"garners" poems
The solitude of when two hands meet garners thoughts of warmth and want for needs unspoken
I miss the days when simplicity was as common as the delicate exhale shared when two lips release from one a other
To gaze through sultry windows of the soul, soft yet weary with fervent witness, beckons notions of wanderlust to a place that shines brighter than any I've ever seen
I watch, bound by valor for not seeking more through presumptuous ineptitude; bewildered by the plight you've been mired by, I wince at the thought of harm coming to you
Your trust exudes a powerful purpose; wrought from the ashes of all that have claimed to impose before, I succumb to the surfeit of such a staggering meaning in that gift
I hold myself in bated breath for the day you would ever need my heart for your own, but stay guided to be here in spirit, ever more
Although my basic wishes be forlorn, in somber muse I find great purpose to be a part of this grand fate bestowed upon me
You are all I've ever sought; and through disbelief, I am remiss of all that's mired me before
If only, one day, perhaps we could be more..
Dec 23, 2017
Dec 23, 2017 at 6:21 PM UTC
There's no replying
To the Wind's sighing,
Telling, foretelling,
Dying, undying,
Dwindling and swelling,
Complaining, droning,
Whistling and moaning,
Ever beginning,
Ending, repeating,
Hinting and dinning,
Lagging and fleeting--
We've no replying
Living or dying
To the Wind's sighing.
What are you telling,
Variable Wind-tone?
What would be teaching,
O sinking, swelling,
Desolate Wind-moan?
Ever for ever
Teaching and preaching,
Never, ah never
Making us wiser--
The earliest riser
Catches no meaning,
The last who hearkens
Garners no gleaning
Of wisdom's treasure,
While the world darkens:--
Living or dying,
In pain, in pleasure,
We've no replying
To wordless flying
Wind's sighing.
4.2k
Even as the moon grows queenlier in mid-space
When the sky darkens, and her cloud-rapt car
Thrills with intenser radiance from afar,—
So lambent, lady, beams thy sovereign grace
When the drear soul desires thee. Of that face
What shall be said,—which, like a governing star,
Gathers and garners from all things that are
Their silent penetrative loveliness?
O’er water-daisies and wild waifs of Spring,
There where the iris rears its gold-crowned sheaf
With flowering rush and sceptred arrow-leaf,
So have I marked Queen Dian, in bright ring
Of cloud above and wave below, take wing
And chase night’s gloom, as thou the spirit’s grief.
2.5k
T-Treading with a very measured gait
I-Inviting his balancing pole to equate
G-Grounding each foot at precise rate
H-Holding a toe grip by a sheerest fate
T-Tensile cable he doth easily intimidate
R-Reckons he'll get to the other end secure
O-Overcoming the snare of the floors lure
P-Plying skills which shall always endure
E-Elevated at a height where the air is pure
W-Wowing the audience seated in the tent
A-Applause he garners for his amazing event
L-Lightly he takes his final steps of torment
K-Kisses thrown at the walker who is spent
E-Elation he now feels and so very content
R- Risk and great pressure he underwent
Mar 10, 2013
Mar 10, 2013 at 8:46 AM UTC
I wage not any feud with Death
For changes wrought on form and face;
No lower life that earth's embrace
May breed with him, can fright my faith.
Eternal process moving on,
From state to state the spirit walks;
And these are but the shatter'd stalks,
Or ruin'd chrysalis of one.
Nor blame I Death, because he bare
The use of virtue out of earth:
I know transplanted human worth
Will bloom to profit, otherwhere.
For this alone on Death I wreak
The wrath that garners in my heart;
He put our lives so far apart
We cannot hear each other speak.
1.6k
When I have fears that I may cease to be
Before my pen has glean'd my teeming brain,
Before high-piled books, in charactery,
Hold like rich garners the full ripen'd grain;
When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face,
Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance,
And think that I may never live to trace
Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance;
And when I feel, fair creature of an hour,
That I shall never look upon thee more,
Never have relish in the faery power
Of unreflecting love;--then on the shore
Of the wide world I stand alone, and think
Till love and fame to nothingness do sink.
1.5k
the only calliope
i ever really wanted
has already decided
she's through with me
without giving me
a chance to speak.
-
and she's polyhymnia
in the comedy of hell,
raising voice in praise
of anything she respects
and in that she garners
all the power intrinsic.
-
no need for erato
when she's around
to keep my arteries
and thoughts clear
of emotional plaque
and writers' embolisms.
-
she is euterpe on a stage
of all the beautiful words
in all the beautiful languages
that can never be explained,
only known, and loved
and said in blissful ignorance.
-
she's thalia and melpomene,
comedy and tragedy,
laughter in her steps,
and springtime song,
and the ache of departure
evident in her wake.
-
terpischore at play
when the music starts,
involuntary, a reflex;
dancing is like breathing
to she who will break
my heart so many times.
-
she is urania --
she keeps my eyes
on infinity and away
from sights that feel
like shaky index knuckles
on unforgiving pistol triggers.
-
she is clio, keeper
of simple night histories,
because those are what
she lives for, and those are
what i've always mused upon
living for -- with her.
Apr 5, 2013
Apr 5, 2013 at 2:41 PM UTC
I wage not any feud with Death
For changes wrought on form and face;
No lower life that earth's embrace
May breed with him, can fright my faith.
Eternal process moving on,
From state to state the spirit walks;
And these are but the shatter'd stalks,
Or ruin'd chrysalis of one.
Nor blame I Death, because he bare
The use of virtue out of earth:
I know transplanted human worth
Will bloom to profit, otherwhere.
For this alone on Death I wreak
The wrath that garners in my heart;
He put our lives so far apart
We cannot hear each other speak.
1.3k
Intrepidly neglected, of my lessened reasoning, I am dissected, of my insurrection, from the blessed beens of yesteryear's glints, dancing, parading, and burning, in layers, stages, and fazes, fading, and melting, the plastic faces into the smelting heap, that has come so far, just to inspire me.
Always.
Always you unto me, spiraling, indefinitely into the deep, where ceased is the times, with bloodied hands, and laugh lines, laughing one last time, while glancing toward my watch, under setting suns, and rising stars, smiling faces, and in tearful goodbyes, i realise
The sky's limitlessness
And in all the glory, and all the bliss, the eloquent stories, and the gentle drifts, my imagination uplifts, in wisps of gentleness, where i submit to reason.
Bless-ed be, the one who garners to my support, from a vortex of euphoric antidotes, of mindless quotes, and animated emotes, pulsed, from straight faces, and lost hope.
Ill tell the truth, you can go with nope, in whispered breaths of gun smoke, lathered in lith-dope.
Just trying to cope with the flow, until i crash upon the shores of nevermore, and, explore these holes in my soul intent, ascending from the contempt of bent perspectives, and twisted concepts, letting the blood of the peasant from my arms of harmony, trembling blankly to sleep.
To you a ***** to me tranquility, as i sink, into the world i knew, so that it may be seen, casing the well being, of all the things, and pixelated dreams, from a thieves keep.
Deep, down, below me, in obscurity, i seep, through the soil of my turmoil, until my hand reaches out, from beyond my doubts, and clambers from the shadows, outside of myself.
I am born, of mud, of muck, of the stuff, you're afraid of, and all i bare is love, love to shrug the shams astray, vacating the placation, and dichotomies, unifying light, into one me, shining in the rainy streets, of my deletion
Until my completion
Completely
Erases me.
Apr 13, 2013
Apr 13, 2013 at 1:41 AM UTC
Rise and shine all ye people
Now is the mornin'
Of a new beginning
Put on all ye work boots
Get ready for the labor
Which garners man's favor
Get out on the fields
Toil till the sun goes down
Do this without no frown
For this is the cycle
Morning in and morning out
To reap and sow the blessings abound
Jul 6, 2014
Jul 6, 2014 at 12:36 PM UTC
I yearn for
The most ordinary
Type of beauty
One that does not
Steal your
Breath away
Or cause your
Heartbeat
To quicken
But one you
Do not
Tire looking at
That garners more
Love and adoration
With the passing
Of time
Mar 10, 2017
Mar 10, 2017 at 3:30 PM UTC
I’m ****** in the head.
It’s like cancer.
Not cancer of the brain but cancer of the mind.
It sits dormant, eating away everything in sight like a teenager that just got too high.
My chemotherapy doesn’t pump in my veins, it’s choked down my throat, like a shot that’s far too bitter to ever be chased.
Wellbutrin, Xanax, Lamictal, Z-O-L-O-F-T
To hell with the bar, it seems my only cocktail is right here because these ******* doctors tell me that
If I loosen up more than these milligrams untie me,
I might die but what’s the difference between this shot of whiskey and the game of
Russian roulette I play without this bottle of pills?
There are only so many months of grinding teeth and tense jaws and sore necks
And skin that feels like a wildfire that one person can take before the cocktails stop coming
And you’re trying to figure it out yourself between figuring out how to get the blood out of your sheets.
There’s only so much restlessness and trembling hands one woman can take before
The skill of swallowing a punch bowl of pills turns into the skill of performing a plastic
Surgery on that innocent disposable razor.
But then winter rolls by and you realize it’s too hot for those pants and sleeves to hide you.
And even when you stop there’s always questions and eyes that silently judge you.
Brain cancer is easy. Brain cancer garners everyone’s sympathy. Brain cancer is understood.
But mind cancer is a ******* enigma and those scars on your arms, your legs are harder to explain
Than the nausea and vomiting from the cytotoxic car bomb that went straight to your veins
Just like that trusty silver blade did.
The twisted truth is that you’re just as ashamed of those white lines as they are.
And then you learn to say “I’m done with the shame” and realize that
We’re all ****** in the head in our own way.
Jul 29, 2013
Jul 29, 2013 at 3:42 AM UTC
Swift bee, the gilded messenger of bliss,
Begirt with golden stars of Heaven’s span,
What draws you to the clover’s gentle kiss?
Sweet nectars, that the strongest drinker can
Carouse with dreams and dizzy waves of sleep,
Or mocks the freshest breath of summer’s clime?
Swift bee, a flame-plumed star of black and gold,
Why do you with your mouth, completely reap
The liquors that each golden bud does hold,
And lulls with somnolence the might of time?
Oh, bee, you spread the tufted pollen clouds
Like nebulae of opal stars crossways
The delicate, soft digitalis crowds,
Which passionately garner sunbeam rays
Within their coral shells. I can’t express
How much your toil’s worth to coming spring,
And how so passioned glide your wings around
The purple, gentle harebell’s loosened dress,
And make, through pretty hums, spring’s hopeful sound
Oft too profaned by your most fearsome sting!
Oh, pretty hummer! Hearty worker! Bee!
I see you roaming round the garden’s bend,
Where sweet, white daisies wreathe a canopy,
And make you but a hearty, cheerful friend.
Swift bee, the aching, swollen heart of mine
Desires comfort where pain knows no ruth
The buds hold, like rich garners golden grain,
Ambrosia of the gods, dream’s honeyed wine
So bring and let dear bee, such moisture stain
My lips and warm my heart with spring’s bright youth!
Apr 10, 2014
Apr 10, 2014 at 10:07 PM UTC
of chocolate moons,
dried, well-preserved seascapes,
A-Tisket, A-Tasket
none of which he had ever seen,
understood,
but nonsense alliteration garners
fast and vast attention of the interned masses,
for somehow easier to comprehend
the silly notions of what does not exist,
chocolate moons, dried, well preserved,
museum-quality wet seascapes and word-plays
that require no Hail Mary passes or penitence
so let us rose compose of frosted flaked flowers
of folklorish hobgoblins,
ice cream coated,
of Crunch 'n Munch Sweet Gourmet Popcorn,
a ConAgra "Food" grown only on
Arizona highway-crossed landscapes,
where babies, snatched from above, into moving cars,
taken from, then to, the lost and found
of kidnapped earthlings
are awaiting your reading pleasure
if nonsense pleases,
nonsense scrip'd and delivered,
all we aim for is temple offerings
of what crowd-pleases,
around the tepee fire
we peyote ancestor tales
mostly glorified white men's defeats, legitimized,
ignoring the concentration camp existence and
USDA excess garbage food,
a god, with love, delivers
the components of sewing needles,
a hole and a little sliver of silvered steel,
stitch word worshipping poets into frenzies
of imagined images that cake bake the crowds
with football arena'd pleasures,
their brains all the while,
being measured for a casket,
A-Tisket, A-Tasket,
this poem making
perfect sense to those
who sleep no more
Apr 29, 2014
Apr 29, 2014 at 8:30 PM UTC
My tears fill the well that was designed for them.
Soon traveling down my cheeks and chin.
As creeks or streams might allow a mountain's rainy day runoff,
To gently pass over stone.
Triggered by a scent, a sound, a thought,
A dagger like sting from a memory of,
What could have been.
Perhaps the fearful gaze upon a future
That may lay ahead.
And so they fall.
Dying my eyes red.
In silence, I try to gather my thoughts,
Odd for someone whose thoughts
Placed him in this predicament
And as I stack them.
Neatly. I might add.
The breeze of your memory knocks them to the floor.
Again.
Because this has happened before.
You have done this to me once again.
This time your presence wasn't even necessary.
To cause this cascade of solemnity.
But I realize that sadness,
Isn't what I endure.
Rather reflection,
Similar to the one emerging on the countertop,
Under my chin
That grows with every drip and drop,
Grants that sadness has left me,
But each memory's searing pain
Doses me with lonely regret of squandered opportunity.
Which stabs at my heart.
The dripping soon subsides,
And with face stained scarlet.
I wipe away the remnants
Of my rainfall.
From face and counter.
And prepare the shielded smile.
That has protected me,
Since you left.
I prepare my next joke
Buttoning it from intro to punchline
Hoping that it garners a laugh.
So that, even if vicariously,
I can smile.
Jun 3, 2015
Jun 3, 2015 at 12:57 AM UTC
As fresh as the cresting sun.
As renewed as a parched root system,
sipping from newly fallen rain.
As strong as the piercing scent
of death.
As inspiring as a color never before seen.
As beautiful as an uninterrupted
view of the coming horizon.
Tracing my tracks against the
dew soaked grass.
The stride seemingly effortless,
but that imposition of thought
betrays the plight.
A vehicle of processes unseen.
A coalescing of doubt, fatigue,
and soul shrieking fear.
The listless sojourner bides his
time, by hearing the winds
flow through the branches of
trees sheltering his tumultuous,
tortured head.
The mirage of freedom begs for him.
The anticipation of impact beckons him.
The theory of altruism entices him.
The actual silence imparts peace on him.
As brave as a child facing life with
no hand to hold.
As defined as the microscopic view
of the macroscopic systems moving
around me.
As invigorating as a bath in a cool
blue spring.
Renewed, reborn, raised.
The tearing pain of exhaustion earns
no acknowledgement.
The screaming agony of muscles
garners only more ambition.
The eyes of a weary sojourner
shows sincere empathy,
real love,
amazing faith.
Surrender yourself,
lay prostrate,
know your place,
and by grace,
they will see it upon your now
smiling face.
Oct 15, 2018
Oct 15, 2018 at 9:44 AM UTC
Remark, pageant, how well this worn Cartesian speaks silence instead of wit.
Crucify maybe and often; singsong prattle succumbs him you.
Torturified lamb’s breath, teensy sighs and sweep of tentacled agog garners attention and wildfire – hop and home to not attend, to see.
Brandish magma wake and crystal cleanse re-barb, vicious cycle in heat patterned pro-guiro neural network, neat, loud for senses laden.
Up them and through them.
Scent the seeks you stones in barb, a fence in white a guttered prose, slitherentine.
Stately made his gatekeep - defend you. Harbor outwards with willpower nonchalant.
Pardon his with provocations, decadent don’t they know. (You know you, don’t they?)
And then.
Feb 20, 2017
Feb 20, 2017 at 4:43 PM UTC
Water lifting sand
awash
upon naked toes
Pant legs rolled above the knee
Searching
endless beach
and scanning cloud
for signs of muse
Craving an inspiration
Gull abound
invading thought
taunting the lack of light
But
devoted bards
never rest
till inspiration corners them
Timothy at hand
garners mind’s eye
Sweet grass replaces taste of chewing gum
Then
nature's pearls
enhance the morn
Sunlight heals a mood forlorn
Gentle breeze
on whiskered face
melds with seaside interlace
Seabird songs
lift line of sight
Thought drifts out to sea
Thursday’s skyline
circles back
then dips its quill in me
~~~
Jan 20, 2015
Jan 20, 2015 at 2:19 PM UTC
Stop sittin', staring silently,
Sipping some sad, salty sea.
Thinking that the time travails,
And all and any always ails.
Directly desist doomsday dreams!
Nightmares necromance no names.
Freedom fancies foes for flames.
Gladness garners greater gains.
Oct 6, 2012
Oct 6, 2012 at 12:26 PM UTC
apart from me
a part of me
you lay-
somewhere in between.
floating oh so
carefully, in
a neutral, languid
purgatory.
as you speak, your
words float past,
here today
and gone so fast.
tell me, dear
which conversation
will be our last?
not that I care,
I simply don't
have the energy to.
besides,
it doesn't mean
that much to me
to mean that
much to you.
though down
the rabbit hole
I go
and the other side
breaking through.
for Alice doesn't
concern herself
over the
attention she
garners from
a mere shrew.
Jan 29, 2018
Jan 29, 2018 at 6:59 PM UTC
Life is to death, what day is to night.
An endless cycle, harsh til the end.
An endless cycle, with no end in sight.
Life is to death, what day is to night.
Bitter enemies and inseparable friends.
Life is to death, what the dark is to light.
Life after death, which garners more might?
To which god will your knee make its bend?
An endless cycle, neither wrong, nor right.
Life or death, which is a scarier blight?
Both claim the lives of women and men.
Both make our lives a struggle to fight.
Life is to death, what day is to night.
An endless cycle, harsh til the end.
An endless cycle, with no end in sight.
Life is to death, what the moon is to night.
An endless cycle, sweet til the end.
An endless cycle, with no end in sight.
At the end of it, will I head towards light? ..
May 28, 2014
May 28, 2014 at 7:30 PM UTC
so many
crossing natural boundaries
unreal, imaginary but oh so
real-ity to you
and me
interconnecting contacting
differences, divides, chasms, canyons,
lies, complex and barefaced
bridge creatures
steel, rope, tree branch, eroding concrete,
sturdy shaky, securely dangerous,
each a different irony
this poem,
is of one such bridge
you cannot see its picture
on the Internet
only one or few
can cross it,
only one
can pay the
toll, reap beyond belief
so hefty steep,
when paid, garners
transversing permission,
but tourists in groups can
sneak- peak
this poem~bridge connects
the image I see of myself,
first look, awakening brought,
and the inner poet
who word passages across
the rickety rope one for crumbs of truth,
while throwing his secret shames
over the side
let us leave it here
http://list25.com/25-of-the-worlds-most-unique-bridges/
Jul 12, 2014
Jul 12, 2014 at 10:28 AM UTC
evolutionary revisionist
screaming about alien DNA
and the Annunaki
teaching ape-men
on the Sumerian plains –
looking at the southern skies
for the coming of Nibiru
sending red horns across the horizon
bringing back the overlord giants
another round of ****
and zero-point energy –
fallen angles look like greys
travelling from heaven
in shiny silver disks
abducting the impoverished
for genetic manipulation
and artificial insemination
attempted creation
of a hybrid nation
my lament is not taken seriously
and I slip further into the fringe –
cattle mutilation no longer garners
a press release
five million people with similar memories
are all discounted as crazy
so the masses can sleep
believing they are alone
and special
in the universe –
Nov 25, 2015
Nov 25, 2015 at 12:59 PM UTC
*A gloveless welder will one day suffer a burn
A carpenter in the rain awaits his turn for a blackened nail
The careless goat herder will soon receive the wrath of the buck
The citizen too busy to vote garners the scorn of an elected schmuck* ...
Nov 9, 2016
Nov 9, 2016 at 8:21 PM UTC