"ernest" poems
Spiders.
Snakes.
Late nights, due to the fact that once I saw a possum in our garage when it was dark out.
Good looking people not thinking I'm good looking.
Holding children. I might drop them.
My brothers growing up to be just like me.
Shark attacks.
Jumping off high places.
Headphones that go too deep into my ears.
Going the opposite direction of so many cars. I'm the only one going my way. They're probably headed the right way. They're probably having more fun.
Realizing that, after being on the road for a while, my high beams have been on the whole time. Sorry.
Cockroaches.
Family reunions where I'm not sure if that really attractive girl is my family or someone's friend.
Climbing up the stairs of the Bombay ride at Wet N' Wild because there just slabs of stone I can see under. I could slip and fall right through.
Enjoying bad bands.
Letting my girlfriend look into my eyes.
Talking on the phone.
Growing up.
Refusing to grow up.
Reading this over if I ever finish it and realizing that I am something less than a regular human being. Probably an animal of some kind.
Frogs.
Big animals.
Waking up one day as the same person I always have been.
Standing still.
My parents.
Not spending the rest of my life with the girl I swore I would.
Texting people too often.
My parents dying.
Whales.
My teeth being this awful the rest of my life.
Braces.
Making people think they offended me. People never offend me.
Writing anything that's ever as good as Ernest Hemingway. How dare I think that I ever could.
Running too hard. My heart might burst.
Being unreasonable. Am I unreasonable?
Sticking my finger inside an air conditioning vent in a car. I don't know if there's a fan in there. I don't know if it'll take my finger off.
Getting people's hopes up.
Letting people down.
Fish.
Bees.
Being a teacher.
My laugh.
Wearing bad clothes.
Holding her hand too hard. I might cut off circulation. She might get mad.
My brother disapproving of what I do.
Heaven because it sounds awful doing the same thing for the rest of forever.
Finding out I've been gay this whole time.
Cracking my fingers.
Being a parent.
Whales.
Final exams.
Paranormal Activity 4.
Singing on cue.
Sudden Infant Death Syndrome.
Eating insects.
Whales.
Silence.
The open ocean.
Whales.
Whales.
Apr 25, 2018
Apr 25, 2018 at 12:45 PM UTC
This isn't about front lines and deep mud,
it's not about sacrifice and bands of brotherhood.
It's not calling for silence or for national pride,
it's not about cenotaphs and those left behind.
No, this a thank you to one Ernest Page,
Gunner Sergeant, Royal Field Artillery, 182nd Brigade.
Thank you for ducking, thank you for dodging,
thank you for lasting, thank you for living.
Thanks for returning back home to Brockley.
Thanks for asking Gran and building a family.
Thank you for dad and for little Aunt Betty,
for Pam and for Pete and for cousins aplenty.
Thanks for Rose Cottage, for trips round the lake,
thanks for loud laughter and sleepy eyed late
mugs of hot chocolate and medeira cake slabs.
Thanks for my sisters, thanks again for my dad.
Thank you for surviving, and all that implies.
I owe you it all, I owe you this life.
Nov 1, 2018
Nov 1, 2018 at 6:17 PM UTC
In a sunny spot resides a new bench.
It would be a perfect place to sit among the flowers
with children sitting at your feet
teaching them all that you know
about animals
about the great outdoors
from a time when they were experienced in person
not on the Discovery Channel
not on TV
You could read a book to them there too
like Wild Animals I Have Known
by Ernest Thompson Seaton
the naturalist.
You could sit quietly in the sunshine
and nurse an unfortunate animal back to health
like a Gecko
or turtle
or opossum
You could just sit
your Dunkin Doughnuts iced coffee in your hand
and take it all in
or let it all out
your choice.
But you never will do any of these things
on this bench in the sunny spot
among the plants
and flowers
and smooth river rocks painted in your honor
by the children to whom you are missed
because the bench is dedicated
with your name on it
in memory of you.
Jun 21, 2013
Jun 21, 2013 at 12:11 AM UTC
For we have thought the longer thoughts
And gone the shorter way.
And we have danced to devils' tunes,
Shivering home to pray;
To serve one master in the night,
Another in the day.
Aug 6, 2017
Aug 6, 2017 at 1:27 AM UTC
I think of mom often.
Like when I read anything by Jack London
or Ernest Thompson Seton.
Her memory swirls around me when I see a dead opossum by the roadside
it reminds me of the one we had as kids.
Yes, we had an opossum.
It wasn't a pet as much as it was a wounded soldier,
convalescing in a field hospital close to the front and cared for by Florence Nightingale,
except the field hospital was our carport under a suspended Old Towne wood canoe,
the battle, with a Ford or Chevrolet, on the main road near our house in Connecticut.
Florence was Mom.
She peeks at me around corners in the kitchen when I make fish,
or soup,
because I hated fish as a child.
She made us eat it because it was healthy and the blocks of frozen Turbot were cheap
and she was a single mom at forty two with three hungry mouths to feed.
She tried to make me think it was exotic because it came from Iceland.
I thought Turbot was Icelandic for "more bones in your mouth than you ever thought possible".
Mom was, however, an accomplished homemade souper.
She's by my side as I explain wild things
to other little wild things which hang on my every word.
Words put into my head which make it seem,
to the under four foot set,
that I know everything.
Knowledge put there by her in our yard,
by the lakes of New York, the mountains of West Virginia or deserts of California.
She is in every frog that jumps, whippoorwill that calls or each stalk of Jewel ****
which is a cure for poison ivy by the way,
that grows near a stream in the woods.
But then today
as my daughter opened the overhead sunglass holder in her car for the first time,
the Subaru she inherited from Mom over a year ago,
and Grandma's sunglasses fell out,
there were no thoughts of lessons learned
or knowledge imparted.
Today,
I just thought of her.
Jul 14, 2013
Jul 14, 2013 at 1:10 AM UTC
Some say, we don't need black history month.
When in truth we do.
Would the contribution of African American be taught truthfully.
If we had to depend on you know who?
Obviously, they very unaware of several successful black that contributed to America's greatness.
We, very well aware they edited down facts to be turn into fiction.
Like that president that chopped down that cherry tree.
Many doesn't know the plight of Washington, Dubois, Carver.
Let alone know their first name.
It's hardly taught, if it's about us.
George Franklin, Grant-dentist
Ernest Everett, Just.-Scientist
Josh Gibson, one of the greatest baseball player.
We know very well about George, Thomas and James and John Q.
Some say, we all Americans
And in truth, they completely right.
But for reasons very well known.
We are not all equal in sights of others.
When needed, they call upon us to join in.
Some still, say-why do Black history month exist?
But all cultures knows none was eliminated through times.
Than those captured to come here and renamed after their masters.
And facts be told, this cultures lives to embrace into their children's if nothing is ever mention by certain teachers about their cultures.
Than they will keep it before them.
Matthew Alexander, Henson-Explorer
Billie Holiday-singer
Duke Ellington and Count Basie and Cab Calloway.
Greatness, we can't let fade.
Vernon Jordan
Shirley Chilsom
And hosts of present days teachers that push the issues to educate.
Those that say, we don't need Black History months.
Be crying , if we try to eliminate theirs.
Cause that's all they ever known.
Howard University.
Tennessee State and Fisk and various others came to be because of discrimination.
And has turned out some brilliant African Americans.
So our history is needed.
Cause it's about us.
Like Latin History and various others is about other cultures.
Feb 7, 2016
Feb 7, 2016 at 10:12 AM UTC
what does it take to ruin someone and for them to ruin you?
I can look in your eyes and see what is true, I can
break into your motives and see why you do it, I can
take a flame to the glacier and melt your ice down, but
in my ears beating my burning heart sounds like a thunderous
cry, etching your name on my soul, when you leave there can be nothing,
I can never be whole, my mind is a solver, I crawl into blank spaces
and find underneath them the hidden, dark mazes- without the problem
there can be no solution, only when you are there can I have absolution-
you are a lock to my key that will melt- constantly forming-
into something I've lost. Every day has a morning- but the night destroys
day and the dark is afraid- I am only for you, now, forever and always
(at least til the next, when I fall in the hallways)
my heart is not open, it is a strong focused beam-
to bring light to your days, and bring hope to your dreams.
Sep 24, 2014
Sep 24, 2014 at 2:39 PM UTC
some may say a man
with a beard
has something to hide
some may say a bearded man
is a lonely man
let me tell you a law
of the known universe
all great influential men
had beards
Consider this: The Soul is set aflame by the constant ruminations of the mind that venture beyond one’s stagnant self. This leads to great inspiration and ultimately inspiring others greatly.
so you see
only the bearded man can
transcend himself
List of Great Bearded Men: Frederick Douglas, Ulysses S. Grant, Ernest Hemingway, Jesus, Abraham Lincoln, Confucius, Karl Marx, Sigmund Freud, John Lennon, Vincent Van Gogh, Albert Einstein, King Leonidas, Zeus, Poseidon, Billy Mays, Most notable Pirates.
Dec 2, 2011
Dec 2, 2011 at 1:02 AM UTC
*“If people bring so much courage
to this world the world has to ****
them to break them, so of course
it kills them. The world breaks every
one and afterward many are*
strong at the broken places."
A Farewell to Arms,
Ernest Hemingway
<>
struggling with so much,
then this scripture of writing sent
by some unfamiliar, a providential
provider; and I am realized, this man
is broken in ways you have no idea,
can~not comp~re~hend
understanding floods, healing
required, for I too have been killed,
my trust and beliefs, trashed,
too many fools who think that
moral equivalence is a thing,
that the unspeakable is justified,
hatred makes me so broke so low,
how,
justification is not justice,
nor an excuse to do whatever
cross the street, and believe,
that drivers will honor a red,
a stop sign, but plenty think
this don’t apply to me, not me
getting on the back of a line
is for fools, people who cannot answer
the arrogant question of the insistent
“Do You Know Who I am?”
I know who I am, yet the ponderance
of evidence says that is not enough,
I
am insufficient,
I am less
than human,
I am
undeserving,
because of my
ancestry
And I will spare you the precise definitions of these statements,
for it should be unnecessary, you should be nodding in agreement, clear eyed understanding, intuitive, in your own broken bones felt!
But,
my bones are broken, and the healing needs a source, a “see here”
directive, explain me how my insane madness is not a proper
responsa to the
weight of hate
my eyes see, seen,
and that my own
eyes
are not lying,
but believed.
but intuitively understood
that my broken bones can be
healed, each in their own way,
so I will retire, perhaps return
when, even if not fully recovered,
sufficient to care enough,
ready to be rebroken, again,
for this! this! is my
true poetic ancestry
thousands of years have not broken us,
and never will, for it is not fear that will
prevent our resurrection, for we immunized,
for what unimaginable have we not known, and yet recovered,
this,
I believe,
my healing will be quiet, solitary, removed
from the distractive noises of invective infecting,
but I will be present,
for my children, and my children’s children will
look to this ancestor and learn that his blood
and bones deeds them the self-healing properties
that always has and always will defeat those
who seek to destroy your future
1) the DNA of your ancestry
inherited inherent in your bone marrow
and bone tissue is continuously remodeled
through the concerted actions of bone marrow cells
2) Stem cells in your red bone marrow
(hematopoietic stem cells) create red and
white blood cells and platelets, all of which
are components of your whole blood.
so here is our truth:
when,
***The world breaks every
one and afterward many are
strong at the broken places!***
our whole blood will replenish us
Nov 17, 2023
Nov 17, 2023 at 10:09 AM UTC
"The best people possess a feeling for beauty,
The courage to take risks,
The discipline to tell the truth,
The capacity for sacrifice.
Ironically, their virtues make them vulnerable
Yet, they are often wounded,
Sometimes destroyed."
- Ernest Hemingway
Apr 19, 2014
Apr 19, 2014 at 8:13 PM UTC
Ma Jalouse, Mon Unique, Mon Ultime
Sais-tu ce que Lord Invader, Sam Manning
Cyril Monrose, Charlie Parker, Louis Armstrong
Jack Sneed et Ernest Rangling
Sans oublier Blue Glaze Mento Band et Phil Madison ?
Et je m'arrête là pour l'instant,
Sais-tu ce qu'ils ont en commun ?
Eh bien vois-tu, ce sont tous mes ombres.
Tu ne pourras jamais me comprendre
Si tu ne les comprends pas
Et si tu ne sais pas ce que représentent pour moi
La mangouste et le raccoon.
De même que pour te comprendre il faut avoir lu tout Dostoievski
Pour me comprendre il faut avoir écouté tout Sly Mongoose
Car peut être n'as-tu vu en moi qu'aria et boléro, symphonie et concerto
Alors je t'explique : pour comprendre, n'essaie pas de philosopher
Lève-toi et bouge tout simplement et tu toucheras l 'essence
C'est du folklore, c'est du reggae, c 'est du mento, c'est du calypso, c'est du jazz,
C'est instrumental ou c'est vocal
C'est moi, mes ascendances et descendances.
Sly Mongoose c'est mes Frères Karamasov
Smerdiakov, Aliocha, Ivan et Dmitri
C'est mon Idiot, mon prince Lev Mychkine
C'est mon Joueur, mon Alexei Ivanovitch
Mon Rêve d'un Homme Ridicule
Et Raskolnikov errant dans la nuit dans Crime et Châtiment.
Sly Mongoose c'est l'histoire d'une mangouste maline
Qui a baptisé la fille du pasteur
De son eau sainte
Et qui fuit la Jamaïque
Et part à l'étranger
Après son forfait.
C'est l'histoire d'une mangouste qui vole les poules les plus grasses de la cuisine
Et qui les met dans la poche de son veston
C'est l'histoire d'une mangouste qui entre dans la cuisine d'un prédicateur
Et qui repart avec une des poules les plus grasses
Et tous les chiens savent son nom.
il s'appelle Sly Mangoose
Il est malin, il est vicieux, le compère
C'est mon ombre, que veux-tu
Et parfois pour échapper aux prédateurs
Il prend l'apparence de l'ombre d'un raccoon.
Aug 21, 2019
Aug 21, 2019 at 6:05 AM UTC
I was gonna write about how I was writing standing up like Hemingway at some bar in Key West, but instead I ended up nearly lying down, like some Roman eating grapes, and I’m not scrawling with a pen. I’m typing.
Why the standing up, Ernest? Was it to gauge how difficult it was to keep good posture? Was it to better measure how drunk you were getting?
He would have boxed me for those asking those questions, or maybe he’d just slam a few shots.
All of us Northeasterners enjoy getting drunk somewhere tropical. I never have a choice in the matter. Whether it’s Florida, South Carolina, or the South Caribbean (I've never left the Western Hemisphere), all I really like down there is beaches and seawater. Everything else gives deep cringes. Those other tourists, so annoying just to look at. Flip flops, whole families, and the god awful shops they keep open. You go to a place good for a beach, green hills, seawater, and fruit, and you want to buy diamonds? C’mon. I wish you’d want these islands to be like national parks; nature over here and cities over there. But the tourists enjoy fake grass huts that try really hard to sell them junk.
So who’s to blame for the sellers perpetuating petty sales and mediocre values? Is it the islanders that make a profit, or the buyers that want the wares? Or is there a third party guaranteeing that the buyers and sellers alike are propagandized to expect the less than fine things in life? Are the salespeople actually working the shops, the ones really getting rich from the sale?
Aug 16, 2014
Aug 16, 2014 at 10:04 PM UTC
thank you
for introducing me
to good music
whenever i listen
to ernest greene
i think of you
and it's not sad,
it's not me missing you
or wishing things
were like they used to be
the thoughts
that are attached
to those songs
are happy
because i'm happy
i met you
even if now
we only speak
from time to time
you'll always be
a happy memory
and those are rare
to come by
May 10, 2013
May 10, 2013 at 12:36 PM UTC
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-Make an artesian spaghetti sandwich using whole grain golden moon grown quinoa bread and cage free angel hair pasta noodles cooked al dente in a curry sauce with a whisper of coconut oil on each piece of bread and leave said sandwich out by your front door over night.
Dec 25, 2015
Dec 25, 2015 at 10:48 PM UTC
That could describe you
That could describe me
Those of us of obscurity
Who do not have a name to back us up
Not an Ernest Hemmingway
Not a James Joyce
Not a Maya Angelou
Just a continual scribbler of some thoughts
Only are we considered underrated
Because we're not well-known
But that doesn't mean
We can't give the best of them a run for their money
Nov 17, 2012
Nov 17, 2012 at 3:14 PM UTC
"Write hard and clear about what hurts." -- Ernest Hemingway
It hurts that my grandmother might not be around for my wedding
It hurts that my grandfather may be, but may not remember it
It hurts that I live so far my from people I love
It hurts knowing they will hurt when I tell them I want to move clear across the country
It hurts that I am stuck here, facing people I would rather avoid
It hurts that a place I called home has turned on me
It hurts more that I may be imagining they have turned on me
It hurts to think I may have disappointed the first person to give me a chance
It hurts that people I once called friends will speak so bitterly about me
It hurts that, ten months later, I so strongly miss someone who melds perfectly with us
It hurts that she would rather run than even attempt to see what it's like
It hurts that she may act so calm, as if nothing happened
It hurts that her facade is so strong, while mine crumbles at the sight of her
It hurts that the longer we go on, the more we risk becoming "that creepy older couple"
It hurts that it hurts him, when I still speak of wanting another
It hurts that I would not be complete without one or the other
It hurts that so many friends are married, and growing families
It hurts that I will have to defend my own choices in growing mine
It hurts that I must defend my family to my family
It hurts that so many people work the job that pays the bills, and the job they really love
It hurts that the job I love must be revealed strategically
It hurts that who I am must be revealed strategically
It hurts anticipating the hurt that will come from that judgement
It hurts when I try to broaden my horizons, and I can see the hurt in my best friend's eyes
It hurts watching people not fulfill their full potential
It hurts watching people work so hard, but still gain so little
It hurts working so hard in my job, becoming so tired that my joy, my passion falls by the wayside
It hurts that we work so hard for things that do not truly comfort us
It hurts that we take so little for granted
It hurts that we take so many for granted
Jul 23, 2013
Jul 23, 2013 at 10:48 PM UTC
We are Manchester. The City, The place, we’re hospitable people with a smile on our face. You can beat us, mistreat us, and blow us to hell. We have had it all before and we don’t dwell. We’re the northern powerhouse of the northwestern elite, Where the Geordie's, The Scousers, The Yorkshire’s retreat. The premier League, The Roses Cricket, The Heineken Cup Is a one way ticket. United and City two football teams with stadiums full, bursting at the seams.
We are Mancunians Of this fair City, The People, The Love, The old nitty gritty The worker, The Shirker, The Homeless, The immigrants, each one of these they are all itinerants. The Steel, The Cotton, long since forgotten the old smokey chimneys blew out smoke that was rotten. The Massacre at Peterloo. Local politicians just don’t have a clue. With all the sights this city has on show here’s something that people don’t really know. Manchester is where New Zealand Born Ernest Rutherford split the Atom.
We Are Manchester, The City, the Place, where Sir Humphrey Chetham has his musical grace a school of music with musical taste. And where a man with a paintbrush painted streets on boxes. I don’t think Lowry ever painted foxes. And A comedian from Collyhurst who was absolutely awesome, a real funny guy by the name of Les Dawson, and where a man from Chorlton on Medlock became Prime Minister back in the day. David Lloyd-George had a hell of a lot to say.
We Are Manchester and it's the place for me. And a proud Mancunian I’m glad to be. I’ll sit in a cafe watching people pass by. They are all in a hurry and I wonder why. I see a business man in a three piece suit, and the homeless guy that is counting his loot. There's the girl on the street giving out free papers she is smoking those ciggies that give off those vapours. It's pouring with rain and she’s getting wet she’s worried about money to pay off her debt.
We Are Manchester and this is our City don’t waste your time we don’t want no pity. We are Manchester we are steeped in tradition we leave other cities standing. There’s no competition. Where A man from Moss Side a Vicar not a Dean called Rev George Garrett invented the submarine. And where the great Anthony Wilson was a journalist & impresario and a man named John Nichols invented the great drink called Vimto. and so When he wrote “This Is the Place” I’m sure he did so with a smile on his face. We Are Manchester and I’ll state our case because we are Manchester and we are ace.
Mar 30, 2018
Mar 30, 2018 at 9:45 PM UTC
It was at the party that you would see,
the nonconformist spirit of Ernest Hokum was alive and well.
He would not strive for mademoiselles
Since that would be dishonest, and Ernest was a honest man.
Not Iago honest for his desires did not lay doggo.
However, Hokum was known to succumb to a glass of ***
resulting in Hokum to become squiffy.
And any iffy encounters, he would shake them of with his usual aplomb
remaining so calm they thought he was just bored. Or dead.
And then they would leave poor Hokum to his horde of ***
"Lord, old chum, thank you for this *** Hokum proclaimed.
And he drank til he was famed for his *** drinking.
Thinking they saw him and thought "That's Hokum for you!"
Hokum knew this to be wishful thinking,
and listen to some blues.
Full of innuendos and nonsense.
Hokum's favourite combinations.
He ignored his conscience and allowed the blues to occupy his mind
Dwelling on such twaddle until he finds another distraction.
Probable *** if he was being honest, which, as previously stated he is.
Hokum didn't take life too serious
for that would be to make life into work
Any work is tedious at best, so why be so serious?
Hokum enjoyed the simple pleasures of strong alcohol and humorous inappropriate songs,
And such that was the hundum life of Ernest Hokum.
A man with a charming smile that spoke blarney with such conviction
turning fiction into facts you would believe it, just for a little while.
Why wouldn't you? That's Hokum for you, afterall.
Jan 1, 2015
Jan 1, 2015 at 7:26 PM UTC
what does little Ernest croon
in his death at afternoon?
(kow dow r 2 bul retoinis
wus de woids uf lil Oinis
Jan 3, 2019
Jan 3, 2019 at 3:24 PM UTC
Staring into stars, the lonely people drink their tears
And genuflect to empty car parks and swallow their fears
Like Ernest Hemingway, they grit their teeth and laugh
********* a pocket bullet, contemplating aftermath
And the shadows bend and grow…
And the embers shine below.
Geared for success, the lonely boy begins to starve
His chest heaving from stress, his wish for waterfall in cars
Freeways self-entitled, forcing ants into the gutter
While a lonely father cries and the boy freezes and sputters
And the doorway opens up
As the mouth is finally shut.
“I’m not mad, son, you’ve only disappointed me”
Father, point the way for me, where is my life leading?!
Should I sacrifice my happiness for a chance at succeeding?
Should these calloused hands be empty, do I need a beating?
You need to straighten up your tie and keep your noses clean.
My mother’s eyes in moonlight silently judging me
Inhumanity, why don’t you rule these streets?
I bite my bottom lip and gaze down at my feet
Lumped chunk of nicotine
Pushing itself out of me.
I want to stop blending rainwater with my leaking eye-sockets,
Crying for another with which to share my gold locket,
Tossing and turning, wondering where I will be next
And for God’s sake, can I do it, am I trying my very best!?
Why can’t I get up on time like every normal human being?
Why do I always get sick, why do my guts hate me?
Why are all my joints always crackling and aching?
I never want to live, don’t ever try to save me!
“I’m not mad, son, you’ve only disappointed me”
Father, point the way for me, where is my life leading?!
Should I sacrifice my happiness for a chance at succeeding?
Should these calloused hands be empty, do I need a beating?
Staring into stars, the lonely people sit and smile
Counting all the faces staring back, retracing miles
Celestial serenity, striving for an energy
Never needing inquiry, embracing the no thing!
Should these calloused hands be empty?
Do I need a beating?
Will these pruning hands deceive me?
This Universe is in me.
Jun 3, 2011
Jun 3, 2011 at 3:58 PM UTC
It's 4:02 am
And I'm craving your mesmerizing brown eyes more than ever,
the ones you never liked and the ones you wanted to change badly.
But you never saw them with my eyes,
you never realized they had a compelling and authentic power...
Your dark brown eyes could wake anybody up more than dark coffee ever did,
they fulfilled you with electricity, magic and colorful butterflies in your chest.
Your dark brown eyes told stories,
ones you could read over and over and you'd never get tired of it,
ones that awed you more than an Ernest Hemingway book ever did
Your eyes were a mystical dark brown
with shades, nuances and hues that could resemble the dark depths of the center of earth.
And if he looks at you the way he looks at me, oh those dark brown eyes have the overwhelming spell of freezing you
into a trance full of freedom and euphoria, and there, right there
you'll find stars floating and lighting up the galaxy's edge and the center of the universe, but only if you look closely enough.
Jan 13, 2017
Jan 13, 2017 at 12:40 AM UTC
A repost:
A Roman poem written before The birth of Christ, inspired the title Gone With The wind
with Scarlett and Rhett Butler
But here you see only old
confessions of a man's true love for his beloved who is all gone
-Or-
(Or a woman's true love for
her beloved runner wishing she could have chased.)
~~~
CYNAR*A.
~~~~~
Last night yesternight, betwixt her lips and mine
There fell thy shadow, Cynara! Thy breath was shed
Upon my soul between the kisses and the wine;
And I was desolate and sick of an old passion,
Yea, I was desolate and bowed my head:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.
All night upon mine heart I felt her warm heart beat,
Night-long within mine arms in love and sleep she lay;
Surely the kisses of her bought red mouth were sweet;
But I was desolate and sick of an old passion,
When I awoke and found the dawn was grey:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.
I have forgot much, Cynara! Gone with the wind,
Flung roses, roses riotously with the throng,
Dancing, to put thy pale, lost lilies out of mind
But I was desolate and sick of an old passion,
Yea, all the time, because the dance was long:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.
I cried for madder music and for stronger wine,
But when the feast is finished and the lamps expire,
Then falls thy shadow, Cynara! The night is thine;
And I am desolate and sick of an old passion,
Yea, hungry for the lips of my desire:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.
~~~~~~~
By:Ernest Dowson
For:RhettlvScarlet.
to honor Karijinbba
in her great loss and healing
of her memory chip.
~~~~~~
Copy Rights.
~~~~
Ernest Dowson (1867-1900) died of alcoholism at the age of 32. His downward spiral began at age 23 when he fell for an 11 year old girl who would spurn him at 14 when he proposed marriage.
The following year, in 1894 his father died from an overdose. Dowson's mother
hanged herself within a year of her husband's death.
Soon after this dual tragedy Dowson left for France before returning back to England in 1897. Curiously he lived with the family of his unrequited love. Penniless, heartbroken and filling the empty voids in his life with alcohol, Dowson would spend the last six weeks of his life in the cottage of the Oscar Wilde biographer Robert Sherard who had found him
drunk in a bar.
Speaking of Oscar Wilde, he wrote after Dowson's death of a,"Poor wounded wonderful fellow that he was, a tragic reproduction of all tragic poetry, like a symbol, or a scene.
I hope bay leaves will be laid on his tomb and rue and myrtle too for he knew what true love
unrequieted love was."
~~~~~
Oct 22, 2018
Oct 22, 2018 at 12:44 AM UTC
What a dream of writers,
Upon its grand galore?
Lifting hands upon Poe,
To ask forever more?
An Ernest near his sea,
Of Dante’s own heaven.
Fun to see Angelou,
With The loved Whitman be.
My dear Plath of saving,
Nestled on her pillows.
So pleased to see the Frost,
Odd this time of willows.
Pleased my own time of miles,
A spirit dream of niles.
Jul 13, 2018
Jul 13, 2018 at 7:28 PM UTC
Ah, where to begin, take it from the crown,
And roll down the usual bump of your bouncy hairsanality,
Teasing your cerebrum with every spin,
Then quietly continue along your slender necking with a whisper,
To gently land on the heavy shouldering of your broad world,
Resting a moment to tickle loose those knots of compassion,
Move onward carefully, tiptoe to your pendant earlobes,
Grown wise from listening freely, flirting for a subtle nibble.
Lets swing over to perch on the bow of your maple cheeks,
Held up by the strength of your Ernest smile,
A spring of rose petals on a landscape of pure snow,
Alas, how the rose must envy the radiant hue of your lips,
Now, leap off to the cushion of your ample *****
Perfect for nourishing presents of unique creation,
The pounding of your heart, speaks through, ba-dum ba-dum
Half the necessary beat to a lifelong dance, till death.
Next, a slide down the concave curves, slim fitting to your flawless figure,
To carriage at your slender swinging hips,
The favorite resting place of your healing hands,
Supporting the vertebrae that keeps strong your secure dorsal,
Start at the bottom and slowly shiver up the spine,
Only to shake back down with a relieved sigh, past the seeds of life,
And massage down sturdy legs carrying you through strife,
Come to a rest on the tip of your twinkle toes,
Those shine at the end of your lily starfeet.
With hopes that they’re moving to a compass where I mimic north,
And those bright almond eyes cast their gaze through the pane,
Your visage, making the difference between my dawn and dusk.
Jul 24, 2013
Jul 24, 2013 at 11:11 PM UTC
I'll be dreaming tonight..
Yes I'll be dreamin' tonight
Of a Trico hatch that's goes off like a New England snow storm
A Loaded five weight by my side, with plenty of backing to spare.
I'll be dreaming tonight
Of a Montana highway leading me back home,
Home to the Firehole bridge, a purple sky ablaze
Salmo Trutta, my brother from below
I'll be dreaming of Casting tight loops below Kilpatrick Pond,
I catch a glimpse of Ernest smiling on the bank
The Hemingway legacy lives on at Silver Creek
As we wait for the green drake hatches to fill the air!
I'll be dreaming tonight of days gone by,
When a young boy caught his first German brown.
Neversink, you beckon me to the days long ago
I feel the force of the river pull me from a deep sleep.
And I awaken to the thought of......Tight Lines!
Apr 19, 2016
Apr 19, 2016 at 12:57 AM UTC