"frailest" poems
Frail the white rose and frail are
Her hands that gave
Whose soul is sere and paler
Than time's wan wave.
Rosefrail and fair -- yet frailest
A wonder wild
In gentle eyes thou veilest,
My blueveined child.
5k
On drifting winds
fly fragile things
the memories gone by
the peaceful dreams of yesterday
on frailest wings they fly
A faded picture, in broken frame
before the blinded eyes
Ever different, never the same
a river that never dries
Memories that drift away
on oceans of nostalgia
the blissful present of yesterday
unappreciated
Simplicity and happiness
Ignorance and love
the confidence of childhood
no thoughts of beyond, above.
All have once missed
that of long ago
Seeking that which is lost
we search
although we know.
Sep 15, 2012
Sep 15, 2012 at 11:54 AM UTC
Into the furnace let me go alone;
Stay you without in terror of the heat.
I will go naked in--for thus ''tis sweet--
Into the weird depths of the hottest zone.
I will not quiver in the frailest bone,
You will not note a flicker of defeat;
My heart shall tremble not its fate to meet,
My mouth give utterance to any moan.
The yawning oven spits forth fiery spears;
Red aspish tongues shout wordlessly my name.
Desire destroys, consumes my mortal fears,
Transforming me into a shape of flame.
I will come out, back to your world of tears,
A stronger soul within a finer frame.
2.8k
When the lamp is shattered
The light in the dust lies dead—
When the cloud is scattered,
The rainbow’s glory is shed.
When the lute is broken,
Sweet tones are remembered not;
When the lips have spoken,
Loved accents are soon forgot.
As music and splendour
Survive not the lamp and the lute,
The heart’s echoes render
No song when the spirit is mute—
No song but sad dirges,
Like the wind through a ruined cell,
Or the mournful surges
That ring the dead seaman’s knell.
When hearts have once mingled,
Love first leaves the well-built nest;
The weak one is singled
To endure what it once possessed.
O Love! who bewailest
The frailty of all things here,
Why choose you the frailest
For your cradle, your home, and your bier?
Its passions will rock thee,
As the storms rock the ravens on high;
Bright reason will mock thee,
Like the sun from a wintry sky.
From thy nest every rafter
Will rot, and thine eagle home
Leave thee naked to laughter,
When leaves fall and cold winds come.
2.6k
CHEERFUL voices by the sea-side
Echoed through the summer air,
Happy children, fresh and rosy,
Sang and sported freely there,
Often turning friendly glances,
Where, neglectful of them all,
On his bed among the gray rocks,
Mused the pale child, little Paul.
For he never joined their pastimes,
Never danced upon the sand,
Only smiled upon them kindly,
Only waved his wasted hand.
Many a treasured gift they bore him,
Best beloved among them all.
Many a childish heart grieved sadly,
Thinking of poor little Paul.
But while Florence was beside him,
While her face above him bent,
While her dear voice sounded near him,
He was happy and content;
Watching ever the great billows,
Listening to their ceaseless fall,
For they brought a pleasant music
To the ear of little Paul.
'Sister Floy,' the pale child whispered,
'What is that the blue waves say?
What strange message are they bringing
From that shore so far away?
Who is dwelling in that country
Whence a low voice seems to call
Softly, through the dash of waters,
'Come away, my little Paul'?'
But sad Florence could not answer,
Though her dim eyes tenderly
Watched the wistful face, that ever
Gazed across the restless sea,
While the sunshine like a blessing
On his bright hair seemed to fall,
And the winds grew more caressing,
As they kissed frail little Paul.
Ere long, paler and more wasted,
On another bed he lay,
Where the city's din and discord
Echoed round him day by day;
While the voice that to his spirit
By the sea-side seemed to call,
Sounded with its tender music
Very near to little Paul.
As the deep tones of the ocean
Linger in the frailest shell,
So the lonely sea-side musings
In his memory seemed to dwell.
And he talked of golden waters
Rippling on his chamber wall,
While their melody in fancy
Cheered the heart of little Paul.
Clinging fast to faithful Florence,
Murmuring faintly night and day,
Of the swift and darksome river
Bearing him so far away,
Toward a shore whose blessed sunshine
Seemed most radiantly to fall
On a beautiful mild spirit,
Waiting there for little Paul.
So the tide of life ebbed slowly,
Till the last wave died away,
And nothing but the fragile wreck
On the sister's ***** lay.
And from out death's solemn waters,
Lifted high above them all,
In her arms the spirit mother
Bore the soul of little Paul.
2.5k
*Countless imaginations intrigued,
by words pouring truth and honesty.
The beauty in a picture painted...
Only tired yet wilful eyes will get to see...
Scars of a battle surfacing.
Like dreams clouded by storms.
Willingness to face another fight.
Only deafened yet persistent ears will listen for a new melody.*
***Strings of gambles played...
Blind faith committed into hapless
deals of cards.
Looking for the win amongst a sea of losses.
Only weary yet perservering hands will find the missing shards.***
*Obstacles portrayed,
as struggles form and hope seems to crumble.
An almost misplaced determination,
tattooed in these hands.
Only apprehensive yet courageous legs will continue to trudge forward.*
***The heaviest blows...
Inflicted on the frailest bodies.
Taking the brunt of such callous words.
Only the battered yet ernest mind will prevail sheer follies.
Deep laboured breaths...
Wheezing through seemingly punctured lungs.
Seeking a steady rhythm amidst internal chaos.
Only the worn yet steadfast heart will escape unscathed from bitter tongues.***
rinnette
ryn
May 10, 2016
May 10, 2016 at 11:48 AM UTC
There once was a town in the world.
In this little town, lived a girl.
She barely could write,
But sat up all night.
Carefully carving each word.
The poem she wrote was a dream.
A thought that had grown, it'd seem.
The frailest of strands;
Words woven by hands.
Like droplets of diamond
Downstream.
The morning sun shone on the stairs.
He sat there, his face holding tears.
Her father, and all
That little girl called
Her family, burdened with fears.
She sat down beside the poor man.
Put paper inside his strong hand.
She left him to read,
As if sowing a seed.
And so, the whole healing began.
Her words had a life of their own.
Of wisdom beyond any known.
They spoke of a place
That was floating in space,
Yet it's beings were far from alone.
*Why cry when there's laughter?
Why fight when there's dance?
Why hate when there's family,
Fun and romance?*
Her words were so simple, so clean.
Yet painted in colours unseen
Through verses and lines,
And symbols and signs...
To adults, elders, infants and teens.
It took not religion, it seems.
No army, no guns or machines.
To shape this old world
To the words of a girl
With paper, a pen... and a dream.
Aug 14, 2014
Aug 14, 2014 at 2:02 PM UTC
Spider, Spider, Spider
Spinner, Weaver, Guider
What is woven with extreme
Fragility
Frailest of all houses
Illusory and deceptive
Reality
You spin a miracle
A glowing spherical
Concealing the great plan of
Manifestation
Reminding us of God
Composing fabrics of the world
As creation
A cosmic inventor
Sun, Moon, Stars, Equator
Dancing in the maze you loom
Spiritual leader
Sound communicator
You can hear all nature playing
Light pulsating
Stargazing foreteller
Fate of future dweller
Divination is your key
Soul light conductor
Between two worlds of Human life
And Divine life
Your thread is like a chain
Umbilical cord train
Golden ladder to climb high
Brilliant footsteps slide
Joining Heaven and Earth
Reminding us of Cosmic Birth
We are all one
Deliverance and change
Prepare us to arrange
As our authenticity
In gift of power
We must learn how to use
Infinite possibilities
Engaging us
Mesmerizing magic
Bridges become tragic
If the earthquakes of our lives
Lose all respect for
The lessons of learning
Kismet is the fire burning
We must beware
Our fragile human state
May not find time to wait
As you dangle from your thread
Consideration
For the gifts that we have
Keep us from mirroring your swing
God bless our lives
The infinite is now
Your presence showing how
To be aware that each step
May be occurring
In a dangerous way
Looking into your net I see
Eternity
My fingers are your legs
To you I make a pledge
My eternal plan engaging
Soul self vibrating
Embrace the Universe
Know life is not a curse
Weaving the version of myself
At best will be
Spider, Spider, Spider
Spider, Spider, Spider
Spinner, Weaver, Guider
What is woven with extreme
Fragility
Weave a prayer upon your web
For us to see
© tHE tERRY tREE
Aug 12, 2014
Aug 12, 2014 at 11:43 PM UTC
He wished her ill the sweet Frenchman
As he descended the stair in fury
Leaving the rose embroidery of the carpet to
Extend its thorny clutch to ravage
The ruching of her dress
Later how it would unravel strand by strand along with her to the floor
The frailest of ladies that the Frenchman had adored
“How dare you refute me that which is not yours?”
He implored in anger as he locked her two front doors
Aug 13, 2011
Aug 13, 2011 at 2:29 AM UTC
I wish I were a rose
because you love those barbed thorns
Or perhaps I wish I were a carnation
so you could dye me whichever shade you please
But I'm just the frailest flower
that you've let dry out
and pressed in your catacomb
of beautiful things you've murdered.
I hope you find a docile rose
that understands your gangling roots
Mar 3, 2012
Mar 3, 2012 at 12:17 PM UTC
Creation is beautiful;
To see something being created is beautiful.
Seeing an idea take flight.
When a poet grabs a pen, and speaks in words of ink
and lets her mind open and flow in a rhythm of expression
She detaches a section of her soul
and lays it on a piece of parchment
with the hopes that somebody else can pick it up
and attach it with their souls, instead.
When a songwriter forms lyrics to let an audience ingest the world through his eyes
and he pairs up with a musician, tapping away keys at the piano
that would send chills down the spine of the most heartless human,,
and the two form stories of sound and lyrics
that ripple through crowds like the detonation
over the sky of Hiroshima.
When the lonely author writes his sad stories,
Filled with the triumphs he wishes he owned,
he feels the need to fill the paper with more,
because he is in love with creating.
He wants to do more. He wants to be more.
He always feels his actions will never fill the space it should,
and a vacuum will encompass all of his papers,
and even his heart,
so he can never fill either of them as desperately as he wants
but he creates with the hope that somebody can relate.
Even when a boy and a girl hold hands,
or when they hold each other, together, in attraction
with the pains of the world numbed by the drug of the heart,
crossing their fingers that they will always get a refill of their prescriptions,
And their silence says more than any words could.
One smiles, and the second can't resist,
and the creation here is love,
the best,
and frailest,
creation of all.
As for me: I see creation as a challenge as well.
To push yourself to be something else and make something else.
To inspire, to encourage,
to be beautiful, even if nobody is facing you.
To know that when you die, death won't take you entirely,
with the words on paper,
paintings on the wall,
or kisses that you gave,
you will continue to exist. You can never fully die.
Creation is the key to immortality,
but creation isn't about living forever,
it's about allowing others to see who you really are,
and who they can be.
Creation is telling stories and lessons to others,
Creation is sharing,
Creation is helping.
Creation is beautiful.
Jul 28, 2011
Jul 28, 2011 at 8:42 PM UTC
Elsewhere it was heard and then lingered
if not felt the disappearance of:
for this to happen, involve yourself.
it is the natural order of things not even their truest selves
but when unseen, becomes.
who has come up the vertical but has
fallen, who has curved into the meeting
and has gone wilding.
today you were surprised by
the nothing as today
if then yesterday was once a hand clenched
on your chest, or touching your face
a warmth the frailest issue,
or once the shape of the morning
we assume freely.
Jun 13, 2016
Jun 13, 2016 at 9:35 AM UTC
Faces in the crowd
among which I am one
each heart silently bears its joys and sorrows
the business of living is never done
as we have to wake up everyday
with the never-failing rising sun
(even the weakest, frailest and most sickly)
though the day's prospects are grim and life isn't fun.
Holding on, clinging on
dangling in the limbo
of survival and existence
what the future holds none really does know.
Faces in the crowd
passing and fading images--I know no one-
yet I feel their pulses as I, mine--- murmurs
of existential* angst---until life's sad drama is done.
Jan 12, 2016
Jan 12, 2016 at 4:21 AM UTC
They say no love is perfect.
How could anything be imperfect
When love is pulling even the frailest of
Strings attached?
Whether that be a lifeline, a noose, or the
Electrical cord to its own
Respirator, its final word would be
A smiled whisper of either
Hope or rememberance.
Gratitude is grace.
Even diamonds decompose.
Breath gives meaning to air.
Jun 27, 2015
Jun 27, 2015 at 6:27 PM UTC
America is fuckin'
a bit its lips
are
America is
its tongue
the slippery
and sublime
it
so deeply feels
its throat
tight to fill pretty
her eyes
rolling wonderful
the whites
roundishly
enervated pink
with
a bit of sharp
a bit
of
glass
smoke and
pipes
her lipsfull
the meat
of ****
and
when you
push between their parting
emits
the frailest squeak
but
*** er
the she
wants to
please *** er
the fucc
er lips
the cooly mess
er cheeks
damson stained
and puckering to
kisss
Jul 16, 2013
Jul 16, 2013 at 4:27 PM UTC
WHAT AM I?
What am I?
No more than a moment of time
Suspended between the now and the future-
With the past clinging to my back
To which I could never return.
What am I?
The tiniest and frailest of leaves
On the slender bough of life
Soon to be blown away by a sudden storm-
Buried among fallen petals and flowers.
What am I?
An unknown and unheard voice
In a faraway corner of nature I have chosen
Surrounded by quiet meadows and smiling flowers
Where the incessant sound of song-birds
Hushes my small voice and consoles my heart.
What am I?
A single note on the score
Of a grand symphony-
A speck, a comma in the limitless expanse
Of time and destiny.
What am I?
Only this my heart truly knows-
It is in the dying of myself unto love
That transcends all-
To be eternal in that blissful state
Untouched neither by time nor human sorrows.
Aug 29, 2015
Aug 29, 2015 at 8:51 PM UTC
Forgive me my sins
Little bird
For i have loved and disobeyed
The long wind howls
As the old man scowls
At the tear stained land
The ancient sand will overtake this world
And I now have it in my hold
For this is what the beggar foretold
I have been caught in my deeds
And the seeds of hate and angst spreads
Your life is now hanging on the frailest of threads
So forgive me my sins
Little bird
Have you ever heard of an ending so sweet
With love by your side as you become obsolete .
Oct 25, 2014
Oct 25, 2014 at 8:50 PM UTC
A young prince was born, in a liter of many puppies
He was a triplet of two sisters, but he was a different out of all the babies
The omega was his place, no one ever expected any bravery to be gained
He was afraid even of the smallest frailest creature. Fear was around his neck like a chain
One of his closest triplet, Princess had gone away, for she was a warrior now, strong and proud
While her brother remained on the sidelines, behind the cheering crowds
The one that never left his side was the second sister, who was an Angel of Fire
A Fighter of beauty and demand. She was the alpha, and she flaunted her desires.
Terrified he was towards the world that seems gigantic and impossible to understand.
His Angel sister was his guardian, she helped him to conquer the land
His hunger grew wild, his desires flew fast.
He became the strongest one, the bravest pup of the pack
His soul was loyal to his family around him,
He always gave kisses, his love was never trimmed
Until one day, He went out for the first time alone,
He saw the gate opened that led to an empty road!
His burst of joy took over as his father barked in fear and warning
He stopped and turned around, but suddenly, he felt his paws shaking.
His big black marble eyes looked up, there was no mercy as the car crashed against his skull
His uncle, mother, sister, and father rushed to him, watching his dying body fall
His tail wagged in discomfort as he gave a final kiss
Knowing that his time has finally ended, everyone around him was his bliss.
His whimpering cries slowly came to an end
This was the end of a Prince. The Prince, my old loyal friend.
Sep 26, 2017
Sep 26, 2017 at 6:30 AM UTC
Your soul not worth its weight in gold
Your lust devalues love within
Your pulse is thawing asset slush
Your greed decays my crawling skin
Your pools of excess no one needs
Your reigns of power crash on stock
Your floods of wealth they trickle down
Your drowning debt's my doomsday clock
Your mass consumption starves our dreams
Your trade deals drain our wishing well
Your tax breaks crush our frailest hopes
Your free market's my prison sell
Your loans are predatory sharks
Your health plan is a ponzi scheme
Your advertisements bleed me dry
Your credit card's my guillotine
Your profit's my minimum cage
Your cost of life insures my death
Your wage, my concentration camp
Your price tag's on my final breath
Oct 30, 2016
Oct 30, 2016 at 2:09 AM UTC
And then it was your necessary contradiction:
note your taxidermied narrative pale everything against,
not from – from the hip of your stature,
drawn to. You will happen – the quick hands
and the quicker gestures the frailest meaning
exposed to warmth that was your becoming, now effloresce
and gain an optimum: your day you say it was
in front of a sweating bottle, fondling your clothes
| clawing it inside, complaining of your salt.
Here too are spaces for things you rule over
the precision of a film shot from the horizon
by which I mean you persist |
May 31, 2016
May 31, 2016 at 1:13 AM UTC
Rain)you enter me by the concise brutal slenderness
of your waist
you wet are thousands and mutely cringing on
my neck some
and scalp some
reeling into sleepier darkness
lark perched suddenly between
emits the frailest wings
and treads you into(nothing
Jan 29, 2013
Jan 29, 2013 at 9:56 PM UTC
You See What I Let You See…by Jessie 1/05
What do u see when you look upon me…Do you see a rock in front of thee?
You see what I let you see …you know what I let you know.
I am not the rock you think me so, nor am I the hunter’s mighty bow.
The strength I have, you think you see is nothing more than fantasy.
There are days I can conquer the world and days I can’t face it.
I am a tragedy within a comedy, laughing to conceal the pain.
Lean on me and I will hold until the weight crushes us both
Ask and I shall give until I have given more than I had.
Put me on high and disappointment will inevitably be near by.
Outwardly I am as still as air in the eye of the storm, while inside
I shake uncontrollably.
I can calm and steady the frailest of souls for I have the trust of all, yet none in myself.
I am the one that people depend on and I am weary of the burden it brings.
Like a raging fire I can consume all in my path…yet wet me and I am merely steam, dissipating within the air.
You see what you want to see…
Examine the rock, for it has faults and will one day crumble.
What do you see when you look upon me?
You see what I let you see.
Feb 12, 2018
Feb 12, 2018 at 11:01 AM UTC
we are each to ourselves, selected amongst the few –
yet you cannot help but
be mortal.
you, mortised to sleep.
I sick behind white walls that will never
bring your laughter
back to that small frame in front of picture windows.
I look at the world around me
reduced to a grey-faced elbow room,
as the flickering lamp lays out
all the sorrows we forget in our sleep.
who are you?
I pucker up and pull this bottle
snuggled in my clenched fist
and I cannot help but think of any other
thighed upon the cold brink of this bed,
I cannot unthank the existence of flowers
that refuse to bloom in the Sun,
all the more the birds so clearly far better fate
than this enigmatical.
we are each to ourselves and selected amongst the few –
I am the same bar-drunk soul
you met years ago, and will perhaps be
that in all the hours that lay before your callow eyes.
when it is time to draw
the knife,
blinded by the glint of your bones,
wired to the same mind that has once
had me tippling over furniture.
you are this very distant portrait in the
mausoleum that I told many people about,
wanting to go there but my feet can’t – there is a slender
thread eyeing in itself a margin between
the two of us.
and now you turn in your great wave of motion,
next to me, pressed against the sheets
far from being tossed out of sleep.
and along with you, the wind drags a cold, lunar tail:
they are marvelous in their slowness,
and the dark grows more immense than the probability
of you sinking and I, emerging,
turning, turning,
breathing,
so much the turning
and never staying still – there is inimitable life
in this dreariness,
half an elbow,
knees pared to moons,
collarbones and all that music
hung on some frail home,
sovereign of nose
and that whiteness to a paling mood,
almost at the verge of leaving
but cannot because there is conscience tossed out of sight
like a living work of guillotine
immortalized in this sleeplessness that begs
for more waking hours,
continuing in darkness, your eyes close and close and
close like the many doors
that have disappeared
before me,
and the frailest thing that
we have
almost, if not always
loved.
Dec 18, 2015
Dec 18, 2015 at 6:46 AM UTC