"garnered" poems
THE POETRY SERIES
*It is the poetry of little things that causes the earth to shred and shudder
The poetry of little things that ignites the greatest moments of bliss.
A smile from a little child,
A chuckle from a stranger.
The warmth of a knitted family
The entwining of old friends
The humming from the sea shores
The journey of the moonlight
The waves, the traveling waves
The Sea, the meandering sea
The Earth, the boundless earth
And the sweet song that nature sings.
These little things, garnered with the greatest love
Observed in silence
It is this poetry,
The poetry of little things that elicit the greatest happiness*
Ovi Odiete© All right reserved
Jan 18, 2017
Jan 18, 2017 at 7:28 PM UTC
It's a dance
It really is
Skip and prance
Lifelong practice
Loop of songs
Never ending
Of various genres
Life is playing
There's the spotlight
World is awaiting
Pressure of eyes
Silently watching
Take your place
Assume your position
Execute with finesse
And flawless precision
Spin your pirouettes
Don't get dizzy
Maintain your poise
In this revelry
Along comes a partner
Present as a duo
The game now altered
From when you were solo
Two bodies now
Move in unison
Reciprocate and reply
Through steps made in heaven
Flighty feet
Intertwined bodies limbre
Sweet little performance
Elapsing into forever
With grace of ballet
Each other you'd catch
Intimate display
Think you've found your match
There'll come such time
Both will not be in sync
Episodes of missteps
Push you to the brink
Alone again
Or switch of partners
Find solace in groups
Still dancing for answers
Dancing with others
Much you can learn
From hip hop to the waltz
Together or in turn
Try to adapt
To different styles
Soak up all you can
May take a while
I've danced all my life
Can't say that I've mastered
Fair share of jeers
And accolades I've garnered
Always clumsy
Exceedingly awkward
Tripping and falling
Barely proceeding forward
It's just this dance
One with syncopated beats
It's just this prance
That my gait can't meet
It's just this stance
I often use as retreat
I realised in a glance
That I have...but
two left feet
Oct 2, 2014
Oct 2, 2014 at 5:36 AM UTC
For long, my house has been lying deserted
My gate has not been opened wide to let in anyone
No guest has so far come to visit me
Tired of distant wanderings
I have come here to listen to the beat of silence
Occasionally broken by the sound
Of birds' laughing wings overhead
Here I have brooding shadows for company
Hermit like I wrap myself in my solitude
Now abruptly when you announce your arrival
I feel excited and equally perplexed
What shall I serve you? I am at a loss
My hearth has not been lighted for long
And my kitchen pots remain empty
I know I should serve you
Something chilled or warm
In my menu, I have a simple surprise
But not of the edible kind
Nor delectable to your palate
But as I have known you since long
I hope it will appease you
In poetry’s platter
I shall serve my thoughts warm,
Garnered in the lonely hours
Of my solitude!
The only dish I have!
Jun 30, 2016
Jun 30, 2016 at 6:26 AM UTC
It is over. What is over?
Nay, how much is over truly!--
Harvest days we toiled to sow for;
Now the sheaves are gathered newly,
Now the wheat is garnered duly.
It is finished. What is finished?
Much is finished known or unknown:
Lives are finished; time diminished;
Was the fallow field left unsown?
Will these buds be always unblown?
It suffices. What suffices?
All suffices reckoned rightly:
Spring shall bloom where now the ice is,
Roses make the bramble sightly,
And the quickening sun shine brightly,
And the latter wind blow lightly,
And my garden teem with spices.
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Stealing away from the noise and glare
I paced the aisles of an ancient library
Being worn and tired, indisposed to read
I sat in a corner, lost in half reverie
Around me were books stacked end on end
In safely locked glass and wooden shelves
And sectioned into different genres
Fiction, non- fiction, verse et al, in thinly layered leaves
I felt lost in this vast continent of erudite friends
Poet, scholar, philosopher and sage, each sat quiet
But those silent souls seemed to crave for human touch
Waiting to serve anytime learning’s lovesome diet
Closely sheltered from the tumult of the world
The place, though serene had an eerie air
And books like so many beauties in a harem
Were kept away in seclusion just to admire
The lifeless air and the long deserted look
Mildly disturbed my inner calm
Couldn’t digest man’s total disregard of books
Which for long, to many a lonely soul, served as balm
Sitting amid those gallant souls
I thought over the relentless efforts of sage like men
Who in the stillness of the night, in their cloistured cells
Plunged into research and meditative reflection
What knowledge is garnered in these tomes!
What all charms, encased in these pages!
To what magic lands they can carry us
Sharing with us the accumulated wisdom of ages
With the profusion of electronic gadgets
And information, readily available by a finger hit
Books no more are given a venerable treat
And fated to be stashed away in corners unlit
Heavy with the time tested wisdom of the wise
They sit huddled together in damp corners
Longing to get a little human warmth
But sadly neglected like rusted burners
After an hour’s enervating reprieve
While I was leaving that dumb world
In my ears, fell a faint sound
Of the agonizing cry of the Printed Word!
Jul 15, 2018
Jul 15, 2018 at 8:58 AM UTC
There was once a girl...this girl decided to write to her hearts content. passionate poems of love, dark scary tales of woe, you name it she wrote it, but one day someone came up to her and asked,
"Why do you write such garbage? like seriously, you'll never be any good, cause this just ain't your thing, so hurry up and quit wasting our time with your waste of space and just stop already, my god"
...
This however, took the girl by total surprise, she had honestly thought her works where good, she kept getting such good responses and so many likes on each poem she wrote....
so where had this come from?!
...
She didn't understand, so she shoved it out of her mind and continued, but with each new work came new insults:
"wow, what utter trash"
"you call this good?"
"what a load of crap!"
"don't make me laugh"
"you should just hurry up and quit writing such ****** 'work'"
"hurry up and just stop already"
"woooooooooooow, this is good...NOT!"
"kys you dumb ----"
"just die"
...
And so it continued. each work garnered a new response.
the girl tried to ignore them all, but then the one hater grew to more and more and more, soon she had an entire mob of them yelling "KYS" at her.
....
she had had enough, so she asked,
"do you really want me to stop?"
she got her responses soon enough,
and by the following monday she had made headline news:
The Poet Who Commited Suicide.
...
At least they got what they wanted....right?
Nov 11, 2019
Nov 11, 2019 at 12:42 AM UTC
I.
The corn has turned from grey to red,
Since first my spirit wandered forth
From the drear cities of the north,
And to Italia’s mountains fled.
And here I set my face towards home,
For all my pilgrimage is done,
Although, methinks, yon blood-red sun
Marshals the way to Holy Rome.
O Blessed Lady, who dost hold
Upon the seven hills thy reign!
O Mother without blot or stain,
Crowned with bright crowns of triple gold!
O Roma, Roma, at thy feet
I lay this barren gift of song!
For, ah! the way is steep and long
That leads unto thy sacred street.
II.
And yet what joy it were for me
To turn my feet unto the south,
And journeying towards the Tiber mouth
To kneel again at Fiesole!
And wandering through the tangled pines
That break the gold of Arno’s stream,
To see the purple mist and gleam
Of morning on the Apennines
By many a vineyard-hidden home,
Orchard and olive-garden grey,
Till from the drear Campagna’s way
The seven hills bear up the dome!
III.
A pilgrim from the northern seas—
What joy for me to seek alone
The wondrous temple and the throne
Of him who holds the awful keys!
When, bright with purple and with gold
Come priest and holy cardinal,
And borne above the heads of all
The gentle Shepherd of the Fold.
O joy to see before I die
The only God-anointed king,
And hear the silver trumpets ring
A triumph as he passes by!
Or at the brazen-pillared shrine
Holds high the mystic sacrifice,
And shows his God to human eyes
Beneath the veil of bread and wine.
IV.
For lo, what changes time can bring!
The cycles of revolving years
May free my heart from all its fears,
And teach my lips a song to sing.
Before yon field of trembling gold
Is garnered into dusty sheaves,
Or ere the autumn’s scarlet leaves
Flutter as birds adown the wold,
I may have run the glorious race,
And caught the torch while yet aflame,
And called upon the holy name
Of Him who now doth hide His face.
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Then there are these moments
When your constant addition and subtractions,
Not finalized,
But put aside,
For the smallest of tokens become the
Largesse of life.
I am writing a long poem that is yet unfinished,
Of Richard II, Bach, and the death of a king,
King Ego, the battle infernal of vanity, insecurity,
And the constancy, the sense that one is never good enough.
Then sacked, for a loss, behind the goal line,
By the few, the kind, the genteel.
From nowhere, sought not, comes quiet thanks,
Appreciation that makes my angst seem
Petty and childish, smaller than small.
One draws a deep breath,
In no rush to exhale.
Then as luck would have it,
Pachelbel's Canon In D Major arrives,
An uninvited, most lovely, most timely guest,
and I am on the floor
Weeping unashamedly that the kindness of the
Few, the kind, the genteel lift me up and tissue my tears.
Unclear and unknown what I have done to deserve
Such affection, for all I have proffered are a few words,
An insight or two garnered from reading between the lines.
I understand less, emote more, and head spun,
I, poet, defenseless, for I am inadequate to the task.
I feel your hands upon my elbows,
Your arms around my shoulders,
I, am poet risen,
Words not insufficient, for
Words deemed unnecessary.
For I am poet risen,
Up, up, up by the
Uncompromising embrace of the
Few, the kind, the genteel.
Sep 22, 2013
Sep 22, 2013 at 4:48 PM UTC
We watched the sun fall down and scrape its knee again, across the horizon.
Effusing amaranth, carmine, and cochineal across polluted vista.
It felt petty to issue guttural laughs, or engage the myofacial crescents beneath its visual lament as the Earth turned its back again.
We watched the sun rise, bruised, tender and shy this morning.
Its muddled contusion obviated by the gauze of fog.
A mottled neophyte -
Luminescent crepuscular rays defied dregs of interstellar debris and cloud.
Aching to kiss your skin -
In stellar cloud nursery, it eschewed the torque of orbit and gravity - eras before verity of your essence.
Humbly settling concentrically about oblate sphere, and gaseous tome.
Latterly - It altered the atmospheric pressure on the other side of the planet a week antecedently, as you clung to your dream lattice, and Earth innately turned oblate nucleus.
Its intent –
A veneration of you.
It bade the atmosphere convey a breeze echoing about your dermis, as it gilded your frame laconically, betwixt shaded steps beneath cloud and arbor.
The sun yelled at me at its pinnacle today,
Pallid bone – molten - miasma of rage
Its core missive garnered inertia – coronal plasma warping ellipsoid factions in inflections of elusive filigree
Pirouetting spicules spattered smelted torrents in the dismal anchorite
Atomic schism – silent but felt
It stoked humidity under shadowed niche - casual vaporous smears evinced no clemency.
Flesh torqued, and seized beneath itself, briny globules shed from puckered pore.
Culminations of sensitive fluid sacs scorched into the shallows of my chassis.
Insignia knit in cellular shrapnel
The sun ignored me today – or perhaps, it was I it.
Enigmatic tenacious resolution – an echo of its gravitational collapse
Inverse thermonuclear fusion
It is not fear in a relationship that keeps you apart, it is neglect of the infinitesimal.
Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 9:13 PM UTC
humans born a mess,
messengers carrying blank notepads, sheet music,
brought from within to the without
a baby-sized handful of historical residues retained,
garnered from all too brief a prelim existence,
arriving possessing hints of what may be
most emerging crying,
crying over loss of the womb security,
for seers all, all see unaccountable futures clouded
by an inevitable chance of rain
and death
all of us, no one excepted,
covered for months in **** stained fluids ,
a holy, ***** combination
of amniotic nourishment,
and our own waste
a hint of what is to come?
human then spends the rest of life
cleaning up after himself,
mostly with tasks of addition,
punctuating by the occasional cleansing of
elimination subtraction
making room for the next love,
labored birthing of a baby poem,
from your womb, midwifed,
haunting ghosts of three note tunes,
begging for a set of lyrics and a
great chorus everybody can sing,
a completion competition
going along, all along, to the goings on,
all our routes preternatural crooked,
lived a life of pretense, a straightened out life,
which is the nuanced, connected summary of our components
which are all curves, dots on a line
and the composition source,
the secret chords employed,
tech installed just prior to birth,
effacing glorious sadness, glorious joy,
the human building blocks,
with the certainty that
*everybody knows,
that's how it goes
everybody knows,*
only fools believe,
you'll live forever
but live at least long enough to sing and write of
a man cleaning up his own life's messes,
and perchance, after our absence,
leaving the world better for it
Jan 7, 2017
Jan 7, 2017 at 10:49 AM UTC
Alone but together
over the Christmas days
time was not running out
for once the kitchen clock
had stopped looking at him
meaningfully and she
today a thing of beauty
of gathered curves
flowing in and from
that special frock
bought for an opening
(and perhaps worn once?)
she was lovelier then
than any woman
he had known or seen.
Earlier that morning in place of falling
ever falling towards passion’s state
he had lain peacefully beside her
and from his pillowed space in bed
had gazed . . . instead
They did the usual things
but with an unusual care
taking time with presents’ paper
savouring wine between sips of water
cutting into that well-iced cake
and sensing from a distant room
the scent of candles glimmering
On St Stephen’s Day
they’d upped and offed
into the glen that rose above the town
that held her world of work
of children house and home
walking up through bare winter trees
where far below a stream rushed valley-ward
undrowned for once by the traffic’s noise
and the sudden rush of the railway's train.
About to turn for home
he saw her stoop
to look to gather to pocket
Some sixth sense told him then
an idea had formed itself
when as between her fingers
she held five acorns from the path
not squirreled-perfect shiny ones
but damaged and in need of care
these cups and fruit garnered about
with slivers of broken oaken bark
Later she left them lying
on a sheet of card
their winter colours
true but hard
in the kitchen’s light
objects suddenly
removed from all disorder
of a woodland way.
An hour or so perhaps later
still with her small fingers
she had stitched until . .
no not stitched she said
darned with blue and red
and silk-golden thread
in between and then around
these fractured acorn shells
picked from the path with
the cracked and shattered
broken bark now made
good as new and mended well
Her smile expressed a triumph
and a joy of a doing done
and from laughing eyes
and heightened voice
he sensed something
stretch into time’s distance
something wholly private
she would guard
and hold and own
to be only hers
and only hers alone.
Dec 28, 2013
Dec 28, 2013 at 11:48 AM UTC
Ive got an Angel watchin
His tattered wings wrapped round my shoulder
Beaten, I lay broken, in tattered Angel wings
Bruised, I am battered, on tattered Angel wings.
Slowly I weaken, consciousness is gone
Bruises becomes badges, where bleeding used to be
Broken bones mend like solid stone, Granite on my feet
Ive got an Angel with tattered wings.
Ive got an Angel watchin
He mends the mangled mind, manic, megalomaniacal
He takes the blows my soul cant handle
Ive got an Angel with tattered wings.
Ive never said thank you for all that hes done
But without God, he would be none
So I give thanks to God
For the Angel with tattered wings.
His feathers in disarray, some missing
Wounds Garnered from a life commanded to protect one
Commanded to serve, no matter the cost, taking on what I lost
Ive got an Angel with tattered wings and when I'm taking
a leave from me he brings me back my sanity.
Feb 27, 2011
Feb 27, 2011 at 12:07 PM UTC
Let us fall,
Fall into a satin-sheeted bed,
As our passions push us into an intertwine,
As each touch waivers away our ornaments,
That are nothing but a bother,
So that our skins may kiss,
Let my lips caress upon you,
And caress I shall,
Till the roses of desire that blossom on your cheeks,
Grows and spread to all points intimate,
As the garnered juices of intimacy between your thighs,
Waterfalls down your legs,
Shall our hearts pound as hard as the bed rattles,
As we feast upon our lusts, as if there were no more morrows.
Feb 26, 2021
Feb 26, 2021 at 12:12 AM UTC
Cuckoo for Coco
the chap from Santa Monica
with his weapon slung over his shoulder
working it over upside down
it was the way he learned how to hold her
blue bullets shot out to the crowd
he smoothly garnered their attention
they understood by the piercing sounds
and his bad boy gravel voiced intention
he had his good days and his bad days
but he has never let me down
left-handed back-handed super cool tones
he pulls out the tears but never lets me drown
Gomer LePoet ....
Nov 13, 2011
Nov 13, 2011 at 12:13 PM UTC
I'm staring at this clock
Wishing I could turn back time.
To...Let's say...the summer
Of Nineteen Eighty Nine.
I just remembered something
I frankly failed to do.
And should have done at the time
I first thought to Kiss you.
What could have, that simple kiss become?
That simple kiss, that went left undone
A simple kiss from me to you
Just a simple kiss... or... two.
I am staring at the hands on this clock
Dreaming of how life could have been.
If only I garnered the courage
To Kiss you back then.
© Tina Thompson
May 10, 2012
May 10, 2012 at 7:10 PM UTC
A breathe of words ―
a gust of thought scattered;
welling silence ruptures
bulging vault chambers
with the patience
of tongue-tied hearts
In a long deep breath
pith of soul manifests;
rich with the breathing spirit
of life that's passed
A timeworn lid spinning
on a blue glass jar
Indigenous roots
and memories tender,
perpetuity gleaned
and garnered
on fruit cellar shelves
Segues of ancient culture ―
evolution derives
from many roots
trying to catch
time in a bottle;
a travelogue
of saved beginnings;
magic beans
in a mason jar
Life’s native seeds gathered ―
organic building blocks
the immemorial soul
of the earth sown
and reaped;
sprouting unstilted
continuum
for which
ever fleeting time
cannot hold
Jesse e Stillwater
09 May 2018
May 12, 2018
May 12, 2018 at 12:54 PM UTC
.
There’s an ancient duct tape patched
roller suitcase still up in the attic,
scarred by sky miles and undiscerning
indifference; it came to rest like a final breath
exhaled at the end of the long road ―
In the dusty rafters of silent repose
the death of an alter-ego comes to life
and jars and jogs the sleeping dogs
that lay benign as a pothole riddled road
Holding onto memories buried alive,
hidden away remembered ―
sans wings to fly away
laid bare unweighed with the weight
of everything else garnered and saved
subsisting in a shallow grave;
hoarded and hidden away breathing
locked up with the other baggage borne
behind tired eyes
Feeling the ache of blood stained knees
falling down sullied at the side of the road
Hindsight and a roll of duct taped memories
linger; stuck to the grey bandage scars,
second guessing should have thrown out
with the permanently temporary
fading plasticized luggage name-tags
back when I was still close enough to care;
too many miles to reconsider ago
Some say: "it's the journey not the destination" .
Some day when its too late we'll know
Some day it will be too late to make amends
for everything i could not be ...
harlon rivers ... 07 06 2018
Jun 9, 2018
Jun 9, 2018 at 11:52 AM UTC
*Bewildered and haunted through flashes of memories that relive themselves
I sit and ponder and look into the sky
there is no pain greater than been lost in SELF
battling with a STRONG shadow called SADNESS
she stalks and haunts and bring you moments of agony
she comes along with her sister ANGUISH
and they taunt you,
galvanising and pinpointing your mind to the PAST you left behind*
OH SADNESS!!!!!
*have you not rendered men a roaming wretch for years?
are you not content with the tears you have drank from your millions of subscribers?
are you not pained because of happiness and her many gifts?
when will you leave the vulnerable ones and stop feeding on their weaknesses?
for how long will you continue to taunt MEN with their horrible past and perceived failure?*
*You are hopeless and weak and so you feed on people's misery alongside with your heartrending sister called ANGUISH
Leave us alone,
for we do not want to commune with you
you are meant to die alone,
but you have garnered so many souls as your followers
reminding them of their most terrible past
conjuring pieces of AGONY
and feeding them with misery's venom
you are a witch SADNESS
and you dwell in the dark
you mesmerise us with beautiful tragedies and allure us into your cavernous seeking kingdom*
*ARISE
eschew sadness
before she infects you with her incurable disease
SADNESS has no home
and so she roams*
Ovi Odiete© 2016 All Rights reserved.
Jul 16, 2016
Jul 16, 2016 at 3:29 PM UTC
The mighty hand of God
pinches the valve in my heart,
blocking blood flow,
causing clots,
His fingers blot out the sun,
and close my mind,
to art and poetry,
His breath and mere mention of his son,
send me in to convulsion,
and I spring forth in revolution!
Garnered force during rest,
attacked at the weakest point of night,
this hand, your hand, coil around like snake,
sheathed in good graces,
appearance transforms to wolf,
dogged teeth reared, mouth foaming,
howling of justice, in a wild froth.
I have no choice but to cast forth the stones,
from bile duct, passed by my good graces.
Now a tired warrior,
I exist as a Devil in disguise,
my war paint faded,
as I'm touched by the longing,
I can understand the plight,
but I can't stand being poked and prodded,
by the Mighty hands that choke,
and they all Know the workings of valve and heart,
as they perpetrate
'His' artful form.
http://www.robross.ca
May 15, 2010
May 15, 2010 at 8:50 AM UTC
on a hillside facing north
into an infinite blue Jersey sky
Sarah was laid to rest
on a brilliant crisp
Monday morning
she was surrounded by
loved ones and friendly
Highland Peaks
gathered together this
Thanksgiving week
to praise, honor and
give thanks for the
the life of a beloved
transfigured soul
Sarah entered
the world with nothing
yet departs on wings
filled with an abundance
of riches garnered
from a well lived life
she nurtured generations
of family and fostered
a bounty of diverse friendships
all who count themselves
fortunate to have experienced
the grace of her love
Sarah was a
strong loving matron
of a vibrant clan
her home
filled with
laughter
and the chatter
of children
guests found
a hearty
welcome
and genuine
hospitality
her door, ear
hearth and heart
always open
to anyone
in need of
refuge,
understanding,
a good laugh or
a loving embrace
Sarah's legacy
bequeaths an
extended lineage
of flourishing children
blessedly assuring
her presence
remains a vital
life force in the
spirit of future
descendants
as Sarah was
committed to a
final earthly embrace
to rejoin her
beloved husband
George
white wisps
of gentle
cirrus clouds
gathered to
anoint the brow
of reverent
Highland crests
Well done
Aunt Sally
God bless you
and Godspeed
Fleetwood Mac:
Landslide
Sarah C. Lundberg
Born: August 01, 1933
Died: November 18, 2015
Feb 2, 2016
Feb 2, 2016 at 1:32 PM UTC
The warm autumn breeze
scatters the leaves
like spring snowflakes
I carefully hand stack
them each by color,
one by one,
as if they were
befallen dreams
or
similarly unholdable
gathered
garnered memories
•
each leaf touched
reminds me
of how many times
I've had to let go ―
how many times
I've fallen
without a place to land
until the winds of change
drew me back up
as if I were
evanescent autumn leaves,
to be swept away again,
touched by the spirit
the true nature
of love
• •
sown seeds of one love
bestrewn hopefully,
thusly cast about
just as intended,
the grain and chaff together,
sifted by the velvet breath
of the samsara wind's
sanguine touch
• • •
autumn waters ... October 29, 2017
Oct 29, 2017
Oct 29, 2017 at 12:09 PM UTC
From child to youth; from youth to arduous man;
From lethargy to fever of the heart;
From faithful life to dream-dowered days apart;
From trust to doubt; from doubt to brink of ban;—
Thus much of change in one swift cycle ran
Till now. Alas, the soul!—how soon must she
Accept her primal immortality,—
The flesh resume its dust whence it began?
O Lord of work and peace! O Lord of life!
O Lord, the awful Lord of will! though late,
Even yet renew this soul with duteous breath:
That when the peace is garnered in from strife,
The work retrieved, the will regenerate,
This soul may see thy face, O Lord of death!
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1.
Sweet love
Oh, such sweet love.
2.
Stick into the pincushion of hope
Gentle pins of far-off dreams,
Holding wispy threads of desire
For which time (as a heading) is never enough.
Push down and drown all thought
Which beckon expectation -
And trust to want less.... or nothing;
Thus reduced, we get no fails.
3.
All up to the sky
We cry,
Agonising -
That waiting of footfall.
Then.....
Lovely flow.
Yes, let's dare to increase
Irregular patterns of abdicated pain.
To fulfill what is so held back.
4.
Because of you
Three days can last a lifetime
Full of affection and delicious warmth
Within the bearings of your arms.
5.
Dreams in the coffee whorls
Willing spindles now
Turn as they eddy...like happy tidings
All around my head.
Dreamscapes thrive
In dulcet whirls inside our core.
6.
No shipwrecks here,
No abandoning of esperance.
No deserting,
No dereliction of love.
No grief,
No castaways on hopeless coast.
These proffered crumbs on palm
Become sought-after......and precious gifts.
7.
Sweet love garnered over time
Poured slowly.....into sacred cup.
Where phantoms run to hide away
No abode for wicked despair.
Oh, for lovelorn hearts and broken dreams
To find such gladness in a cup
We hold hope, ever bold....so deep in heart
And sink away in woven bliss.
Capsule of infinity.....
8.
Come, let us drink
From our coffee-cup.....
Of love.
Oh, come......
9.
Time to kneel and give thanks
Place forgiving wafer on tongue.
Take none in haste
Accept only when ready.
To....
Drink sweetness of sky's nectar.
10.
Of pastures plain
And meadow green
Swift do echoes fall
As moments slip away....like clouds.
11.
Oh, and....
One sugar....
(No analogy needed, surely :)
Hot.....
(Nor here!)
And BLACK, please.
S T, 11 April 2013
Apr 11, 2013
Apr 11, 2013 at 3:44 PM UTC
there’s a hole in my sole
that helps me feel the ground
wandering alone
this long and winding road
a black sheep
never sheds its wool
forever garnered unworthy to be
glibly cast off by the fold
a greater loss than ever be known
washed away like season’s rain
changing tides do steal away
castles made of sand
it’s a hard journey
to carry the weight of the load
the gravity of obscurity,
the potholes in the road
comes a time, stalled at crossroads,
it just don’t matter anymore;
a time to carry on, a time for letting go
a time to walk another mile
in these worn out shoes, alone
I’m more than you’ll never know
a body in a soul
I didn’t even want the heart you broke,
it’s yours to keep --
I finally found my real name,
shed this invisible skin;
I won’t be me
when you see me again
I'm leaving the invisible world
there's never a breathe
you can afford to waste
wandering alone again
this long and winding road...
wild is the wind © 3.15.2016
Mar 15, 2016
Mar 15, 2016 at 7:20 PM UTC