"furnish" poems
If love does not exist in this world,
We will make a new world
Furnish it with
Surprisingly vibrant red walls
and flamboyant interiors.
If love will exist in the other world
Love me back
So we can hear
Our voices to resonate
In unity
In clarity
If love will never exist
Let me still love you
Because love exists
Within me.
Mar 7, 2015
Mar 7, 2015 at 3:42 AM UTC
Consecrate us
to grow more!
Bless us
to climb high!
Craft us
to become helpful and useful to all!
Furnish us vigour
to stand sturdily !
Radiance us
to swell your splendour and simplicity every where!
Apr 28, 2014
Apr 28, 2014 at 4:55 AM UTC
i am aggressive.
aggressively happy, aggressively sad.
i will be the sun that crashes through
your window and warms your living room with my laughter, i will melt your candles and burn your eyes with my smile. i will furnish your home with my voice and hang memories of us on the walls of your heart. i will scorch you by surprise like a seat belt in july, i will scald your cupid's bow with my cherry lips and you will never get my taste out of your mouth. i will set your house on fire.
but on the hard days, i will not.
i will drain the color from your life. my tears will wash the pigment from the walls and pull the curtains shut. you won't remember what sunshine feels like. my shivering shoulders will **** the warmth out of our shared home, establishing a winter not with crystalline ice but with a bone-chilling cold whose frost bites at anything exposed - your heart, your fingers, your nose - don't let me get too close.
i will be your sunshine, and then i will leave you out in the rain.
i wish i could be a calm, pleasant day, but i can only be fire, i can only be ice.
i'm sorry, but i've never known gray - i've never done anything halfway.
Apr 22, 2015
Apr 22, 2015 at 7:13 PM UTC
This is an Instrument a Verser must have
Without it, we cannot Write with Love.
This Tool, yet so small
Does so many for All.
Ink-Filled Skinney,
With a ball-soaked head.
Passing-out stains of Blue Blood
And creating Words which Read.
People throughout Literacy
Seek for this Sword.
To furnish their own Feelings
And Bsuiness in the Ring.
It all started,
With a large, downey feather
From the Swan's sacrifice,
Dipping the tip with sticky paint,
And scribbling onto leather.
Paper, in progression, was its Factor
Then came the Fountain - Civil Man's writing major.
This Pen does well
And so does much.
Ink goes up,
Goes down,
Though still plans to Blot.
However it may be,
How the Ball-Point was born.
"This is way Better!" People would say
And now - the New Century - is still
Used today.
And because of it,
Production was born
In Business, Literary and most
Of all - Journalism
Was so Progressive.
And so this ends,
This Tale of the Happy Ballpen.
Of Friend's in-take,
Which is needed much in the Open.
Mar 21, 2013
Mar 21, 2013 at 12:45 PM UTC
I curl up at night to the warmth of your memories
The flame from these fossil fuels furnish where our love used to live
before you moved out that is
Feb 12, 2015
Feb 12, 2015 at 1:46 AM UTC
'BITE deep and wide, O Axe, the tree!
What doth thy bold voice promise me?'
'I promise thee all joyous things
That furnish forth the lives of kings;
'For every silver ringing blow
Cities and palaces shall grow.'
'Bite deep and wide, O Axe, the tree!
Tell wider prophecies to me.'
'When rust hath gnawed me deep and red.
A nation strong shall lift his head.
'His crown the very heavens shall smite,
Aeons shall build him in his might.'
'Bite deep and wide, O Axe, the tree!
Bright Seer, help on thy prophecy!'
2.9k
Shakespeare’s Dog
in the theater tonight, the notion of a poem-potion
courtesy of Shakespeare's dog came unbidden
So when home arrived, was unsurprised that this
very peculiar pug was farting before my own front door.
get lost, I announced got what I need from your boss,
but before I could kick him across the floor,
the pug spake thusly:
*this dog knows the boot too well,
it is parcel of this dog's life of no quality,
but if you give me shelter tonite, I will provide,
share some of Speare's un-Published Works
and you can claim it as your own!*
kicked that dog across the room,
(having pity earlier I let him in and enter)
told Jim, (that’s what I called him)
he can stay the night, or long as the sun rises up
and goes down unbidden, but, if I ever
caught him plagiarizing, selling sonnets on the side,
I would report him to the ASPCA and the Poet’s Union.
The American Society for the Poets of Conscience Alive -
might have his low hanging ***** cut off in retribution.
he laughed out loud, rhyming funny, pontificating:
*well mate,
thanks for the soliloquy,
me ***** long time gone,
but what I know and what I’ve seen
if tale-told you, and you were to listen,
you would keep me around as fodder
for your artistic soul.
in return chappie,
you need only provide me a rug, a fire,
A/C for the languid summer eves,
fodder for me body, and your boots,
far removed from my hindquarters.*
We spoke much thereafter,
turns out he served his poet-masters
in many ways, more than a mere footstool.
his snoring keeps me awake some twenty years later.
his love for country music makes me put him on nice days,
outdoors, his headphones securely strapped round his double chins.
ugh that pug. became my best becoming love, old friend,
one of us will pass someday and an elegy composition,
the other devotee will furnish sadness utterly becoming.
so if a farting pug before your door you’ve found,
take him in, give him water, an amply supply please
of Carrie, Trisha and Chaplin-Carpenter for his immortal soul,
but beware, he might try to sell you
some of my words, as your own.
Mar 26, 2018
Mar 26, 2018 at 1:31 PM UTC
All night the army came up from Gilgal
To get to the killing field, and that's all.
In the ground, warf and woof, lay the dead.
I want to die in My own bed.
Like slits in a tank, their eyes were uncanny,
I'm always the few and they are the many.
I must answer. They can interrogate My head.
But I want to die in My own bed.
The sun stood still in Gibeon. Forever so, it's willing
to illuminate those waging battle and killing.
I may not see My wife when her blood is shed,
But I want to die in My own bed.
Samson, his strength in his long black hair,
My hair they sheared when they made me a hero
Perforce, and taught me to charge ahead.
I want to die in My own bed.
I saw you could live and furnish with grace
Even a lion's den, if you've no other place.
I don't even mind to die alone, to be dead,
But I want to die in My own bed.
2.6k
952
A Man may make a Remark—
In itself—a quiet thing
That may furnish the Fuse unto a Spark
In dormant nature—lain—
Let us deport—with skill—
Let us discourse—with care—
Powder exists in Charcoal—
Before it exists in Fire.
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AN ATTACK ON BARBERCRAFT
[Dedicated to George Cecil Jones]
At last an end of all I hoped and feared!
Muttered the hermit through his elfin beard.
Then what art thou? the evil whisper whirred.
I doubt me soerly if the hermit heard.
To all God's questions never a word he said,
But simply shook his venerable head.
God sent all plagues; he laughed and heeded not,
Till people certified him insane.
But somehow all his fellow-luntaics
Began to imitate his silly ticks.
And stranger still, their prospects so enlarged
That one by one the patients were discharged.
God asked him by what right he interfered;
He only laughed and into his elfin beard.
When God revealed Himself to mortal prayer
He gave a fatal opening to Voltaire.
Our Hermi had dispensed with Sinai's thunder,
But on the other hand he made no blunder;
He knew ( no doubt) that any axiom
Would furnish bricks to build some Donkeydom.
But!-all who urged that hermit to confess
Caught the infection of his happiness.
I would it were my fate to dree his weird;
I think that I will grow an elfin beard.
2.3k
We saw Thee in Thy balmy nest,
Young dawn of our eternal day;
We saw Thine eyes break from the East,
And chase the trembling shades away:
We saw Thee, and we blest the sight,
We saw Thee by Thine own sweet light.
Poor world, said I, what wilt thou do
To entertain this starry stranger?
Is this the best thou canst bestow—
A cold and not too cleanly manger?
Contend, the powers of heaven and earth,
To fit a bed for this huge birth.
Proud world, said I, cease your contest,
And let the mighty babe alone;
The phoenix builds the phoenix’ nest,
Love’s architecture is His own.
The babe, whose birth embraves this morn,
Made His own bed ere He was born.
I saw the curl’d drops, soft and slow,
Come hovering o’er the place’s head,
Off’ring their whitest sheets of snow,
To furnish the fair infant’s bed.
Forbear, said I, be not too bold;
Your fleece is white, but ’tis too cold.
I saw th’ obsequious seraphim
Their rosy fleece of fire bestow,
For well they now can spare their wings,
Since Heaven itself lies here below.
Well done, said I; but are you sure
Your down, so warm, will pass for pure?
No, no, your King ’s not yet to seek
Where to repose His royal head;
See, see how soon His new-bloom’d cheek
‘Twixt mother’s ******* is gone to bed!
Sweet choice, said we; no way but so,
Not to lie cold, you sleep in snow!
She sings Thy tears asleep, and dips
Her kisses in Thy weeping eye;
She spreads the red leaves of Thy lips,
That in their buds yet blushing lie.
She ‘gainst those mother diamonds tries
The points of her young eagle’s eyes.
Welcome—tho’ not to those gay flies,
Gilded i’ th’ beams of earthly kings,
Slippery souls in smiling eyes—
But to poor shepherds, homespun things,
Whose wealth ’s their flocks, whose wit ’s to be
Well read in their simplicity.
Yet, when young April’s husband show’rs
Shall bless the fruitful Maia’s bed,
We’ll bring the first-born of her flowers,
To kiss Thy feet and crown Thy head.
To Thee, dread Lamb! whose love must keep
The shepherds while they feed their sheep.
To Thee, meek Majesty, soft King
Of simple graces and sweet loves!
Each of us his lamb will bring,
Each his pair of silver doves!
At last, in fire of Thy fair eyes,
Ourselves become our own best sacrifice!
2.2k
A FOREFINGER of stone, dreamed by a sculptor, points to the sky.
It says: This way! this way!
Four lions snore in stone at the corner of the shaft.
They too are the dream of a sculptor.
They too say: This way! this way!
The street cars swing at a curve.
The middle-class passengers witness low life.
The car windows frame low life all day in pictures.
Two Italian cellar delicatessens
sell red and green peppers.
The Florida bananas furnish a burst of yellow.
The lettuce and the cabbage give a green.
Boys play marbles in the cinders.
The boys' hands need washing.
The boys are glad; they fight among each other.
A plank bridge leaps the Lehigh Valley railroad.
Then acres of steel rails, freight cars, smoke,
And then ... the blue lake shore
...Erie with Norse blue eyes ... and the white sun.
1.9k
Have you ever lost a staring contest
To a pen?
Its eyes stare and petrify
All my limbs
The only movement my body betrays
Is the panicked beating
Of my chest against the warm air
No hunt and no monster
Has ever brought me so close to my death
Fight, only another excuse
to guard myself, and hide within
the old, motherless womb
the steel framework of bones,
my ribs encase more than lungs
But this pen, allied with
The gruesome, horrifying, smiling
Faces of the kind kinfolk
Has chased me to the corner
Brought chains and locks to furnish me
Like a window frame or a stylized vase
The only teeth I fear
To sink deeply within me
And spill my blood
A display to the world
Silly- I am called a grown man,
Yet what I fear most
Is a small plastic cylinder
Resting on a yellow pad
May 9, 2012
May 9, 2012 at 4:19 PM UTC
soil within your loam
a harvest of food you hold
our table you furnish
we're grateful to you
for the bounty you provide
elements of grace
praise be to the soil
we've eaten of daily bread
a repast you gave
Dec 6, 2014
Dec 6, 2014 at 11:32 PM UTC
In a faded dress she wore, of crimson and pink pearls,
on her pedestal she sat, parasol, she did twirl.
Though age may have faded plumes and placed lines on her face,
she refuses to give up on dreams of silks and fine lace.
She knew that her lovers, would be coming back to her,
to once again, furnish her with jewelry and rich furs.
Through the years she waits, her mind slowing slips away.
Insanity took control, while vanity takes sway.
As her lovers did marry off, or just died away
and her peers morals, of fidelity, won the day,
less and less, she was in demand, as a paramour.
Vanity and ego, sealed her fate for evermore.
Vanity and ego, sealed her fate for evermore.
Less and less, she was in demand, as a paramour
And her peer's morals of fidelity, won the day.
As her lovers did marry off, or just died away,
insanity took control, while vanity, takes sway.
Through the years she waits, her mind slowly slips away.
To once again furnish her in jewelry and rich furs,
she knew that her lovers, would be coming back to her.
She refuses to give up on dreams of silks and fine lace.
Though age may have faded plumes and placed lines on her face,
on her pedestal she sat, parasol she did twirl.
In a faded dress she wore of crimson and pink pearls.
Aug 3, 2010
Aug 3, 2010 at 9:01 PM UTC
Let mans Soule be a Spheare, and then, in this,
The intelligence that moves, devotion is,
And as the other Spheares, by being growne
Subject to forraigne motion, lose their owne,
And being by others hurried every day,
Scarce in a yeare their naturall forme obey:
Pleasure or businesse, so, our Soules admit
For their first mover, and are whirld by it.
Hence is't, that I am carryed towards the West
This day, when my Soules forme bends toward the East.
There I should see a Sunne, by rising set,
And by that setting endlesse day beget;
But that Christ on this Crosse, did rise and fall,
Sinne had eternally benighted all.
Yet dare I'almost be glad, I do not see
That spectacle of too much weight for mee.
What a death were it then to see God dye?
It made his owne Lieutenant Nature shrinke,
It made his footstoole crack, and the Sunne winke.
Could I behold those hands which span the Poles,
And tune all spheares at once peirc'd with those holes?
Could I behold that endlesse height which is
Zenith to us, and our Antipodes,
Humbled below us? or that blood which is
The seat of all our Soules, if not of his,
Made durt of dust, or that flesh which was worne
By God, for his apparell, rag'd, and torne?
If on these things I durst not looke, durst I
Upon his miserable mother cast mine eye,
Who was Gods partner here, and furnish'd thus
Halfe of that Sacrifice, which ransom'd us?
Though these things, as I ride, be from mine eye,
They'are present yet unto my memory,
For that looks towards them; and thou look'st towards mee,
O Saviour, as thou hang'st upon the tree;
I turne my backe to thee, but to receive
Corrections, till thy mercies bid thee leave.
O thinke mee worth thine anger, punish mee,
Burne off my rusts, and my deformity,
Restore thine Image, so much, by thy grace,
That thou may'st know mee, and I'll turne my face.
1.8k
Water in the ocean deep
pulled up from darkened depths
to the surface, out of sleep
warmed by sunlight once again
In the air into a cloud,
by wind blown to the eastern shore
not the first time it's allowed
to take to flight and steady soar
Back to the earth to furnish life
and slake its thirst for this day's rain
life's a stream of consciousness
that westward flows to the ocean
Setting suns each twilight brings
echo death knells, thunder rings
Mar 19, 2014
Mar 19, 2014 at 12:49 AM UTC
After all pleasures as I rid one day,
My horse and I, both tired, body and mind,
With full cry of affections, quite astray;
I took up the next inn I could find.
There when I came, whom found I but my dear,
My dearest Lord, expecting till the grief
Of pleasures brought me to Him, ready there
To be all passengers’ most sweet relief?
Oh Thou, whose glorious, yet contracted light,
Wrapt in night’s mantle, stole into a manger;
Since my dark soul and brutish is Thy right,
To man of all beasts be not Thou a stranger:
Furnish and deck my soul, that Thou mayst have
A better lodging, than a rack, or grave.
1.7k
I wanted to go everywhere with you,
to dive into your past, the beautiful and the *****
To meet every version of self you have ever been.
I wanted to see your frosting stained smile
on your 8th birthday. To know you when
innocence and hope still reigned.
I wanted to hear your midnight laughter on an
ordinary Tuesday in California. To sit on the floor in
that apartment that you couldn't afford to furnish.
I wanted to walk hand in hand
through the years of your life.
And when my curiosity had been sated
with endless waves of knowledge of you,
I had hoped you would've liked to
walk through my stories.
To meet the now-gone women
who molded my soul and gifted me with
love and a sarcastic sense of humor.
I wanted you to greedily feast upon all my days gone by.
Armed with an overwhelming acceptance of one another,
I hoped we would embark on a path we forged together.
I dreamt that when I savored pasta in Venice,
I would look up to see you sitting across the table.
I imagined that your smile was the last delight
I would feel before I slowly drifted to sleep in Amsterdam.
I thought the next time I dove under a salty wave,
It would be you at my side.
I wanted to experience every taste, every touch
and every breath with you standing next to me.
For, life was more beautiful with your hand in mine.
You were my welcome rose-colored glasses,
now laying shattered on the floor.
Without you I see the world in
all of its harsh grotesqueness.
Without your cloud of sweetness,
My past pain and horror yet unknown
have taken on new strength.
I now only wish to travel back to the time,
when I thought I had a chance with your heart.
Jul 21, 2015
Jul 21, 2015 at 8:43 PM UTC
Because the pleasure-bird whistles after the hot wires,
Shall the blind horse sing sweeter?
Convenient bird and beast lie lodged to suffer
The supper and knives of a mood.
In the sniffed and poured snow on the tip of the tongue of the year
That clouts the spittle like bubbles with broken rooms,
An enamoured man alone by the twigs of his eyes, two fires,
Camped in the drug-white shower of nerves and food,
Savours the lick of the times through a deadly wood of hair
In a wind that plucked a goose,
Nor ever, as the wild tongue breaks its tombs,
Rounds to look at the red, wagged root.
Because there stands, one story out of the *** city,
That frozen wife whose juices drift like a fixed sea
Secretly in statuary,
Shall I, struck on the hot and rocking street,
Not spin to stare at an old year
Toppling and burning in the muddle of towers and galleries
Like the mauled pictures of boys?
The salt person and blasted place
I furnish with the meat of a fable.
If the dead starve, their stomachs turn to tumble
An upright man in the antipodes
Or spray-based and rock-chested sea:
Over the past table I repeat this present grace.
1.6k
I keep trying to piece together
a functioning poem but nothing
is fitting the way I need it to
I guess it's a symbol of my mind
Or anything having to do with me
I have pieces of unfinished business floating in my notepad
all I can do is write the episodes of my life that flash in my mind
I didn't pay for a drive through movie
but I got in free
except it's all things
that've happened to me
A showcase of my emotions
over the years plastered in my mind
on a giant screen
I don't ignore you
I want to hear every word
you speak so I never forget them
but how do I explain
"I didnt hear what you said
I was watching the episode
of when I broke his heart
the morning after his birthday
I'm sorry will you repeat that?"
I always loved picture frames
as a child thinking they could hold some precious moment I never had
Childhood
more like a broken swing set
in an abandoned park
If little me only knew
I would be walking around
with thoughts of you
I have a list of things that replay
in my mind and I fear it will never stop
I am an abandoned house that is only filled with pictures of my memories
Sometimes I feel so fragile
I think if you were to hold my hand
it would shatter
The paint is peeling from my walls
and there are holes in my floorboards and after walking in the dark
of my house for so long
i believe I've fallen through
one of them
My only hope is when the
sun finally rises I can crawl out
to reconstruct
I will replace every fried wire
and every broken board
I will paint and furnish
until my head is my home
and that doesn't sound
like a nightmare anymore
My only hope is that you can stay until I've sent every demon my way packing
Apr 10, 2015
Apr 10, 2015 at 4:09 AM UTC
I'll never be a man of wealth,
of influence or renown
Just riches which spring
from teaching values
My ethereal coins
can afford lavish gifts
to furnish your life
with warm hues of cloth
I can show how it feels,
the caress of sheets.
To taste unfiltered smiles
flowing free from the tap
To want something more
to pull it in close.
When wrapped around shoulders
you forget yourself
I can show you a world
with textures and tastes.
Where things can transform
into what they could be.
Just open your eyes.
Jul 2, 2010
Jul 2, 2010 at 1:08 PM UTC
Meet the Whisperer....
(Oh, and you will want to, promise :)
1.
He can shape and mould
To aught pleasure he desires.
When he calls them at will
Supple compliance at his command.
Yes, they come like twitching magnets
Real easy beck and call.
Such happy slaves are they
Very few recalcitrant ones.
He twists and trims their sides
Makes them kneel before his want.
He will harness their might
Bend them sweetly to his gratifix.
Perchance, skittish on occasion
Yet they serve their master well.
They can spread to furthest capacity
Turning dried veracity into well-loved fable.
He whips them to submission
Insanely alive, they need birth certificates!
Yet tenderly, he caresses, explores
Renders dramatic echoes in outrageous lore.
2.
They melt like marvelous putty, toffee in deft hands
Makes them caress YOU sensuous, everywhere...
They reach deep, tap in and touch your core
Delight or thrill....or equally meet your mind.
Yes, they can stick you with bruising truth
Move you, or bring you to your knees....
They can furnish context with telling content
And with stunning detail, woo the sox off thee :-p
He articulates every brief encounter
With sage and timeless passion.
Molten liquid drips from his entrancing tip
In gilt carriages headed your way....
When the whisperer appears, best be ready
To receive what he may see fit to flay on you!
If that's too tall an order, it amounts to
Clipped wings, falling sadly short of flight.
Be willing to taste that mesmerising lilt
Indebted you'll be to the lack of crude reality.
Oh, reader...retire not spirit of droll mind
Revel eager in rich spark for riveting trips.
Yes, he is the one, your...
One and only word-whisperer.
(Enchante, cher lecteur :)
bows
Star Toucher, 28 March 2013
Mar 29, 2013
Mar 29, 2013 at 7:21 AM UTC
If you are lacking capital,
You won't show on the map at all,
You wont show on radar as little green blips,
If your bank account can't furnish means for a tip,
In a Washington lobby, to fund a campaign, so
Now the youth have a future, in sutures and maimed,
By a financial beast, that just cannot be tamed, and
It's fed by the folks who are riggin' the game,
A small, opulent group of the fiscal insane,
The ones who observe them have given them names,
They're the "oligarchs," they're the "robber barons"
They're the "plutocrats," and they don't like sharin'
You can speak of reform, but they'll tell you to spare 'em, as
You watch, in bewilderment, grimaced and glarin,' as
They profit off health care, off oil stocks, and banks, and
Control public discourse, with PR think tanks, cause
They own all the media, feedin ya lies, that
Are dressed up as facts, in a clever disguise, so
At propaganda, "take a proper gander," then
Stand and unite, as change demanders!
May 10, 2015
May 10, 2015 at 7:40 PM UTC