"exult" poems
O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,
The ship has weathered every rack, the prize we sought is won,
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills,
For you bouquets and ribboned wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding,
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head!
It is some dream that on the deck,
You’ve fallen cold and dead.
My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;
The ship is anchored safe and sound, its voyage closed and done;
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;
Exult O shores, and ring O bells!
But I, with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
22.7k
Easily Tux
Laxity Use
Laxity Sue
Taxis Yule
Taxi Yules
Tau Sexily
Axe I *****
Yea Xi ****
Yea Xi Lust
Aye Xi ****
Aye Xi Lust
Ail Yes Tux
Sail Ye Tux
Ails Ye Tux
Italy Ex Us
Laity Ex Us
Taxi Lye Us
La Suety Xi
Talus Ye Xi
Lax Yeti Us
Lax Suety I
Lax Ye Suit
Lay Exit Us
Lay Suet Xi
Lay Tuxes I
Lay Ex Suit
Sat Yule Xi
Taus Lye Xi
Sax Yule Ti
Sax Yule It
Say Lie Tux
Say Lei Tux
Say Lute Xi
Say Exult I
At Yules Xi
At Yule Xis
At Yule Six
Tau Lyes Xi
Tau Lye Xis
Tau Lye Six
Tax Yules I
Tax Yule Is
Ax Lieu Sty
Ax Yules Ti
Ax Yules It
Ax Yule Tis
Ax Yule Its
Ax Yule Sit
Ax Lye Suit
Ya Isle Tux
Ya Lies Tux
Ya Leis Tux
Ya Lutes Xi
Ya Exults I
Ya Lute Xis
Ya Lute Six
Ya Exult Is
Ay Isle Tux
Ay Lies Tux
Ay Leis Tux
Ay Lutes Xi
Ay Exults I
Ay Lute Xis
Ay Lute Six
Ay Exult Is
A Lyes I Tux
A Lye Is Tux
A Ex I *****
A Ye Xi ****
A Ye Xi Lust
La Yes I Tux
La Yet Xi Us
La Ye Is Tux
Las Ye I Tux
Lax Yet I Us
Lax Ye Ti Us
Lax Ye It Us
Lay Ex Ti Us
Lay Ex It Us
As Lye I Tux
Say El I Tux
At Lye Xi Us
Tau Ex I Sly
Tax Lye I Us
Ax Lye Ti Us
Ax Lye It Us
Ax Ye I ****
Ax Ye I Lust
Ax Ye Lit Us
Ya El Is Tux
Ya Let Xi Us
Ya Ex I ****
Ya Ex I Lust
Ya Ex Lit Us
Ay El Is Tux
Ay Let Xi Us
Ay Ex I ****
Ay Ex I Lust
Ay Ex Lit Us
Oct 25, 2015
Oct 25, 2015 at 12:38 PM UTC
When the sun first shows its beaming face,
at the break of a blissful new dawn.
Your birds that exult with elegant grace,
bid farewell to the night that's gone.
Your flowers ornate your vast lands,
of your priceless treasures they boast.
The besotting Kilimanjaro that stands,
dominating your east coast.
You are home to the best precious stones,
the land of gleaming clear waters.
Garnished with skills and strong bones,
you are served by your dutiful daughters.
The soil that expands on your gracious vest,
the equator that cuts your enormous chest,
birds that bear your golden crest,
are a few ideals of your daring zest.
The treasured soil that fills your vast expanse,
the gracious finesse in your every dance.
From Egypt, to South Africa, Nigeria to Kenya,
From the stupefying Sahara to the beatific Victoria.
I love you dear Africa, The land of the wild,
This poem is for you from your little child.
Jun 16, 2014
Jun 16, 2014 at 8:27 AM UTC
Now I am all
One bowl of kisses,
Such as the tall
Slim votaresses
Of Egypt filled
For a God's excesses.
I lift to you
My bowl of kisses,
And through the temple's
Blue recesses
Cry out to you
In wild caresses.
And to my lips'
Bright crimson rim
The passion slips,
And down my slim
White body drips
The shining hymn.
And still before
The altar I
Exult the bowl
Brimful, and cry
To you to stoop
And drink, Most High.
Oh drink me up
That I may be
Within your cup
Like a Mystery,
Like wine that is still
In ecstasy.
Glimmering still
In ecstasy,
Commingled wines
Of you and me
In One fulfill,...
The Mystery.
3.3k
Always eager, never feeble.
Lives to do it, will pursue it.
Never coward, will-powered.
Burning desire, unknowingly inspire.
Good under pressure,
The best, expect nothing lesser.
Extreme will and devotion,
Do not cause scene or commotion.
Attentively listen,
Very well disciplined.
Works until the job is done,
willing to risk his life for a son.
Never asks for applause,
works for a cause.
Pays a price for a result,
gives all without exult.
Qualified to protect, command respect.
Valiant and ready to save,
all in the name of the home of the brave.
Self motivation,
gives whatever it takes for the sake of a nation.
Dignified, noble and strong,
rush in when things go wrong.
Sacrifice so you can have your freedom,
Let him know that you need him.
Feb 10, 2013
Feb 10, 2013 at 2:11 AM UTC
*A statue of beauty
Slowly being unveiled
By the artist so proud of his work.
Only to see that
Its clay arms melted
Along with his dreams.*
Mar 31, 2015
Mar 31, 2015 at 2:12 AM UTC
O! How the winds cry!
O! How the earth weeps!
O! How the heavens pour forth their tears!
Thy face knows no blemish!
Thine eyes rich as diamonds
Your perfect attributes cause all others to pale in Comparison, like the tapestries of Arachne!
O! the Sun wishes to shine as you do!
No! 'Tis blasphemy to even but dream
Of placing oneself above so fair a maiden.
The fury of the Erinyes at those who dare
Is apparent to all.
O! The thought of not seeing
Your impeccable features once again
Is maddening!Heartwrenching!
But my gaze is like a stain
Upon thee. No love is felt
But pain is delt
Insanity comes upon me.
With little hope;much despair
For me, I beg, Send a prayer
I cannot; WILL not bear the agony
Of which is like the apostles upon the stormy sea
Whence Jesus remarked "Oh, ye of little faith."
I am such a man incapable of receiving
Thine divine compliments
Which I save myself from with doubt
And questioning;O! the torment!
I love thee, I try to show it
But I am unable to merit
Affection in return
Time and time again
I exult you my friend,
Yet how can you receive my words of praise
When your words I do but raze?
O! The neverending cycle which perpetuates
The need for love, which does not abate
How can I love you
When the thought of self-love is so new?
But I feel like to you I do belong
Chose me or deny; the point of my song.
Oh! How the crucible of love
Causes me pain in the heart
Self-love does not endure in part
Or in whole, but love for those dear
And love for those near
Is where true love starts.
Sep 26, 2010
Sep 26, 2010 at 7:48 AM UTC
Men and women for election,
Listen to the crowds,
Reflect desires to perfection,
Echo murmurs loud.
Elected, the voters exult
If their candidates win,
Curse under losing result...
Plot to get themselves in.
Either way, time isn't long,
Voters lose first love;
Officials begin to look wrong,
And politics gives 'em a shove.
We never quite see
We're electing ourselves;
Candidates riding on mirrors;
Shiny reflections scream while we yell
Our demands or feed on our fears.
Soon plans we've made turn to dust;
Politicos fail us;
The system breaks down;
The party clogs with inertia and rust,
Until the next campaign comes 'round.
Want to see what we'll get?
Take a look in the mirror...
What we see gives us reason
For fretting and fear.
True mirrors, our best politicians;
Can only reflect what they see...
If we kneel to offer petitions,
Ourselves will pay for our pleas.
Nov 26, 2014
Nov 26, 2014 at 8:41 AM UTC
On this day,
Twenty-eight years ago,
I realized that love is not divided...
Not halved between.
A father's love for his children...
Is a multiplication,
An expansion.
How do I explain?
Meanings of life change;
Additions and subtractions aside,
Love multiplies...matures:
Exult or suffer, it endures
Even the agony of division.
Mainly now, love suffers,
But always it endures.
Mar 25, 2012
Mar 25, 2012 at 8:30 AM UTC
1111
Some Wretched creature, savior take
Who would exult to die
And leave for thy sweet mercy’s sake
Another Hour to me
1.8k
*canst poor smile
amid world in bad-shod fit
writ's a-fire
pardon season's ire*
bring'st forth jollity and smiles aplenty
ne'er plaintive be of the sad woe of man
lift high-sky the bless'd, one and seventy
mind scant the fo'c's'tle head in deadpan
floweth into desires flowers of merriment
push upon life gladness; poem of joy-bright
exult all forms of joviality and rejoice on
cheery-heart to amuse and glide to skylight
be curs'd with melancholia; fry all the frowns
ring in goodly-humour and make-it-all-bright
drown dips of despair and banish the downs
expel the heartbroken-ideals; deport skint-lite
what befits the real-feel to true equal-match
face with beck-n-call smile belies wake-latch
(fake)
S T - 29 sept
Sep 29, 2013
Sep 29, 2013 at 2:56 AM UTC
Now all the truth is out,
Be secret and take defeat
From any brazen throat,
For how can you compete,
Being honor bred, with one
Who were it proved he lies
Were neither shamed in his own
Nor in his neighbors' eyes;
Bred to a harder thing
Than Triumph, turn away
And like a laughing string
Whereon mad fingers play
Amid a place of stone,
Be secret and exult,
Because of all things known
That is most difficult.
1.7k
There once was a TV network
That made me want to exult
But now I am sad and despondent
And it’s mostly Steven Moffat’s fault
I enthusiastically started Doctor Who
Who’s chronology is twisted and bizarre
It seemed like such fun to travel through time and space with a man
Who used a blue box as his car
But soon the companions’ aspirations
To travel to planets and stars
Were crushed by the Void, lost love, and gargoyles
And the Doctor is lonely and scarred.
Not yet wise, I began watching Sherlock
His deduction left me amazed and bamboozled
He and John drank some tea, and solved crimes with glee
Although each case took quite some perusal.
They lived happily with their cool flat decorum
Mrs. Hudson made biscuits below
Then along came the menacing, mean Moriarty
There was nothing that he didn’t know.
Because of the fallacy that Sherlock’s a fake
He’s dead and John’s in the doldrums
The only thing done to commemorate him
Are John’s “I do believe in Sherlock Holmes”
Hoping for a show that was boisterous and happy
Instead of the peaceful, yet sad
I turned to the medieval Merlin
who was quite a cheery lad
He worked for the king’s son, Arthur
who eclectically chose his knights
There were sirs Lancelot, Gwaine, and Leon
The bravest people in sight.
Merlin used his job as camouflage,
His secret he did not divulge
for if they all knew he was a powerful wizard
In his execution King Uther would indulge.
Since Merlin’s destiny was to keep the prince safe
He faced many scary things
He would cower in fear, but when Arthur was near
He felt brave enough to sing
Merlin’s feelings for Arthur were obvious
But does Arthur feel the same way?
When Arthur deigns to exchange dialogue with him
It instantly brightens his day.
But Lancelot died doing Merlin’s job
And Arthur is in love with Gwen
Morgana, a wizard who was once Merlin’s friend
Is evil and wants Camelot dead.
So the Doctor is lonely and growing old
Sherlock left John all alone
And Merlin feels guilty and outcast
They’ve lost all the good they’ve ever known.
And I am left crying and angry.
How could the writers do this to me?
But still, they’re the best shows I’ve ever watched
And I’ll always love the BBC.
May 19, 2013
May 19, 2013 at 11:36 PM UTC
Do not ***** over the flourishing flowers
of those who surround you.
Do not form conspiracies,
not even to target your saboteurs.
For it has always been immanent--their loss.
And when the day comes--their loss--
you will be left with nothing to exult over.
You will be filled with vengeance
against no one but yourself.
For memories of your deriding
will be the ones to remain,
and all else will be in decadence.
You will have no time for your musings,
you will acquire no self-respect.
The littlest of their littlest actions are bound to be missed--
their awkward laugh, their freckles, their drawn-out sighs--
as your own blooming flowers will disintegrate
into amber ashes of those lost souls
that will embed in your skull,
engulfing you in madness.
So do not ***** over the flourishing flowers
of those who surround you,
because even if their existence had ceased,
your self-worth will still not increase.
Apr 27, 2014
Apr 27, 2014 at 3:07 PM UTC
Another year!—another deadly blow!
Another mighty Empire overthrown!
And We are left, or shall be left, alone;
The last that dare to struggle with the Foe.
’Tis well! from this day forward we shall know
That in ourselves our safety must be sought;
That by our own right hands it must be wrought;
That we must stand unpropped, or be laid low.
O dastard whom such foretaste doth not cheer!
We shall exult, if they who rule the land
Be men who hold its many blessings dear,
Wise, upright, valiant; not a servile band,
Who are to judge of danger which they fear,
And honour which they do not understand.
1.4k
O Madiba! My Madiba! by Walt Whitman (changing the word Captain for Madiba)
1
O Madiba! my Madiba! your fearful trip is done;
The ship has weather'd every rack, the prize you sought is won;
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring:
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Madiba lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
2
O Madiba! my Madiba! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up-for you the flag is flung-for you the bugle trills;
For you bouquets and ribbon'd wreaths-for you the shores a-crowding;
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Madiba! dear father!
This arm beneath your head;
It is some dream that on the deck,
You've fallen cold and dead.
3
My Madiba does not answer, his lips are pale and still;
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;
The ship is anchor'd safe and sound, its voyage closed and done;
From fearful trip, the victor ship, comes in with object won;
Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells!
But I, with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Madiba lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
Hi all and hope you are all well, haven't posted anything for a while but today I felt that this poem by the great Walt Whitman could pay tribute to one of my life long heroes Madiba or Nelson Mandela.
I hope Walt Whitman wont mind me substituting Madiba for Captain but his beautiful Poem which he wrote after the Death of his great hero of Abraham Lincoln just fits the occasion at least I think so!. Hope you all like it.
Best wishes to all Tom.
Dec 6, 2013
Dec 6, 2013 at 9:07 AM UTC
The smallest coffins are the heaviest!
The smallest coffins are the heaviest!
No one wears stained clothes
No person likes stained walls
We make sure that they are cleaned
We make sure it is all stainless
But on a colourless Tuesday
Terrorists spilled red all over a school
They ransacked the classrooms
They set a teacher on fire
They shot aimlessly at tiny hearts and hands
They murdered their future
They banged bullets through budding brains
And all that was left were stains.
Terrorists stained crisply ironed uniforms
They spilled blood in corridors once filled with colourful paintings
They blemished the thoughts of little souls
They damaged the hearts of parents young and old.
Terrorists persist in staining their hands
They exult in staining their nation
They stain the meaning of Islam
They stain the words of Allah in the holy Quran
The redness of young blood will haunt them
These red pigments will soak them into hell
These blotches won’t be disregarded
These stains will sustain till eternity!
-Zainab Attari
Dec 18, 2014
Dec 18, 2014 at 10:43 AM UTC
Rain on me
In the cold clear Taranaki air,
waves of rain across the field, pelting down.
Saturating, pouring down my face, glasses fogged.
Every item of clothing on my body drenched and clinging.
The little red ride on mower spumes rooster tails of wet grass skyward
And I exult in the sheer brilliance of wetly getting this huge green swathe mown.
Marshalg
Laughing in the Taranaki rain
22 May 2011
May 22, 2011
May 22, 2011 at 1:55 PM UTC
*** TO EARTH THE MOTHER OF ALL (19 lines)
(ll. 1-16) I will sing of well-founded Earth, mother of all,
eldest of all beings. She feeds all creatures that are in the
world, all that go upon the goodly land, and all that are in the
paths of the seas, and all that fly: all these are fed of her
store. Through you, O queen, men are blessed in their children
and blessed in their harvests, and to you it belongs to give
means of life to mortal men and to take it away. Happy is the
man whom you delight to honour! He has all things abundantly:
his fruitful land is laden with corn, his pastures are covered
with cattle, and his house is filled with good things. Such men
rule orderly in their cities of fair women: great riches and
wealth follow them: their sons exult with ever-fresh delight, and
their daughters in flower-laden bands play and skip merrily over
the soft flowers of the field. Thus is it with those whom you
honour O holy goddess, bountiful spirit.
(ll. 17-19) Hail, Mother of the gods, wife of starry Heaven;
freely bestow upon me for this my song substance that cheers the
heart! And now I will remember you and another song also.
1.3k
Kalanchoë, finally you bloom!
Welcome little foreigner,
To the corner of my room.
With frangipani flame
And crocus-gold effulgent.
Strains past succulent skin
Joyous, ebullient!
Though your petals grow
Just to hold it in,
Fiery blood escapes
Past watery blocks of ester-swell
And you exult with me
In a wintry cell.
Aug 14, 2018
Aug 14, 2018 at 3:02 PM UTC
Even the pine trees and the cedars of Lebanon exult over you and say, "Now that you have been laid low, no woodsman comes to cut us down."
-Isaiah 14:8
the little bird tried to fly through the screen door and I
thought, if only there were more air out here.
if only the pines in their firm feet didn't wave your hands at me.
if only there were still water
in the creek.
they spent a week like this,
driving from port town to port town.
writing down the names of truck stops.
drawing sidewalks
with chalk.
we held hands and crossed into mexico with
tongues that flick across red lips.
we spent three weeks like this, trying to weep.
but the desert drank us up
and everything was thirsty
and everything was dry.
Dec 13, 2012
Dec 13, 2012 at 9:16 PM UTC
My ears are stopped with tapers, so I'll hear no more
of this ****** farce you and he have going.
Every time you ask for more
abuse, I realize I'm better off not knowing.
But my playlist is full of sadness,
and the rest is a bore.
So your screams are my melody
and I'll listen as your blood keeps on flowing.
They say fools rush in, and more the fool you.
More the fool me too, to listen to
your pained cries for more pain,
as your skin is red glowing,
The bruise slowly growing,
as you exult in the sick high you get from his backhand;
as I listen to Red Jumpsuit Apparatus ask him
if he feels like a man.
There's no pain more complete tonight
Than the ringing in my tear soaked budded ears
when he says **** my **** *****
with those lips so sweet... "and tight."
And you oblige, because you're too used to it to fear,
and it makes you feel beautiful,
because only angels weep, right?
That's the sad lesson heard here.
I bid my sad playlist goodnight.
Feb 26, 2015
Feb 26, 2015 at 11:55 PM UTC
So you have lost it.
Relax, relax -
we are only witnessing the passage of an era.
Relax, relax - it is only
something new.
How life, with something removed from it,
falls down on its own floor,
like a cupboard with a suitcase taken out.
Like the crowded feet and shins
of a demolition.
You are only
whatever fits in a cupboard on the Earth,
and the Earth has greater mass,
and boy,
it will hold you down.
Why, it goes on forever.
Relax - we are only witnessing gravity.
Well.
Life does not desist its tangling.
Two dogs fight for a warm corner
where sits - one
abandoned man with a handful of soot
Wood is ash minus fire.
That suitcase was empty, anyways.
Find something else to do with the space you saved.
Find something else to do with your hands.
So you lost it after all.
Fill your life with tennis, and poetry.
Shroud yourself with something like knowledge,
swaddle yourself with something like comfort,
and exult as you are waved ahead
to fatten your bag with the delirious new.
A skinny cat mounts a brick wall
to admire the scenery -
sprung up out of nothing
by new climbing.
Jan 22, 2012
Jan 22, 2012 at 5:49 PM UTC
Gorgons in the grasses by my window
Phantoms in the corridors of mind,
Elves and Angels flit amongst the fairies
But Godhead is the hardest thing to find.
Experiments with rationale confound me
Argument, well meaning, leaves me cold,
I've thrashed it out with he who has seen the Holy See
But futility has left me feeling old.
Millions feel the joy of their religion
Base their lives on regimental right,
Alone I meet the day and feel no need to pray,
And stride with independence to the night.
I read your words of beauty for your Maker
I felt the passion living on the page,
I cried for your belief and in so doing, felt relief
For the singer not the song, for me, engaged.
So there, my beauty, lies our living quandary
For you and I the chemistry's the same.
For you with God in hand inhabit my agnostic land
And simultaneously, we exult in falling rain.
Marshalg
To Christine and Anselm, with happiness in having found new friends.
The Pukehana Paradise
Auckland
12 March 2013
Mar 12, 2013
Mar 12, 2013 at 3:46 AM UTC
And I wake up, greedy to live:
The sun climbs higher, in morning’s sky,
While Buddha sits, in his gold-paint statue,
And household saints hide in early shadow,
And woodpeckers do old style tap-shoe.
Coffee smells are rampant now,
The squawk box is rife, with trivial banter;
A nice background sound to go on living to
And the air foams up, at window and door-
The unspoken things are breaking through
A new day's come now, bearing gifts
Unknown, they're already on their way;
Life grows exacting and random, the same,
And again I awaken, greedy to live
And exult in the freedom, to play this game..
Jul 5, 2010
Jul 5, 2010 at 8:14 AM UTC