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"Sweet, thou art pale."
      "More pale to see,
Christ hung upon the cruel tree
And bore His Father's wrath for me."

"Sweet, thou art sad."
      "Beneath a rod
More heavy, Christ for my sake trod
The winepress of the wrath of God."

"Sweet, thou art weary."
      "Not so Christ:
Whose mighty love of me suffic'd
For Strength, Salvation, Eucharist."

"Sweet, thou art footsore."
      "If I bleed,
His feet have bled; yea in my need
His Heart once bled for mine indeed."
My sun has set, I dwell
In darkness as a dead man out of sight;
And none remains, not one, that I should tell
To him mine evil plight
This bitter night.
I will make fast my door
That hollow friends may trouble me no more.

"Friend, open to Me."--Who is this that calls?
Nay, I am deaf as are my walls:
Cease crying, for I will not hear
Thy cry of hope or fear.
Others were dear,
Others forsook me: what art thou indeed
That I should heed
Thy lamentable need?
Hungry should feed,
Or stranger lodge thee here?

"Friend, My Feet bleed.
Open thy door to Me and comfort Me."
I will not open, trouble me no more.
Go on thy way footsore,
I will not rise and open unto thee.

"Then is it nothing to thee? Open, see
Who stands to plead with thee.
Open, lest I should pass thee by, and thou
One day entreat My Face
And howl for grace,
And I be deaf as thou art now.
Open to Me."

Then I cried out upon him: Cease,
Leave me in peace:
Fear not that I should crave
Aught thou mayst have.
Leave me in peace, yea trouble me no more,
Lest I arise and chase thee from my door.
What, shall I not be let
Alone, that thou dost vex me yet?

But all night long that voice spake urgently:
"Open to Me."
Still harping in mine ears:
"Rise, let Me in."
Pleading with tears:
"Open to Me that I may come to thee."
While the dew dropped, while the dark hours were cold:
"My Feet bleed, see My Face,
See My Hands bleed that bring thee grace,
My Heart doth bleed for thee,
Open to Me."

So till the break of day:
Then died away
That voice, in silence as of sorrow;
Then footsteps echoing like a sigh
Passed me by,
Lingering footsteps slow to pass.
On the morrow
I saw upon the grass
Each footprint marked in blood, and on my door
The mark of blood forevermore.
st64 Jan 2014
standing on the threshold of change, I await a fresh-line
but the universe may be unready
if not, I may take to choppy-waters
all by myself


1.
if we are all stuck in the jam of time
perhaps, if we *spread it out
real thin
some of us could actually lift off
and catch a ride.. out
free some hostage from the twisting temporal-joints

and the wool-gatherers mind their business
and footsore beggars dine on exotic-things
deep in the heart of the jungle
where Nebuchadnezzar parked his dreams of old

by saving your surprise for a weekday jaunt
we limp on in the vacant-dust of paradox
yet get unavoidably detained by the present
undo the ribbons and the package may unfold its.. things
espy the tick-tock riding the margin of fright

common sense of morn lies delightfully unfinished
and the wrong side of a bold idea gets squashed
the brain-weary ingest their lot and plough on through thickets of tricky-fate
while tiptoeing silent on the farthest-blades of brimstone
holding subtly aloft.. the frankness of aiding-spectres


2.
balloon of green, balloon of blue
hold out your hand and pray you get no inequalities of flame
easy catch of the sound of science scoffing in the parlour

when we try to do something different; take a chance
uncivilised-humour will argue the rings off your punctured-lobes
any germ of new plan must needs be nurtured
let any frenemy go; intolerant-ilk do better by their vacuous selves
remarkably convenient
there's almost enough water in the well
to soak up the ivory-rays and let them fly
and there's a breeze lifting the needle off the ancient-groove
spinning reels on the bay


no, you will never convince me
that the time-keeper holds all keys
'cos I snuck out furtive.. late one night
and sawed through.. for a whole decade
and well, guess what I have here..



:)




S T - 24 Jan 2014
if you spromed, then I sprocketed
whiling away telubrious fallies
upon the jousters of Dorbeyville
canta-laughter and rent-a-carter

why.. hello, future..
see here, I light my smoke uncut
and dare to peer into you :)






sub-entry: footprints

whether the bells toll in odd-clang
wait for the crash of the cymbal
diffident-dreamer makes moves so small
no attention-seeking

when the waters run silent
beneath the rocks cavernous
and upon sandy shores

there, some footprints
of some erstwhile-reverie
a dream late last night
I felt you walk beside me

look again.. our footprints
and a plain-line
where you towed away my heart

open your hand, my friend
your life-line just grew some more
and what's that under your nails?
fine-grains of white mirage-sand

there's this key in the locks of time's braids
time to undo the plaits
"Sweet, thou art pale."
"More pale to see,
Christ hung upon the cruel tree
And bore His Father's wrath for me."

"Sweet, thou art sad."
"Beneath a rod
More heavy, Christ for my sake trod
The winepress of the wrath of God."

"Sweet, thou art weary."
"Not so Christ:
Whose mighty love of me suffic'd
For Strength, Salvation, Eucharist."

"Sweet, thou art footsore."
"If I bleed,
His feet have bled; yea in my need
His Heart once bled for mine indeed."
"Sweet, thou art young."
"So He was young
Who for my sake in silence hung
Upon the Cross with Passion wrung."

"Look, thou art fair."
"He was more fair
Than men, Who deign'd for me to wear
A visage marr'd beyond compare."

"And thou hast riches."
"Daily bread:
All else is His: Who, living, dead,
For me lack'd where to lay His Head."

"And life is sweet."
"It was not so
To Him, Whose Cup did overflow
With mine unutterable woe."
"Thou drinkest deep."
"When Christ would sup.
He drain'd the dregs from out my cup:
So how should I be lifted up?"

"Thou shalt win Glory."
"In the skies,
Lord Jesus, cover up mine eyes
Lest they should look on vanities."

"Thou shalt have Knowledge."
"Helpless dust!
In . Thee, O Lord, I put my trust:
Answer Thou for me, Wise and Just."

"And Might."--
"Get thee behind me. Lord,
Who hast redeem'd and not abhorr'd
My soul, oh keep it by Thy Word."
Ksjpari Aug 2017
My Principal is forever ready to explore
New things from students who implore
And set a new goal for them to outscore
In their own life. He is ready to restore
Intellect and discipline in school therefore
Stands out and administers students’ footsore.
Cherian sir the one who is fighting war
Against anxiety and worry on door,
Which pester children and occasionally gore
Their morale and self-esteem. They spoor
Away from study which he sojourns before
They reach to larger extent and be cocksure.
Never he criticizes without any reason poor,
As he is a positive thinker. All of us roar
Which is pacified by him but for sure.
He is the man of principles and decor
Whose blessings on all of us ever pour.
I am developing a new style of writing poetry where ending words of a line rhyme with one another, at least in last sound. I named it Pari Style. Hope readers will like it. Thanks to those invisible hands and fingers which supported and inspired me to continue my efforts in my new, creative, artistic and innovative “Pari” style. Thanks for your inspiring, kind, soft fingers.
Christian Bixler Mar 2015
A man was broken, his heart was sore.
Leaving, he said with backward glance,
to family dear and loathed alike, pain
is good and love is better, both are teachers,
love of life, the finite stretch, the final breath,
spring and winter. But in excess, both are bad,
to drown a soul and leave it dead, one has only
to take in excess. And so I leave you now, gone
am I forevermore.

And he left.

Weary, footsore, he walked the road, and searching
sought for greater meaning, to a life turned suddenly
devoid of reason. He'd thought of epics, of heroes brave,
who'd left their safe and painful lives behind, and gone to
seek a greater quest, leaving at their souls behest, else death
and languor were soon to follow, and the wasted sorrow of
an empty soul. Walking. Alone. Wind like the gentle heartbreaking
breath of solitude and silence forced sighs gently through his
windswept hair, and so dries his skin, in anticipation of the
final sleep, to which all things must go, their time or no, on
this plane of infinite mortality, life and death locked in endless
cycle, revolving again and again. Life and death, Summer and Spring,
Fall and Winter.

Night had fallen. The legion of infinite stars sparkled in the empty night,
and laughed at him, distantly, far away spectators of petty life, they who
observe only, older than the gods whom man has created. It was the time of
Autumn, and so the trees fall backwards down into slumber, deathlike in their
tranquility, while their leaves fall one by one, swept by the wind and smoothing
rain, to scatter about the sleeping world, and crunch as their fragile veins, bones
of the one, of the all, unique and yet not, are sent into the wind, dust in the current,
as the man walks over the cold face of the dying world, the wonders of spent life
alone heralding the earths rebirth, that flurry of life and light and power. But
then, on that place, in that time under the stars, all was still.

Illuminated by the fragile moonlight, deceptive in its enchanting glow, the man,
who had walked the world, saw towering in the distance, black as the void behind
the night, the towering spires of an empty house, abandoned long, left by its unfaithul
masters to rot under the care of the rain and the sun and the ever blowing wind.
The man stumbled across an empty field, littered with jagged chunks of fallen stone,
the shattered bones of that empty place. The man built a fire from the fallen timber littered
there, and so drove back the night. For awhile. For when he closed his eyes to sleep, and laid him down his weary head, so returned the dark and fearful night, and left his mind painted red with blood, black with rage, grey with sorrow. Snow was coming. The man closed his eyes, and waited. Perhaps the shrieking wind would topple that ancient house, straining its
rusted nails, stretching its boards far past all endurance, and the house would fall. The world would fall, and send him screaming into the darkness from whence his nightmares came, to fall there, and become twisted in the darkness, until at last he too would become
one with the darkness, and rise to torment other souls, to guide them down to the darkness,
for forever and for eternity.

The sun rose high, and in that grey and cloudy sky, worked to lift the dying melancholy
from the world, a little. The man woke and, startled, he heard the songs of birds as they
too, rose with the early dawn, and sang their morning hymns to the rising sun. The man
walked out of that charred and ruined place as if in a dream, and so came to stand in the middle of that field littered with the broken stones of that place. Looking, he saw the dew glittering in the rosy light of dawn on the bare limbs of the naked trees, stark in their unclothed beauty. He beheld the yellowed grass, changing from their bone like hue, to a soft and golden color, as to wheat waving in the summer fields, in the bygone days of life and youth. He felt, light, as to the seeds of the dandelions floating on the breeze in the sweet months of spring, light as if he were the light, and so thinking he looked down and perceived
the golden grass, and closed his eyes. And yet! Glory of light, of heaven, of all glorys, he saw the grass, saw it brighten to shining brilliance as the world took on its true shape to him, he, blessed with the power of sight and light and peace at last, respite and tranquility from the seething dark. But no. He was rising, falling up, up into the empty nothingness of the blue and hollow sky. He tried to will himself down, tried to fall there, but he was nothing, a shadow made of light, and the light was taking him, taking him, merging with him, transforming him into the light worshipped and revered by all those who lived in peace and feared the darkness. And yet he was afraid. And as he passed into the light to suffuse the earth with his young and glowing light, his last thought before the end, was that it wasn't so bad, not really, at the end of things, at the end of him, to illuminate the world in light and nothingness.
It wasn't so bad he thought, as he passed, to be a star.
This took me three days to write. Writers block. I hope you enjoy.
Erin Suurkoivu Jan 2020
It isn’t as if
I must put on
the Queen’s English
to be around you.

It isn’t as though
I should feel
the need to rebel, or
that my solitude

is a luxury
instead of a right.
Rather, these are
the whale-bone songs

of a well-worn battalion,
poised as I am
at every solstice,
footsore at the door.

This is simply
the ebb and flow
of ambrosia
that sets the pendulum

to swing
in different arcs
of fool’s gold,
the soft footings

at the edge of my radar.
This is the culture shock
of living dead girls
undergoing a seismic shift

in the round
mother-of-pearl
mountain ash,
insinuating

themselves
in a sea of voices,
while shadows cast
a romantic screen.

For every one that succeeds,
millions of others fail.
So tell me
how it should be,

that I could live
on my knees
and weep honey tears
as my dreams escape me.

Because this is
a death of sorts.
The phoenix rises,
only to burn again.

Poverty
is a personal Shanghai,
and just as vast.
I want to believe

that wealth can be
weathered beauty,
Elizabethan colouring,
and a pirate smile.

You get my most
gorgeous parts,
although
my flaws,

innumerable,
hidden
in blind spots,
hidden in ivory,

are discovered
again and again,
as I live between what was
and what will be.
Martin Lethe Apr 2016
For A. F-H., whose smile is our beacon.


I

Long I wandered wild in lonesome lands
Footsore and weary through barren plain
And rock-peppered hillside, though be it in vain
Seeking a country where a person might thrive
I staggered and scrabbled, half-dead, half-alive
Digging sour meals from desolate sands.

In darkness I trudged as through a great maze
In endless dim hollows I scooped and I strayed
Thinking myself master of all I surveyed
Not knowing the name of the lands that I crossed
But knowing the freedom of those who are lost
Until two bright ****** appeared through the haze:

The stars!--I’d never known them before!
Or thought I had, but these were spectral and wild
And flickered and danced like the hands of a child
Had I known only cold white pebbles in space?
But these were of substance and held in embrace
A promise of peace upon some distant shore.

My wandering complete, my journey begun
I set my shoulders and plotted my course
I travelled with purpose now, seeking the source
Until I met another wanderer who--
Come now!--You see them?--Will you follow them too?
And we went on together, as one.

The stars, ephemeral, shifting color and hue
Lured us on like some mystic queen’s diadem
We puzzled at great length on the nature of them
Were they set to guide us?  Or tear us asunder?
They calmed us, inspired us, and--wonder of wonder--
We met other travellers, who followed them too.

They must hold in their beauty some grim destiny!
A dozen, a score of us beat out a path
Through grasslands and forests, a widening swath
Teeming with hope, on a night cool and still
We gathered our strength, crested one final Hill--
And looked down on a town called Century.

Ah, Century!  That was the name, and mark it well!
There was no fanfare; we were not expected.
But we were greeted warmly, and accepted
With quiet grace we were handed mugs of beer,
Given seats by the fire as if we always were here.
And perhaps we were: I cannot tell.


II

I had my ease there, and fell to talking
With a quiet and ancient man, who listened, rapt,
As I told of our exodus, and then clapped
With joy as I mentioned the stars when they came.
He bristled with pride, as though hearing the name
Of an old dear friend, finally come knocking.

I (with a penchant for telling, of course,
And seeing his bright face elated to hear it)
Described how the stars cried out to my spirit,
How they swooped and they soared as if in a pageant
And glittered with every color imagined,
Sweeping my future along with their force.

He greeted my discourse with little surprise.
He chuckled and rocked on his small wooden throne
And bested my story with one of his own.
“My vision is gone,” he said, “Those stars are no more,
Though I’ve seen what you speak of, one time before--
Not in stars, but a shepherd-woman’s eyes.

“Before there was a town here, there was naught
But a rustling river that gabbled and hissed
And a tribe of lost creatures, spied through the mist
Scattered by champions and kings long forgotten,
Trod on, passionless, wispy as cotton;
To scratch out meager living was their only thought.

“This the shepherdess found when first she arrived.
Others found them pathetic, worth a glance, if that much,
But her heart was a lion’s, and she saw them as such.
Her banner flew proudly, it snapped and it played
As she rode through the valley to begin her crusade;
The people knew darkness, had merely survived--

“But her light came to them to fill them with vigor.
She shone like a beacon, she growled and roared
And the lost souls came unto her as a horde
A lantern, she fed them her fierceness and love:
A lighthouse below, and two stars up above.
Dim history’s vast, but her glow proved the bigger.

“They came to honor her--
we* came, I should say,
She taught us to teach ourselves, taught us to build.
Taught us to love ‘til our heart’s overfilled.
We built her a statue to never forget
And shine a bright lantern from each parapet
And we carry her legend to this very day:

“Ambition we have to be more than we were,
And know that we each have a light of our own;
When grim fate insults and the road’s overgrown,
The sun shines down here and heals every hurt twice
Where she led us and let us build our paradise,
And we call ourselves Century, after her.”


Epilogue

Now nestle I here where all roads end.
The old man hyperbolizes, of course--as do I,
But lead us by example she did, by and by,
And her light shines as long as memory will allow,
We treasure her beacon as much then, as now,
And she has been, and always will be, my friend.
Yours truly, (i.e. I) quickly
became hypnagogic afore
subsequently segueing soundly
into autohypnosis booklore,
while binge reading courtesy

regarding aptitude chore
treasure trove books galore
five dollars as many
paginated fictitious stories ('bout deplore
hubble basket cases) fit into authorized bag
infernal challenge sifting evermore

alum skid more or less
bending and reaching skyhigh
toe tilly (*******
what the heel) footsore
compromising writing, rather heretofore
indulging insatiable knowledge

(surpassing narcotic fix),
the world wide web hide ignore
engrossed various and sundry
enchanting, kickstarting, and revelling - bonjour
dear reader buzzfeeding...

Till chief hankering
(regarding appeasing passionate
word loving aficionado,
albeit temporarily ceased
(think intellectual fancy feast)

getting imagination (mine) linkedin
outspeeding lightning greased
experiencing cerebral capacity increased
virtual make believe
terra incognita leased.

insatiable jabberwocky yen
countless hours elapsed when
inconvenient wont head sleep
wracked courtesy (bowling) ten

pins nabbed mettlesome ambulation
often found me - hen (pecked) hex pen
sieve dishabille scattered brained brute
somnambulant analogous awake burning ken
kindled smoldering cognitive tinder even...

Chilly cooling off, where
temporal lobed hiatus taken
beefing portfolio in effort to scare
back poetic proclivity despite near
severe withdrawal symptoms
reacquainting novelty here
with effort to jog capacity
to craft poem quite aware...

Unsuspecting readers breathed
sigh of relief interim joker I went absent
posting trademark gobbledygook,
now unnamed fool rushes in,
where angels fear to tread - nay cent

return of native son unequivocally, pinterestingly
digitally... afore written dive versification
brandishing said as unsung literary event
psalm time sacrilegious Jew bull gent
bringing entertainment intent
to thee anonymous

analogously, humorously, and parenthetically
lamely affecting (i.e. poorly emulating)
Shakespearean belles lettres,
perhaps coronavirus pathogen
t'will cut me down, whereby

microbial size Clark Kent,
whoops twas Lois Lane I meant
to empower one meek and obedient
primate even during
but, and, or conjunctive
rutting season quiescent.
Mateuš Conrad Feb 2020
the two seem paired -
the joy of: a whisker of brandy
into a cider: like a comet falls -
tail teasing the lip until
the final kosher glug of
the slit / turned neck of a bottle -

give me a cider and some ***...
i'll put on some music and
gladly iron -
imagining: this is really necessary:
as is drowning on a sinking ship!

brandy for the roses and
mild embarrassment -
no better place than england
to listen to german folk songs...

couple this with...
the already mentioned brandy...
the cider...
but there's a mild sudoku puzzle...
no. 11,298...
and the song to solve it with...
minnesang - neidhart:
meine din liechter schin...

like watching raindrops -
or something from the quantum
cinema - numbers just "magically" appear
in the missing blanks...
a 9 here... a 9 over there -
a 1 a 5 a 6... oh look!
like keeping a locket of spring
in this harrowing this most
demanding season of the year -

what of summer? am i waiting
for a harem to travel to?
no... curses these joys of pedantry -
and mild logic explorer's demands...
because i frankl find anything
new i write to be of:
any concern - even if mine was
to be included -

even poetryfoundation.org
hits a solid gold -
but most of the time:
it's just... a BA or an MA in english
literature that needs to be waved
before the digital "press"
fiddles with the writing...

one can expect to be exhausted from
complimenting focus avenues
of any further conversation -
no new word will this already
bankrupt lexicon unfold a carpet
of burgundy for:
otherwise it's still teaching
the old dog a new trick -

else: pragmatic love - versus transcendent
love -
poor romance - who would ever
want to return to idealism -
mein gott... i was an idealist when
it came to "love"...
lost baggage... a forgotten umbrella -
a footsore - a cotton mouth...
i will never revisit romantic love -
no ideal love: here or there -
from me or from her -
no middle-ground no no man's land...

thank god i am not a desired
catch in the realm of pragmatic love...
thank god that i await leaving this
world as a pauper:
at least the pauper considering
that i would call those rich to be
those who have invested in a lineage!

it's therefore most refreshing to think
that i have a practical love that
is practical because it doesn't have to love,
it doesn't have to idealise -
it has a memory - though...
that's its only downfall...
and when it was coupled with ***...
but how lucky i am to not feed
jealousy to not feed boredom from
a monogamy...
how i can "love" a passerby -
how i can "love" a stranger...
and have the most spectacular informal-formality...

but... as ever... these are the required
words to an otherwise...
apathetic time a-passing hunched...
akin to last night -
a crow flew over my house in the dead
of night and croaked -
which is: a rare event if you stay up
for most of the nights of the year -

then couple that with:
oh the joy of taking a **** not having to think
about the homosexual ecstasy...
and the *******... when standing and a tail
that once was...
perhaps... but it's the simple joy...
a woman should know the effects
of ******* and water...
when she... the shower...
well... i can't imagine any circumcised man
to know, even remotely,
the pleasure derived from... taking a ****...
literally...

once more: it's the lesser known pleasure...
or perhaps the major pleasure -
whatever it is...
it can be most gratifying as solo from
beginning to end.

— The End —