Hello Poetry
Submit your work and get some sparkles! Create free account
"exanimate" poems
XXXIII Yes, call me by my pet-name! let me hear The name I used to run at, when a child, From innocent play, and leave the cowslips piled, To glance up in some face that proved me dear With the look of its eyes. I miss the clear Fond voices which, being drawn and reconciled Into the music of Heaven’s undefiled, Call me no longer. Silence on the bier, While I call God—call God!—So let thy mouth Be heir to those who are now exanimate. Gather the north flowers to complete the south, And catch the early love up in the late. Yes, call me by that name,—and I, in truth, With the same heart, will answer and not wait.
0
6k
Sonnet 33 - Yes, Call Me By My Pet-Name! Let Me Hear
A claypot, brittle and empty. Cold and weary. For I, was that claypot. Brittle and empty, Cold and weary. My exanimate body, quiet like the winter but piercing like the howling wind. You picked me up, and painted me with colours. Colours, that represented your love. Blue for freedom, Yellow for loyalty, Brown for humility. And Red - your love. You embraced me, and kissed me, despite the coldness of my touch. You painted me with your love. I, believed that I was now something. And.. You dropped me.
0
Jul 22, 2018
Jul 22, 2018 at 4:41 AM UTC
Claypot
Take me to the lamppost Where my heart goes to gleam Replace the fire with the spark from the sea See the way she radiates back at me Take me to the lamppost Where the light has dimmed See what once stood bright and constant now holding only things that became dark and exanimate Take me to the lamppost Where memories of the light Try to hold on best they can Though loss is drying, blurred in the mute sand Take me to the lamppost To what once was gold and blazen Remind me of what used to be Fire kindled through glass; and see! Take me to the lamppost Where I yearn to see the light That was once within.
0
Dec 29, 2019
Dec 29, 2019 at 12:39 PM UTC
Take Me to the Lamppost
comes what of this: pink exhaustion ? some shallow tract of nicks neck scratched clean & puddles of symmetry line the frame still breathe flexing tiny freckles shoulder wrought silk; (a chalice so well tuned. blood song symphony) repose exanimate former pleasure cutter you
0
May 30, 2010
May 30, 2010 at 10:43 AM UTC
comes what of this