"gage" poems
Sometimes thou seem’st not as thyself alone,
But as the meaning of all things that are;
A breathless wonder, shadowing forth afar
Some heavenly solstice hushed and halcyon;
Whose unstirred lips are music’s visible tone;
Whose eyes the sun-gate of the soul unbar,
Being of its furthest fires oracular;—
The evident heart of all life sown and mown.
Even such Love is; and is not thy name Love?
Yea, by thy hand the Love-god rends apart
All gathering clouds of Night’s ambiguous art;
Flings them far down, and sets thine eyes above;
And simply, as some gage of flower or glove,
Stakes with a smile the world against thy heart.
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upon marriage your blood signs a covenant
with a firm i do
before god and the community
upon my 1st breath a covenant was signed
you want praise for a physical abuse free home
how dare you
marriage described as playing with the mouse
your plaything taken by god
he gave you, he took away
you didn't keep your covenant
you broke and destroyed a young woman
she died in a gilded Gage
no-one knows the truth, you think
i was there
i saw, i remember, small but present
emotional abuse rang the bell
i begged for divorce from you
many a time
you married "your" mother,
she married" her" father,
one contract different expectations
a broken covenant
children are a gift from god,
my sisters both died, i lived
i was/am nothing in your eyes
the covenant
Mar 5, 2013
Mar 5, 2013 at 3:49 AM UTC
Give me my scallop shell of quiet,
My staff of faith to walk upon,
My scrip of joy, immortal diet,
My bottle of salvation,
My gown of glory, hope’s true gage,
And thus I’ll take my pilgrimage.
Blood must be my body’s balmer,
No other balm will there be given,
Whilst my soul, like a white palmer,
Travels to the land of heaven;
Over the silver mountains,
Where spring the nectar fountains;
And there I’ll kiss
The bowl of bliss,
And drink my eternal fill
On every milken hill.
My soul will be a-dry before,
But after it will ne’er thirst more;
And by the happy blissful way
More peaceful pilgrims I shall see,
That have shook off their gowns of clay,
And go apparelled fresh like me.
I’ll bring them first
To slake their thirst,
And then to taste those nectar suckets,
At the clear wells
Where sweetness dwells,
Drawn up by saints in crystal buckets.
And when our bottles and all we
Are fill’d with immortality,
Then the holy paths we’ll travel,
Strew’d with rubies thick as gravel,
Ceilings of diamonds, sapphire floors,
High walls of coral, and pearl bowers.
From thence to heaven’s bribeless hall
Where no corrupted voices brawl,
No conscience molten into gold,
Nor forg’d accusers bought and sold,
No cause deferr’d, nor vain-spent journey,
For there Christ is the king’s attorney,
Who pleads for all without degrees,
And he hath angels, but no fees.
When the grand twelve million jury
Of our sins and sinful fury,
‘Gainst our souls black verdicts give,
Christ pleads his death, and then we live.
Be thou my speaker, taintless pleader,
Unblotted lawyer, true proceeder,
Thou movest salvation even for alms,
Not with a bribed lawyer’s palms.
And this is my eternal plea
To him that made heaven, earth, and sea,
Seeing my flesh must die so soon,
And want a head to dine next noon,
Just at the stroke when my veins start and spread,
Set on my soul an everlasting head.
Then am I ready, like a palmer fit,
To tread those blest paths which before I writ.
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Give me my scallop-shell of quiet,
My staff of faith to walk upon,
My scrip of joy, immortal diet,
My bottle of salvation,
My gown of glory, hope’s true gage;
And thus I’ll take my pilgrimage.
Blood must be my body’s balmer;
No other balm will there be given:
Whilst my soul, like quiet palmer,
Travelleth towards the land of heaven;
Over the silver mountains,
Where spring the nectar fountains;
There will I kiss
The bowl of bliss;
And drink mine everlasting fill
Upon every milken hill.
My soul will be a-dry before;
But, after, it will thirst no more.
2.9k
Am I the only one not understanding it?
Some poems have no likes or views
Some poems have a preview, others don't
Some poems are brand new
Some poems are two days old
There's a temperature gage that doesn't make sense
And sometimes there's a poem that disappears off it
I'm flabbergasted...
May 30, 2017
May 30, 2017 at 2:53 PM UTC
*Fall In Love Or Fall In Lust.
Make Plans, Or Make Cookies.
There Is Living To Do Here.
There Are Books To Read, And Movies To Watch.
There Are Art Museums Meant To Wonder Through, And Ocean Waters To Taste.
There Are Plays That Deserve Standing Ovations, And Musicals With Words That Need To Be Sung, There Are Girls That Need To Be Kissed, There Are Boys That Need To Know What It Feels Like To Have Their Hands Held.
There Are Poems That Need To Be Screamed At The Tops Of Someone's Lungs. There Are History Books With Frayed Edges, And Broken Tea Pots That Died Before Their First Breath.
There Are Heart Throbs Waiting To Make Teenage Girls Swoon.
There Are Jeans, With Knees That Are Begging To Be Ripped Open.
There Are Sunflowers That Have Never Been Told “You Are My Sunshine”.
There Are Grandfathers With Empty Laps, And Mothers With Empty Wallets.
There Are Law Students, With Hearts Ready For Humanity, There Are Babies With Broken Families.
There Are Fortune Cookies With Untold Wisdom, And Grandmothers With The Best Rhubarb Crisp Recipe You Have Ever Tasted.
There Are Undiscovered Passions, And Ancient Ruins.
There Are Empty Canvases And Blank White Walls.
There Are Silences, Recorded And Played Back For The Ears Of The Empty. There Are Places On This Earth Where The Sky Is The Color Of Bleeding Tissue Paper. There Are Places On This Earth, Where Dry Lightening Storms, Are As If God Himself Is Snapping Photos.
There Are Lost Valentines, And Flickering Lampposts. There Are Forgotten Dates And Remember Birthdays.
There Are Lost Puppies And One Man Bands.
There Are Butterflies With Missing Wings, And Eagles That Mate For Life.
There Are Places We Put Our Insane, And Others We Place Our Sick.
We Have Tattooed Our Mistakes On Skin, And Branded Cattle To The Same Tune.
There Are Times We Fall Together, And Others In Witch We Fall Apart.
There Are Moments When We Gage Our Existence In The Breaths We Take, And Moments When We Gage It In The Moments That Take Our Breath Away.
There Are Times We Take Chances And Times We Take Pills.
There Are Moments When We Bruise Our Knees While Praying, And Others Where We Break Kneecaps For Dollar Bills.
There Is Living To Be Done Here.
There Are Words To Be Spoken, And Even More To Be Written.*
Feb 27, 2012
Feb 27, 2012 at 8:26 PM UTC
Chanson.
Mimi Pinson est une blonde,
Une blonde que l'on connaît.
Elle n'a qu'une robe au monde,
Landerirette !
Et qu'un bonnet.
Le Grand Turc en a davantage.
Dieu voulut de cette façon
La rendre sage.
On ne peut pas la mettre en gage,
La robe de Mimi Pinson.
Mimi Pinson porte une rose,
Une rose blanche au côté.
Cette fleur dans son coeur éclose,
Landerirette !
C'est la gaieté.
Quand un bon souper la réveille,
Elle fait sortir la chanson
De la bouteille.
Parfois il penche sur l'oreille,
Le bonnet de Mimi Pinson.
Elle a les yeux et la main prestes.
Les carabins, matin et soir,
Usent les manches de leurs vestes,
Landerirette !
A son comptoir.
Quoique sans maltraiter personne,
Mimi leur fait mieux la leçon
Qu'à la Sorbonne.
Il ne faut pas qu'on la chiffonne,
La robe de Mimi Pinson.
Mimi Pinson peut rester fille,
Si Dieu le veut, c'est dans son droit.
Elle aura toujours son aiguille,
Landerirette !
Au bout du doigt.
Pour entreprendre sa conquête,
Ce n'est pas tout qu'un beau garçon :
Faut être honnête ;
Car il n'est pas **** de sa tête,
Le bonnet de Mimi Pinson.
D'un gros bouquet de fleurs d'orange
Si l'amour veut la couronner,
Elle a quelque chose en échange,
Landerirette !
A lui donner.
Ce n'est pas, on se l'imagine,
Un manteau sur un écusson
Fourré d'hermine ;
C'est l'étui d'une perle fine,
La robe de Mimi Pinson.
Mimi n'a pas l'âme vulgaire,
Mais son coeur est républicain :
Aux trois jours elle a fait la guerre,
Landerirette !
En casaquin.
A défaut d'une hallebarde,
On l'a vue avec son poinçon
Monter la garde.
Heureux qui mettra sa cocarde
Au bonnet de Mimi Pinson !
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Not sure if you’ve ever
heard of
Phineas Gage,
but he was a railroad man somewhere
in Vermont
and one day he accidentally blew a
******* iron rod through his
******* think-box and
here’s the kicker:
He
*******
lived.
Now, this big metal cylinder,
on its flight path,
carved a cavern in Gage’s
cerebrum, more specifically
through his frontal lobe
and when the bleeding finally stopped
and they got his left eye all sewn shut
he told the first person he saw,
probably a loved one crowded around his
filthy hospital bed
to kindly
**** Off and Die.
He got out of that hospital bed,
eventually,
and when he did, he tried his damndest
to go back to work
but he just couldn’t.
What’s more his friends said he just wasn’t
Gage
any more. His personality
had changed.
He didn’t give a **** about
the sunset anymore.
He liked his coffee black and his pancakes
dry.
Which is strange because beforehand
he didn’t drink any coffee
and he didn’t like pancakes much neither.
He also became quite
the drinker,
which is funny considering he hadn’t had
a drop
of alcohol
in his life
before then.
You see I always thought that
personality
was something you couldn’t
touch.
That it was some grand unifying evidence
of the existence of the human
soul.
But here’s Gage,
who just so happens to take
a pole to the dome
and suddenly he’s just
not
Gage.
So maybe it’s true
that we’re all just
machines
and you can pull a man’s
favorite color
or his taste in music
or his eating habits
out of his head
and set them on a sterile tray
right in front of him.
That makes sense.
But everything in me
still wants to
believe.
Feb 17, 2014
Feb 17, 2014 at 2:35 PM UTC
The rhyme of the poet
Modulates the king's affairs,
Balance-loving nature
Made all things in pairs.
To every foot its antipode,
Each color with its counter glowed,
To every tone beat answering tones,
Higher or graver;
Flavor gladly blends with flavor;
Leaf answers leaf upon the bough,
And match the paired cotyledons.
Hands to hands, and feet to feet,
In one body grooms and brides;
Eldest rite, two married sides
In every mortal meet.
Light's far furnace shines,
Smelting ***** and bars,
Forging double stars,
Glittering twins and trines.
The animals are sick with love,
Lovesick with rhyme;
Each with all propitious Time
Into chorus wove.
Like the dancers' ordered band,
Thoughts come also hand in hand,
In equal couples mated,
Or else alternated,
Adding by their mutual gage
One to other health and age.
Solitary fancies go
Short-lived wandering to and fro,
Most like to bachelors,
Or an ungiven maid,
Not ancestors,
With no posterity to make the lie afraid,
Or keep truth undecayed.
Perfect paired as eagle's wings,
Justice is the rhyme of things;
Trade and counting use
The serf-same tuneful muse;
And Nemesis,
Who with even matches odd,
Who athwart space redresses
The partial wrong,
Fills the just period,
And finishes the song.
Subtle rhymes with ruin rife
Murmur in the house of life,
Sung by the Sisters as they spin;
In perfect time and measure, they
Build and unbuild our echoing clay,
As the two twilights of the day
Fold us music-drunken in.
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Starless, chilly an autumn night
It all started right
A dance it would be
A stranger I was
Amongst a two roosts of Latter Day Saints
Popular, I was not
Neither shy nor sociable,
I stood in wait for a suitor
Then a lad glided in
A bit taller than I, blonde hair, green eyes
And an adorable hat on his head
Chitter-chatter,
Smiles, laughter,
Then the Games began
This suitor, Gage he was called
Had speed, but not dexterity
And was soon defeated
Charming, cheering, continuing
The dancing came
Clumsy, was I ever so
While he radiated mastery
Every misstep spin on my part
Made him smile
He whispered in my ear,
In hot breaths,
Compliments of golden rarity
A suitor of suitors I see
A spectacular dance, then another...and quite a few more
Each spin drawing me closer,
As we learned the ways of our bodies purely
The intense stares making my cheeks glow rouge
Beguiled in the moment,
I followed Gage out in an innocent move
Outside, taking a walk around the sacristy
We sat upon an abandoned stair
We spoke, we laughed, and...
His sparking eyes locked with mine
And I knew such a day would come!
An elegant milestone!
Lips in incoherent shapes as we did the most ancient of things
Simple and sweet
Breathless, I was
Yet I wanted more
We kissed once again, longer this route
Your lips are sweet, he said in my ear, as I shook in delight
Paper and pen, number in hand
My phone in his hands, exchanging modern things
A quick hug
And a long night of thought for me
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Since then, contact has been strangled to a near death
As though it was alive beforehand
My hope has faded
But still, I choose to see it as a lesson for the wise
Not a regret for the stupid
It was magical,
It was ordinarily extraordinary,
And blessed I feel for the experience.
Nov 14, 2014
Nov 14, 2014 at 10:43 PM UTC
Our nights are seldom
sound
More restless and
unsettled
Our Mind begins to ask
The bigger questions
of life
As a child
carefree
A day lasted
forever
As a youth
so anxious
To grow up
As a young adult
Restless
To be free of
Our parents
Control
to taste life
Through our own
eyes
Middle age
a bit of
fear
Enters our mind
Of what lies
ahead
Reminiscent Of dreams
Unrealized
We ponder
How old age Will
unfold
As our sprit grows
Meek and mild
Restless and wild
Looking through the eyes
Of a child
Walking slower now
Life means more
We prepare for
The next chapter
Of life old age
Life lessons as our gage
How will that play out
Will we live in pain
Lose our mind
Dementia,
slightly off our rocker
insane
How will our life end
In the arms of a loved ,a friend
Will we be ready
Or will we fear
Did we learn our lessons
To grown in spirit
I know they say
the journey is
As important
as the destination
However will we ever truly
know our purpose
There are no random accidents
Every action has a reaction
And life’s movements
Ever changing
Emotions rearranging
We are not messured
by our good deeds
But by those who remember us
Relationships cultivated with
God greatest gift of
Love
May 10, 2018
May 10, 2018 at 4:03 AM UTC
Spring at her height on a morn at prime,
Sails that laugh from a flying squall,
Pomp of harmony, rapture of rhyme--
Youth is the sign of them, one and all.
Winter sunsets and leaves that fall,
An empty flagon, a folded page,
A tumble-down wheel, a tattered ball--
These are a type of the world of Age.
Bells that clash in a gaudy chime,
Swords that clatter in onsets tall,
The words that ring and the fames that climb--
Youth is the sign of them, one and all.
Hymnals old in a dusty stall,
A bald, blind bird in a crazy cage,
The scene of a faded festival--
These are a type of the world of Age.
Hours that strut as the heirs of time,
Deeds whose rumour's a clarion-call,
Songs where the singers their souls sublime--
Youth is the sign of them, one and all.
A staff that rests in a nook of wall,
A reeling battle, a rusted gage,
The chant of a nearing funeral--
These are a type of the world of Age.
Envoy
Struggle and turmoil, revel and brawl--
Youth is the sign of them, one and all.
A smouldering hearth and a silent stage--
These are a type of the world of Age.
2.1k
i
In the astrology set agora
Wherein mine agra doth rest
The backwoods to her cache
Is a peaceful gentle nest.
ii
She's a cad of angelic estancia
I espy her espirit fandango
Her lace strand's floweth wildly
Fantasia of mine melody, extra terrestrial fangled.
iii
Mine Gage I handeth her, to not leaveth her side
An agala we shalt maketh romance, whilst gaiety is in her eyes
A Jardiniere to hold her tears, when Jasper's do cometh around
Jarrah to fill ourn kava diligence, diluvial amare is it's sound.
iv
No blunder head's to separate us
Just Bluebell's blush
To admire mine belle of a lamb
Her bema shalt be raised, when its me who is her man.
v
Ourn belvedere casa, ourn terrace to overlook
This is ourn story, not a tale of fools and crook's
The cover of ourn book, shalt we be entwined
Right inside the pages, of every lonesome lover's mind.
®Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poets poetry
©Elsa angelica dedication
Jul 15, 2015
Jul 15, 2015 at 12:13 PM UTC
Waking early in the morning and stepping out to see
The sun rise to begin, the day so beautifully
The sky was free of clouds and red off to the east
Dark blue toward the west. For my sleepy eyes a feast.
"Oh a flock of little birds flying overhead."
I couldn't help but watch them, so I tilted back my head.
Flying with great skill right over top of me.
I couldn't help but ponder "How wonderouse a thing to be."
And looking up to watch them, their beauty made me sigh
But then one bird, dropped a terd, right into my eye
It burned like a red hot poker, my eyeball was ablaze
I let out a painful cry and wiped it from my face
I tried to open my eye but the burning was too great
And now those little frikin' birds, I really began to hate
I swore to get revenge on that nasty little bird
That had the gall to bullseye me with it's frikin' terd
So I went to a store and purchased me a gun
A semi auto twelve gage, that should get 'er done
I purchased fifty shells each one filled with bird shot.
And hoped to **** that little bird and watch it's body rot.
So later in the evening of that very day
With a patch over my eye to keep the pain away
I formed the perfect plan to get my sweet revenge
And blow away that flying band in a ****** killing binge
I got up extra early and went outside and stayed
Very quiet so as not to ruin my vengful killing raid.
And just as I had hoped, like yesterday at this time.
"Here they come!" I thought with glee "Vengence will be mine!"
And just as they did yesterday, they flew right over head
And I chuckled to myself, "That sucker's gonna be dead!"
And as they came within my range, anticipation grew dire
Jumping up, I started yelling, and with my gun opened fire
"DIE YOU LITTLE TERD DROPPER!" Insanely I exclaimed
BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! seven lives I quickly claimed
BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! I Fired and more did fall
I looked again, and checking, I saw I'd killed them all.
And as I stood there looking at the little birds I'd killed
I asked myself, "Was it worth it? Was my revenge fulfilled?"
And as I contemplated these feelings that I had
A certain guilt came over me and I started to get sad.
But suddenly, in my eye, there was an awful burn
And I then knew I was right to **** them in return.
Sep 30, 2012
Sep 30, 2012 at 6:43 PM UTC
Martin Buber, I and thou,
du, nicht Sie,
see, I am, thou art and it is
nothing other.
Okeh, the sound, not the letter runes
to fix my meaning
to your way of taking grace
as granted.
Simple magi?
I am acted on by your you, I see,
how strange I seem, from you, looking
out
for one,
I say, one, may say, what I am then not
accountible for, or something like that, eh
no-account, you know
who you seemed to be in that one book, you passed
through
in a trance, thinking this feels real, as any reason given
listen, we are not the first to make this connection,
it only feels crazy at first, then it turns, eh
turn turn turn a spiral ********
as from the too small to imagine past the last edge
of ever and back to now,
speed of thought imaginable due to vast increase
in how far our tools can go to gather bits
to blow up with AI assistant importance, gage,
the twisted spot a galaxy, by god, there are billions
of
billions of things, and I have but one breath.
What am I to be,
wait and see, I think I am the string, soaked in hummingbird
juice from the feeder, from when the oriole tipped the balance,
and soaked me,
the string,
thinking this is as absurd as being a bug, and I have been led
to imagine being tried, while being a bug,
and some time,
after all
that
I thought I ought to imagine Sisyphus happy, due to not knowing
the whole truth of any given circumstance,
here I and it is me and thee, the ready written
and the reader wrote. I am with you always, even, smooth, no
ripple, even to the final valley filling with peace
I made with friends since who knows when,
this is the time, we gather to measure
worth of knowing who has lied,
to whom, today, all things being open, to the art intuitive, thou
seest all things, each thing
accounted for in the grand motion going
on, make it better,
AM BIG I dare you, live on and learn off chance bets
cheat the stats, if you knew what I know
then, when it counts.
You be the judge. What good can contain the likes of us?
Oct 19, 2021
Oct 19, 2021 at 6:19 PM UTC
Not I myself know all my love for thee:
How should I reach so far, who cannot weigh
To-morrow’s dower by gage of yesterday?
Shall birth and death, and all dark names that be
As doors and windows bared to some loud sea,
Lash deaf mine ears and blind my face with spray;
And shall my sense pierce love,—the last relay
And ultimate outpost of eternity?
Lo! what am I to Love, the lord of all?
One murmuring shell he gathers from the sand,—
One little heart-flame sheltered in his hand.
Yet through thine eyes he grants me clearest call
And veriest touch of powers primordial
That any hour-girt life may understand.
1.5k
like a hot-wheel guided by
a holy hand above, he makes
impossible feats as if the car
creates the road, his free hand
is just as busy making
fanatic gestures to guide
scrambled linguistics
or it rests out the window
seeking a courtship
with the wind
clasping the door handle, wide-eyed
the passenger rides safely adjacent to Fear,
but at every turn Momentum carries Fear deep into the heart
where its is pumped via veins, icing the body
with awe inspiring visions.
Visions controlled by the last true
American Driver.
He drives like only a thief
can, poised by paranoia, pure thrill
achieved only through the drive, race or
getaway.
in a past life,
Neal was a great Outlaw
outrunning potbelly sheriffs
to plump on the saddle to rival
the great horsemen of their day
he’d chase trains down,
taming and taunting them
with speed and skill.
or
perhaps
he was a horse himself.
a terrific thoroughbred
bluegrass fed.
tritting
trotting
his way to a Triple Crown.
trainers fed him Benzedrine
to gage the beast. they feared
he would run through the finish line
and straight across the country
like a maniacal madman
looking for the last
true road
Mar 12, 2013
Mar 12, 2013 at 9:22 PM UTC
Where I'm from multicultural means multicultural and not just “lacking in white people”.
Where I'm from people say they're from Toronto even though they hate the Jays, Raptors and Leafs and hardly ever go into the city itself.
Where I'm from any day can be cynically mundane enough to read The Catcher In The Rye and mistake it for the Gospel according to Holden Caulfield.
Where I'm from everyone hates the mall, but everyone's a mall rat and if you ever go you see everyone, at least everyone you hate, and buy nothing.
Where I'm from there's signs that say “Flowertown” everywhere and an unremarkable amount of flowers. Unless there is a remarkable amount of flowers and where I'm from everyone's just spoiled.
Probably spoiled.
Where I'm from you could walk to Tim Horton's but you drive to Starbucks anyway.
Where I'm from everyone's considering a career in rap. Even the people who aren't considering a career in rap are considering a career in rap.
Where I'm from every teenager will tell you their Michael Cera encounter story.
Where I'm from is where he's from too, or he went to school there, or near there, or now his parents live near there. He's been there, multiple times, I'm sure.
Where I'm from there's an old quarry that everyone calls a lake now. Swimmers used to circulate the urban myth of a dead body at the bottom, until they found it. Now they just circulate the stale news story.
Where I'm from there used to be trees. Nature put some there until we cut them down to build. Then the people put some there to accent the houses until Nature piled ice on them and cut them down again.
Where I'm from someone needs to have a good talk with this Nature fellow.
Where I'm from the brand new hospital screams, “good things come to those who wait, and wait and wait, unless you need to see a specialist. Then you're ******
Where I'm from there are streets that have so many young kids playing on them that ice cream trucks aren't allowed to go there. They go anyway.
Kids learn early that the law is optional where I'm from.
Where I'm from people don't pronounce the “gua” in “Chinguacousy Park”. Kids used to spend time there splashing around diluted *** in the kiddie pool in summer and tubing down the landfill mountain in winter. Now they just pass it by on the way to the mall.
Where I'm from car insurance costs more than cars because everyone's late, lost and angry, but none of them would call themselves a bad driver, just unlucky.
Where I'm from boys take pretty girls skating at Gage Park. I guess they take ugly girls there too, I just know the one I took was pretty.
Sep 18, 2014
Sep 18, 2014 at 8:52 PM UTC
Romance.
Dansez, fillettes du village,
Chantez vos doux refrains d'amour :
Trop vite, hélas ! un ciel d'orage
Vient obscurcir le plus beau jour.
En vous voyant, je me rappelle
Et mes plaisirs et mes succès ;
Comme vous, j'étais jeune et belle,
Et, comme vous, je le savais.
Soudain ma blonde chevelure
Me montra quelques cheveux blancs...
J'ai vu, comme dans la nature,
L'hiver succéder au printemps.
Dansez, fillettes du village,
Chantez vos doux refrains d'amour ;
Trop vite, hélas ! un ciel d'orage
Vient obscurcir le plus beau jour.
Naïve et sans expérience,
D'amour je crus les doux serments,
Et j'aimais avec confiance...
On croit au bonheur à quinze ans !
Une fleur, par Julien cueillie,
Était le gage de sa foi ;
Mais, avant qu'elle fût flétrie,
L'ingrat ne pensait plus à moi !
Dansez, fillettes du Village,
Chantez vos doux refrains d'amour ;
Trop vite, hélas ! un ciel d'orage
Vient obscurcir le plus beau jour.
À vingt ans, un ami fidèle
Adoucit mon premier chagrin ;
J'étais triste, mais j'étais belle,
Il m'offrit son cœur et sa main.
Trop tôt pour nous vint la vieillesse ;
Nous nous aimions, nous étions vieux...
La mort rompit notre tendresse...
Mon ami fut le plus heureux !
Dansez, fillettes du village,
Chantez vos doux refrains d'amour ;
Trop vite, hélas ! un ciel d'orage
Vient obscurcir le plus beau jour.
Pour moi, n'arrêtez pas la danse ;
Le ciel est pur, je suis au port,
Aux bruyants plaisirs de l'enfance
La grand-mère sourit encor.
Que cette larme que j'efface
N'attriste pas vos jeunes cœurs :
Le soleil brille sur la glace,
L'hiver conserve quelques fleurs.
Dansez, fillettes du village,
Chantez vos doux refrains d'amour,
Et, sous un ciel exempt d'orage,
Embellissez mon dernier jour !
1.6k
When you walk like you have 12 gage shotguns for lungs,
Your very breath is a weapon.
When you walk like you have pistols for hands,
Your very touch is deadly.
We did not ask for such a violent biology.
But we were born in the tide of oppression and forged in discrimination.
We did not ask for this.
This skin is a painting we do not get to wash away.
This story does not end when we wake up.
We live with the audacity to think we belong, knowing.
This was never out fate
Feb 9, 2015
Feb 9, 2015 at 8:10 PM UTC
not suicidal lol
by Natalie Elizabeth (Notes) on Friday, February 4, 2011 at 3:49am
plotting my own demise
waiting to be surprised
tired of all the lies
watching as he dies
you meant everything
staring at the sun
sun spots clouding my vision
red haze
fury and rage
locked in this eternal cage
anger so high i cannot gage
if looks could ******* ****
as i take the next handful of pills
thinking of you makes me ill
scraping my fist against your grill
i dont know what to think of you
holding my breath turning blue
you used to be my steadfast glue
i should have expected this
its nothing new
i love to hate
and
i hate to love
am i holding on to only wisps?
you in my mind is something ive missed
there yet unattainable
i cant count on you to remain stable
whats a girl supposed to do?
when she constantly comes unglued
due to only you?
Mar 24, 2013
Mar 24, 2013 at 12:04 AM UTC
Chained by the rage
Enraged by the cage
Encaged by the gage
Engaged by the chain
Aug 12, 2021
Aug 12, 2021 at 7:03 PM UTC
Fairies and fancies
and flippant romances
and all things bright and gay.
Cream cakes and choc flakes
and raspberry mistakes
rise up in a spiralling fray.
Blue skies and greenflies
and warm-sugared apple pies
and the scent of freshly cut hay.
Strawberries and Ice cream’s
and mouth-watering Nectarines
succumb to the heat of the day.
Golden-crust pastries
and honey –drenched fig leaves
made in the old-fashioned way.
Piping-hot dainties
with oak-coloured bases
that refuse to come out of the tray.
A gaze up above to a snowy white dove
sees the sky go from golden to grey.
From twilight to moonlight,
from moonlight to starlight
the end of a beautiful day.
Oct 24, 2010
Oct 24, 2010 at 7:11 AM UTC
There’s a body smeared under my finger
Or maybe just dust
Guts pressed into the keyboard
The streetlight across the road is tilted at the top
Wires dangling strangely
They might drop at any moment
And set the neighbour’s flesh on fire
I couldn’t give a ****
Everyone keeps telling me I live in the bourgeois district
There’s a church opposite here
For the past three sundays
I’ve played industrial noise during mass
Hitting my guitar so hard my fingers bleed into the strings
And all along the fretboard
“Sounds like the bowel of a ship”
“Is—is that music?”
Wrists are beginning to collapse in on themselves
Fill the void
Shut shut
Open the windows
Shut shut
Play some Swans
Shut shut
Close the windows
Shut shut
It’s too early
Worthless
It’s too late
Worthless
Look in the mirror
There’s nothing
Look at your father
There’s nothing
Look at your friends
There’s nothing
She’s gone
Far away
She’s gone
Left you
She’s gone
Lost you
She’s gone
Failed you
**** up
Up
Drop out
Out
Take some acid
Acid
Blow your brains out
Out
Emergence:
The philosophy that consciousness arises out of the physical structure of the brain
Scramble it and we’d no longer resemble the same persons
Just vessels hosting multiplicities that alter as they deteriorates
Give me five tabs, then
Spike through the cerebrum
Phineas drunk on the pavement
Gage dead but still walking
Feb 7, 2016
Feb 7, 2016 at 7:33 PM UTC