb 9, 2013 at 4:42 AM UTC
Misty mountain heights
too precipitous and craggy to tread.
We imagine infinite possibilities
and traverse the talus instead.
Wandering through frost bitten landscapes
the macabre gruesome of yore.
Sentience breeds visions of panacea
entreating us to ask for more.
But enigma is a treacherous tirade
and the berserker is at the door.
Revulsions list toward recompense
reality seems a *****
The wanton wayward gist of pith
is diabolical dementia.
How to accomplish bailiff’s rake
while preserving in absentia.
There is no more impunity
for those who live with sooth.
And yet our souls would long for grace
and try to call it truth.
Jan 13, 2013
Jan 13, 2013 at 3:12 AM UTC
My body is a drop
of matter in the great cascade
A little pyre that burns atop
the soil in an entropic haze
These hands were granted me
without my warrant or entreating
but by its whims, necessity
sets all our hearts to beating
See that's the thing with entropy,
you cannot force it in reverse
make use of your short time to be
we burn like tinder to the hearse
Aug 21, 2018
Aug 21, 2018 at 9:05 PM UTC
I swim.
Warm water.
Warm day.
I think of you.
I lift my head up
and my hair slicks back.
I smile widely
as a monarch crosses my path.
I think of you
when I look at the
trees.
See the shadows
and the sun
and the shrubbery underneath.
So beautiful,
for no one.
I hardly noticed
but now I see.
Highlighting and
contrasting
colors.
Shapes.
Smells?
It's all here. So I dry
and catch a picture
when show and tell
appears.
I think of you
when I untie my top...
I wonder if neighbors can see?
Still alone,
I don't stop.
Imagine you entreating me.
I laugh
I smile
and even when I get mad
or sad for a while
why is it
I keep thinking
of you?
Somehow,
of my senses,
your touch
flows through.
Anytime I'm without you
I feel the longing
for your hands.
And to tell you things
that excite me
because I want you
to understand.
I learn more; I want to share.
I hear something great; I want you
to care.
But what I want now
is just for you to be here.
Aug 8, 2011
Aug 8, 2011 at 7:46 PM UTC
Alas in class I can not stand,
for sitting stuck
I am
Bricked in within this open tomb,
a lamb not on the lamb
Penned in among a hundred sheep,
as, subtle thought, is shorn
This lectures lies on liberty,
a dogma badly worn
A lass up front, her words float forth,
entreating minds, "Obey!"
As silence echos loudly back,
against the yawning day
Perhaps tis cruel to vicious rule
this agony too long
To taunting treat and witty beat
this croaking siren song
Alas in class I must to stay,
or lass will doom my GPA
But even so I worry not,
as time entangles now my lot
For though this lass has caught me in
a class from which I wish to win
my freedom yet I do not fear
the warped ties that bind me here
at last a lass will be no more,
this bit of class will dull it's bore
And freedom will at last then come
as class, alas and this, is done
For more see:
~ http://aweavingofwords.blogspot.com ~
Jan 25, 2010
Jan 25, 2010 at 11:52 PM UTC
It is easy – easier – to imagine that at the first stirring of the breeze,
Everything ought to be thrown to the wind. The tides are going out
But does that mean that everything on the shore will be swept away?
When I feel the gurgle of the waves on my feet, is it feasible that
God does not intend for me to be drowned? I stand in a pool of possibility:
Root myself deeper in the sand, or surrender myself to the sea. I think
My mother worries about me, 300 miles away, because in our
Distance she senses dissonance. I am the rock face bruised by the wind –
But only because I want to be. She is the lighthouse entreating me to come in
Off the water’s edge, and join her where it is safe and light and where she can
Train her gaze on me in all my darkest days. Am I tempted? Her unblinking eye
Implores me to be honest. How far must I cast my beams for you to find me?
The spray of salt reaches my side before I can answer, and brine beats Light in this race. Storms come and go, and I watch them and hope
For the sake of my mother that when I cry, it goes unheard under
The squall. The wind and waves, unrelenting, ground me in humility.
After all, when a sea-weary sailor spots a lighthouse, does his hand
Quiver on the tiller to change his course, or does the quiet thrilling thought of home
Encompass him, comfort him, call him to stay steady ahead!
We steer clear of the lighthouse: we keep our eyes level,
Our emotions at bay, and clew our sails for the cliff,
A brooding entity rising out of the ocean, recalcitrant: resistant.
My mother keeps my flame burning from another state.
Tender stoking, stalwart tending. I stand tall not because
I know she sees me, but because I can see her doing the same,
Daring the sea to stifle her laugh, her light.
Oct 18, 2017
Oct 18, 2017 at 12:54 AM UTC
I rise to face the fanfare
forged from the instruments of those who watched conquest warfare and famine ride Dictating the rites of god flaunting the colors of their father’s land in scarlet night and burning white crushed in the talons of an eagle I from those who stood in the face of conquest for one moment the beauty of constellations and the strength of iron stood in unity
I stand apart the mountain of those who conceded in the presence of the silken pale rider and his entreating caress
My father watched as his own draped lifelessly suspended like a cruel marionette
I who stood at his feet as he was ushered into the fire home now he keeps a widow company within a ceramic cylinder
I listened intently to the failings of the present the fallen are dwarfed by the towers of man eyes of sullen milk yearning for the fire and brimstone of the yester year to course through cracked and long soured veins
I rise to face the fanfare
here I will stand unwavering in the midst of the roads lit aflame with the bodies of the crucified the persecuted the banished the punished the misfortunate the proud the many the weak the blind the meek the legends the infamous the ill-fated the youth the experiences the living and the undead
here in the palms of giants I will face the accuser as he gnashes upon the bodies of the traitorous there in the center of the unholy realm of ice and tundra he will demand of me to fall upon my knees
there I will resound:
No
Aug 13, 2011
Aug 13, 2011 at 2:34 AM UTC
don't ask the blind girl how you look
it's quite impolite,
assumptions are crazy trolls playing peek-a-boo with reality
whatcha gonna do about your ignorance?
will you read? will you watch? will you listen
to our words,
every strum is a pointing finger,
every sly look a hint.
don't ask the frozen guy to dance,
you'd break him in half!
melt the ice with hot kisses and
exhale finger wiped drawings
there's no use entreating the deaf
to listen to your woes and complaints,
but you should know, there really isn't any reason to be upset at all
what is there to lose?
nothing to lose, nowhere to be lost, no one to lose,
no matter what you experience,
everything is just fine, my dear
everything is just fine, my dear
Jul 10, 2010
Jul 10, 2010 at 11:28 AM UTC
How does one see; one know,
How life will be to any of us
We come in and go out alone
The journey through is one of trust
Trusting all we see and meet
Meeting all we trust and see
In such a way, life is fleeting
When we are all surely running
And eventually entreating
Upon entrance to the door
A door between good and evil
A door between right and wrong
A door that tells you who you are
Heaven upon entrance
Hell upon denial
Life is surely fleeting
Jan 28, 2016
Jan 28, 2016 at 12:23 PM UTC
Let not my silence
be misread
as crime of fiction...
entreating soft
upon the romance novels
you so love,
upon quiet nights
and warm summer days
upon the beach
alone...
alive.
Let my silence only be
a book mark
or folded corner to the page
that mere holds the words
to be continued.
May 25, 2012
May 25, 2012 at 7:57 AM UTC
She flinched at the knock
of the first dirt to drop,
and wished for the voices
above her to stop
entreating Saint Peter
to greet her with keys,
she just wanted peace
and for everyone please
to **** off..
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 3:46 PM UTC
(my answer to her "Scar")
~
drawn to her and here
by mutual friend,
a not-so-neutral standerby,
i am undone by reading
her entreating,
questions haunting...
why?
i too will never understand
how scars can heal
how love divides.
the hurting, haunting
ever daunting
rage and hate inside,
it turns me
to an ever wanting
knowledge...
why?
the answer comes
in whispered winds,
in knowings deep within.
this mortal plain
does not remain;
this clock
will one day stop;
this heart will beat
this side no more;
these feet will
draw unto this chest,
when fleeting moments,
thought-filled words,
my last i love you's
whispered from my breast.
and then the realness,
truest journey starts
where all i take
is what i've made
and carry there
within this heart.
a redefining mission.
as i introspective, listen,
to my Creator whispering,
*"welcome to my new beginning!
you, i've waited long to hold;
'well done' on earth is not the end,
for she was just the womb.
this place, your home,
now birthed anew;
the journey now embarks.
i'm thrilled you packed
so carefully,
the treasures carried
in your heart."*
~
*post script.
more could be said, but why?
for we know the answer if
we listen to the whisperings within.
SPT, a gifted artist...
mostly because she asks
such beautiful,
soul-searching
questions!*
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/1449901/scar/
Nov 2, 2015
Nov 2, 2015 at 10:43 PM UTC