"freshening" poems
A GLEAM -- a gleam -- from Ida's height,
By the Fire-god sent, it came;
From watch to watch it leapt, that light,
As a rider rode the flame!
It shot through the startled sky,
And the torch of that blazing glory
Old Lemnos caught on high,
On its holy promontory,
And sent it on, the jocund sign,
To Athos, Mount of Jove divine.
Wildly the while, it rose from the isle,
So that the might of the journeying Light
Skimmed over the back of the gleaming brine!
Farther and faster speeds it on,
Till the watch that keeps Macistus steep
See it burst like a blazing Sun!
Doth Macistus sleep
On his tower-clad steep?
No! rapid and red doth the wild fire sweep;
It flashes afar on the wayward stream
Of the wild Euripus, the rushing beam!
It rouses the light on Messapion's height,
And they feed its breath with the withered heath.
But it may not stay!
And away -- away --
It bounds in its freshening might.
Silent and soon,
Like a broadened moon,
It passes in sheen, Asopus green,
And bursts on Cithaeron gray!
The warder wakes to the Signal-rays,
And it swoops from the hill with a broader blaze.
On, on the fiery Glory rode;
Thy lonely lake, Gorgopis, glowed!
To Megara's Mount it came;
They feed it again
And it streams amain--
A giant beard of Flame!
The headland cliffs that darkly down
O'er the Saronic waters frown,
Are passed with the Swift One's lurid stride,
And the huge rock glares on the glaring tide.
With mightier march and fiercer power
It gained Arachne's neighboring tower;
Thence on our Argive roof its rest it won,
Of Ida's fire the long-descended Son!
Bright Harbinger of glory and of joy!
So first and last with equal honor crowned,
In solemn feasts the race-torch circles round. --
And these my heralds! -- this my SIGN OF PEACE;
Lo! while we breathe, the victor lords of Greece
Stalk, in stern tumult, through the halls of Troy!
3.7k
from Ida's height,
By the Fire-god sent, it came;
From watch to watch it leapt, that light,
As a rider rode the flame!
It shot through the startled sky,
And the torch of that blazing glory
Old Lemnos caught on high,
On its holy promontory,
And sent it on, the jocund sign,
To Athos, Mount of Jove divine.
Wildly the while, it rose from the isle,
So that the might of the journeying Light
Skimmed over the back of the gleaming brine!
Farther and faster speeds it on,
Till the watch that keeps Macistus steep
See it burst like a blazing Sun!
Doth Macistus sleep
On his tower-clad steep?
No! rapid and red doth the wild fire sweep;
It flashes afar on the wayward stream
Of the wild Euripus, the rushing beam!
It rouses the light on Messapion's height,
And they feed its breath with the withered heath.
But it may not stay!
And away -- away --
It bounds in its freshening might.
May 15, 2013
May 15, 2013 at 1:23 AM UTC
'Give me freshening breeze, my boys,
A white and swelling sail,
A ship that cuts the dashing waves,
And weathers every gale.
What life is like a sailor's life,
So free, so bold, so brave?
His home the ocean's wide expanse,
A coral bed his grave.'
2k
Those spuds were all dug up,
using a fork of tempered steel,
The potatoes with all seeing eyes,
Met harvest with a fleeting glimpse.
Popped neatly in a washing up bowl.
Given a wholesome freshening shower.
Into a cooker where the pressure built so.
In their hearts they softened you know.
The bubbling water, it did go.
Pressure off with the flick of a switch,
The cook she stabbed them,
The son of a *****
Relieved the rather hot sensation,
Through the colander they went dry and amazing.
Drizzled them with just a trickle of milk,
Added a touch of butter and pepper.
Now with the seasoning all complete,
Mashed to bits.
Let's all eat.
Dinners up,
Sweet!
(c) Livvi
Sep 28, 2014
Sep 28, 2014 at 12:59 PM UTC
Up! up! my Friend, and quit your books;
Or surely you’ll grow double:
Up! up! my Friend, and clear your looks;
Why all this toil and trouble?
The sun above the mountain’s head,
A freshening lustre mellow
Through all the long green fields has spread,
His first sweet evening yellow.
Books! ’tis a dull and endless strife:
Come, hear the woodland linnet,
How sweet his music! on my life,
There’s more of wisdom in it.
And hark! how blithe the throstle sings!
He, too, is no mean preacher:
Come forth into the light of things,
Let Nature be your teacher.
She has a world of ready wealth,
Our minds and hearts to bless—
Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health,
Truth breathed by cheerfulness.
One impulse from a vernal wood
May teach you more of man,
Of moral evil and of good,
Than all the sages can.
Sweet is the lore which Nature brings;
Our meddling intellect
Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things:—
We ****** to dissect.
Enough of Science and of Art;
Close up those barren leaves;
Come forth, and bring with you a heart
That watches and receives.
1.7k
I have been bright, hovering for weeks with the edges of ovals I so narrowly believed to be bicycle wheels,
discovering good friends in places right under the windowsill, freshening up the roses
in the pots I'd forgotten about on the back porch.
and there's you, a dream perhaps,
a sliver of pecan pie left over from the holidays but increasingly fresh
I'd like to twinge the tremors in your body that make you hum
and satiate pulsing bodies in flat, parallel lines of desire and decisiveness
I'd like to be the twisting ivy on the brimming edges of tentative youth,
to scale your walls and snuggle in the safety of wonderment and lack of knowing,
any better.
I'd like to make the bluebirds sing with throats of slim-cut rubies,
to have contentment and a battle born, hand held, period of time in which
I can enjoy a piece of dessert, well deserved
Jan 14, 2013
Jan 14, 2013 at 8:51 PM UTC
Autumn drives her wind-horse to the gates of change.
She heaves fresh faced in shadows of a sheltering wall.
Eager to test the lie, so to speak, she sighs-
'Is it time yet, is it time?'
She observes a world half asleep, half dead.
'O dessicate Summer, O thirsty lady,
you have sapped all strength,
mopped the life-blood, leached all colour,
turned blushing petals to withered cusps,
you have turned this world to crumbling dust.'
Cat-like she steals, then with a gust....leaps!
whipping a dry pool of terrified leaves into a freshening frenzy.
'I'm here!' she cries 'It's my time.
Dance your full-blown pirouette!'
She turns to a world where neglected grapevines droop.
In the garden of ripening fruit, she plucks bruised from new;
mouldering black fruit that hangs in the crooked elbow of a thirsty tree.
Saddened, her tears fall on leaf-dead ground.
Slow tears, tears to tease dormant seeds from cracked hard-packed ground.
But listen to that sound.....
count the minims spilling on the quavering split terrain!
Net the hour, capture the perfume of moist grass where there is yet no greenness,
where the fat toad leans towards a blackening sky.
We are but children journeying from one season to the next
'Are we there yet? Are we nearly there?'
And when the storm comes we will know to light our way
into the garden of ripening fruit.
copyright © Caroline Grace 2011
Sep 21, 2011
Sep 21, 2011 at 12:09 PM UTC
I got this glittery, ruby-red, smudge-proof lipstick the other day
and I really have to say technology is what separates us from the apes.
Well, technology and hair.. and.. - ok, let’s not dwell on the ape thing.
Remember when lipstick smeared like news-print? Well, neither do I - it was one of those old-timey things you hear about somewhere like phone-booths, CDs and smart republicans.
What about the young teenage girls who aren’t supposed to wear lipstick - who put it on, in the morning, at their locker, at school only to discover - seconds before their mom picks them up - that it's practically non-removable? Try hiding your lips from your mom.
I want breath-freshening, pizza flavored, jerk-repelling, morning-after-pill lipstick - that glitters, irresistably, like cotton candy ***
snort If men wore lipstick I’m sure we’d have all that by now.
Dec 6, 2021
Dec 6, 2021 at 8:26 AM UTC
.
*It was the arc
of the rainbow
strewn above
thunder showered
dawn;
sun rays
bending
into another
resurrection
freshening hope
..., or
is it only
flecks
of colored light
curving
in an arch
your supple
vestige
rising to the sighs
of passionate touch ?
..., perhaps just
leftover stardust, * * *
spilled from *
someone else’s *
impassioned twilight ... *
becoming *
nothing more
than a hollow
waning memory,
a yearning ache,
fading
like a sunrise
daydream’s
afterglow*
wild is the wind © 2015
✩ ✩ ✩ ✩ ✩
Mar 2, 2016
Mar 2, 2016 at 6:57 PM UTC
The blind man slowly rises to his feet. Bending over and momentarily fumbling for his walking stick.Finding it propped against the flat topped boulder he uses as both a table top and chair. He takes the usual 27 steps to the mouth of the cave.Just before reaching the opening, he feels the slight breeze freshening his cheeks while gently tossing his beard about. As if nature were trying to comb his his coarse and weathered ****** hair.
At 28 steps, the sun greets his skin with an early morning warmth. A faint touch of dew washes through his nostrils, reminding him of the brief rain shower that woke him just before the break of day. Justifying the stiffness in his joints. Yes, best to sit a spell and allow the sun to warm the marrow. Perhaps keeping his movements spry and youthful for an hour or two. Carefully measured to a bit arduous after that.
Now, the morning unfolds before and below him in the high mountain meadow that provides him most of his meager needs. The stream to his left, babbling it's way across the rocks and tickling his ears. Then, rushing outward and downward, diagonally across the meadow. Slowing on the far right side before narrowing and winding it's way into the hardwoods. His memory still strong, long after his sight left him those..... how many years ago now?
The cry of an eagle pierces his ears. No doubt a rodent or rabbit is in peril shortly. Not a fish he ponders. Just across the stream,not too far, maybe forty to fifty feet, the sudden scraping of hooves against the small pebbled bottom of the stream. Preceded by the hollow plunk of the nervous steps of a fawn as she slowly lowers her head to quench her thirst before bedding down for the day. Doe is nearby watching her, listening intently for signs of danger to her young one. Yes,there it is, a rushed deep and anxious breath tells him so.
The old man ambles back into the cave to fetch his hat.
Now, tell me...Did you see what the blind man saw?
Jul 23, 2018
Jul 23, 2018 at 9:36 PM UTC
The birds hang dead, paired, on the hook.
Male and female, man and wife, are strung
Up in a brace of everlasting love,
Still warm. But time will soon freeze over
Freshening blood, encrust the opened eye,
Congeal warmth. And what remains is this:
A neck-to-neck unbreaking dull embrace,
The love gone cold, unbeating hearts kept close,
Reciprocating wounds, an unforgiving stare,
The silence in a breathless, parching throat,
A half-bent wing, refusing to enfold -
Time will wear love’s fingers to the bone.
Then bullet-hardened bodies take their course
And undo softly with a rising rot.
Jan 14, 2011
Jan 14, 2011 at 7:20 AM UTC
As we lead our lives,
Boring or interesting,
Calm and caring for it,
Dealing the problems,
Elevating our quality,
Freshening up daily,
Greatly upscaling,
Happy smiles,
Intimately,
Jerking threats away,
Kissing happiness,
Leading brighter,
Much more long,
Newer & higher,
Over the clouds,
Pouring hot love,
Queer above all,
Resting relieved,
Staring night sky,
Treetops craning,
Up onto the stars,
Violins of nature,
Waking up fresh,
Xenophilia popping,
Yearning divine sin,
Zesty opera of our lives.
Feb 5, 2014
Feb 5, 2014 at 5:15 AM UTC
The garden out back needs mowing, but autumn bees
Good bees at work and play don’t see it that way
And spin about in the October breeze
Wind-spinning in the sun their bee ballet
The freshening winds have motivated them
To gather up and gather in the last
The last of summer goods from limb and stem -
Their easy harvests of spring have long since passed
They work, they know the winter winds will blow -
So I must find a different lawn to mow
Oct 22, 2018
Oct 22, 2018 at 2:24 PM UTC
Three words...Witness Protection Program
That's all I have to say
So if you think you see someone that's me
Just turn around and walk the other way
They've got me hidden in the middle of nowhere
Don't worry, you've not heard the name
Any who when it comes to small towns
Aren't they pretty much about all the same?
I'm the guy with the funny accent
The one without any friends
You know the one down on the cul-de-sac
Last house on the left, down on the end
With a slight suspicion that you know me
Can't quite place the name
It's right there on the tip of your tongue
There's something about me that's just not the same
Is it the different hairstyle?
What little there is left
Perhaps it's in the nose job
New teeth with a smile, the freshening of breath
Three words...Witness Protection Program
So if you see me out on the street
Don't nod, don't grin, don't shake my hand
Walk nonchalantly by and don't even wink...
Sep 1, 2014
Sep 1, 2014 at 6:26 PM UTC
Tonight was lovely my dear
You did very well
Your heart sang with joy
Your smile widened
Your confidence grew
You were not fighting
You were whole
You were happy
You were guiltless
You weren't shy
You didn't hurt
You didn't remember
You didn't blush
You weren't embarrassed
You found the right words to say
Your violin sang with all you had
You said your goodbyes with joy
Sorrow didn't pierce your heart
Joy of confidence
Heart of soul
Mind of laughter
You'll never forget this night of success
Where you didn't want to cut at all
Starve or hit or feel angry
Or hate yourself
You didn't worry tonight
You were surrounded by happiness
You didn't feel like an outcast
You felt like you were one
One of many
Many make a body
And a body make a voice together
Singing joy
Spreading smiles
Remember this night my dear
Remember when you feel down
Remember when you are discouraged
Remember when you hurt
Look at the pictures
Let the memories fall
Like raindrops on your head
Cleaning your mind
Freshening your spirit
Lay down the blade
Uncurl your fist
Open the fridge
Remember tonight
Lay your head on your pillow
Curl up in your blanket
Relive the sights of people swarming around you
The smells of rosin and wood
The taste of cherry cough drops
The smile upon your face
Your friends and teachers smiling with you
You'll miss them so much
Your heart will rend apart
Blood will flow
Uncried tears thicken
Swallowing sobs
Remembering
It doesn't matter if you don't see them again
What matters is how much you think about them
Maybe you'll meet again
Maybe you won't
Remember this
You're never alone
Jun 14, 2013
Jun 14, 2013 at 11:14 PM UTC
Your face is a token.
Thus feed instead words.
Don't bore me with lesson's facade.
I've seen this, the circus.
Your rings merely eyelets.
Engage me with freshening Odds.
I'll teach you to whisper.
Though, bring me full substance.
Even pelt me with heaviest clods.
Let's drink now fruition,
Til swimming in discourse,
And earn out each other's applauds.
Jan 27, 2011
Jan 27, 2011 at 10:40 AM UTC
Was it a divine sign amongst the creation –
A revelation so lightsome and pregnant –
That a blanching feather’s unforeseen descent
Made my poetic soul blench for evocation?
Surely, t’was from some celestial spheres, –
Angelic wings of cherubs and seraphim –
So long been soaking in firmamental affairs
That human mental senses but morphine.
A feather if eatable, a matter of addiction –
Plucking and plucking without satiety –
If been drinkable, a matter of intoxication
Leading humans into ever inebriety.
---
O’ glorious feathers who hover with mystery –
Over skyey dreams and unearthly visions –
Which land on the earth with vice and misery,
Lending the haver only vain aspirations.
O’ one-time ornaments of the seven heavens –
Brightness and whiteness of all times –
Have you no shame on the dirt of your pens
Writing worldly prose and heretic rhymes?
By-the-way, your heaven is no heaven but a sky –
As well as not every brightening is holy –
Just as Icarus has fallen from and by your high
As others are mystified by your fake glory.
---
Whether art thou the sinister poker of Iblis –
Leading by a dancing feather in the hand –
Human arts like the one that let fall Ibn Idris
Calling with fair words to the Fallen’s land?
Whether divine inspirations in form of an aura –
Blown on the poor’s brow as enlightenment –
Art thou as the freshening science of soul and soma
Kindling the minds’ muscles as a tea of mint?
Oh, Only God knows of Ma’at’s Hall of gloom –
If one’s deeds worth a feather morrow –
So, I seek only Deus’ forgiving, life-giving plume
To pardon my feather on the mortal pillow.
Oct 5, 2019
Oct 5, 2019 at 1:13 AM UTC
I.
I must have waited by that window for ten minutes
Stomach in knots, heart pounding
Tugging at my clothes
Freshening my breath
Storing away topics of conversation
Hoping you'd like me
Hoping you'd kiss me
You couldn't find my house
So I came and found you.
I got in your car.
We drove away
And I've loved you ever since.
II.
I must have been waiting by the window for ten minutes
Stomach in knots, heart pounding
Wiping up my tears
Steadying my breath
Racing through things I want to say
Hoping you'll stay
Hoping you've missed me
You walk through my door
Take back your T-shirt
You get in your car
Drive away
And you don't take me with you.
III.
How long will I have to wait at this window
Until you come back to me
Aug 23, 2014
Aug 23, 2014 at 8:03 PM UTC
The sea sweeps to the far horizon:
Infinity’s edge,
As endless waves lap onto the shore.
Above us gulls wheel and scream
Hunting for prosaic fish and chips.
They ****** them
From hapless humans
Down below.
And the breakers keep breaking.
Elsewhere the ocean rages,
Storming the cliffs
With spraying cascades of water
And thrashing rain.
Here today, though, it is calm and clear.
Up above we see an even greater ocean:
That of blue sky
And nightly black space.
Up there we truly look
To infinity
Eternity too.
Vastness
Beyond our comprehension.
We people are but tiny specks
On island beaches
Insignificant particles
Of humanity
Lost in a universe
That knows no bounds.
Yet here to enjoy
Those golden dawns and dusks,
Fanned by freshening breezes –
Much gentler versions of gales and hurricanes.
Never forget that the sea is mighty.
Just love it
When it’s in a peaceful mood:
Soak up the spirit of surf
As you watch those endless waves.
Paul Butters
© PB 8\5\2021.
May 9, 2021
May 9, 2021 at 5:19 AM UTC
Shall I then honor and obey?
I who only heed the Autumn whispers
That my spirit might flutter and utter
Poetry who is the wife and master
Of my piercing eyes of December
Now I am filled, with happiness and quiet
I’ll hold you even dear, you passing friends
I have found my pilgrimage shelter
The gold-hammered love of words
It’s enough for me, to write a while
In encrimsoned freshening dew
For Autumn soft-wind-twisted leaves
And emotions in the freight of my heart
That abides by wild beasts, forest brothers
I take all these into my good report for keeps
And do not ask the Lord for anything
I am self-sufficient in my lonely work
And I kiss the cruelty of fate at every turn
No little thing to barter one’s life with
A little art, forsaken love of something
That brings no direct external profit
Only a sense of what the seasons serve
My Amageddon’s vast terrific hour.
Oct 14, 2014
Oct 14, 2014 at 10:03 AM UTC
When everything begins to betray,
Making all those precious wishes delay,
Watching your loved ones drifting away,
And letting your feelings slay,
Can I just escape reality and run away?
For freshening memories for a day,
To let my heart revive and to make my hope brighter than a sunray....
Dec 4, 2015
Dec 4, 2015 at 4:34 AM UTC
"I am the living room.
I have a soul of my own.
I see comings and goings.
I've see children born and growing.
Spreading wings and flying away.
I've seen parties full of such debauchery.
You know I feel you when you enter.
I sense loneliness when you are not in.
Sometimes I see the dog.
She sneaks in when the family are out.
The *** plants are lovely, but they don't make conversation.
I watch the T.V. and realise how boring life is.
The old man he was laid in state.
Awaiting transportation to the nether world.
Along they come carrying pots of paint rejuvenating and freshening.
Carried in the stroke of a brush.
"Oh heaven be felt."
(C) Livvi
Oct 25, 2014
Oct 25, 2014 at 5:55 AM UTC
The setting of so many suns
And when the morning comes
I float with rising mists in waving fields of corn
To fade into a day new born.
The winter shows us hibernation..a hesitation of the earth before the season turns again
And then spring rain,
Welcoming and light
A bliss..a delight for blooms who sneak a peek above the ground.
The sound of nature everywhere and love is in the freshening air.
Summer...hot and dry
The cry of Ice cream men..stop and buy.
Children...agile,spry upon the climbing frame.
And fall..I hear the Autumn call to me
Colours changing autumnally within the leaves upon the tree
These things I see
In each setting of a sun
Not many more to come
I'm nearly done
But it's been fun
At times.
Jan 12, 2013
Jan 12, 2013 at 5:05 AM UTC
Nose so hard to the grindstone my face is unrecognizable and I seem to have lost my dignity out of my ears I’m not quite sure what to do with the breathing spaces between periods anymore. I lost my art like people lose keys and I’m sure it’s still under the couch but I just don’t see it anywhere.
They should call it a writer’s monolith because of its worshipful insurmountability; I sat there beating on it with my bare hands until they were ****** arm and hammers freshening up my mind and I was free, free from art.
And of course that’s when my life fell apart and my self-harm came from the grindstone, ignorantly pressing inputs for a desirable output I feel like my soul was numbed. Part of me walked away in outrage at the boldness of this new survival style because there was no life.
As college kids we joke about no-lifing to get work done but what happens when you no-life life? It would explain the singularity roughly two inches under my left lung.
Sleep still comes difficult to me.
Love,
Alex
Sep 18, 2014
Sep 18, 2014 at 3:44 AM UTC