"gentled" poems
This is the light of the mind, cold and planetary
The trees of the mind are black. The light is blue.
The grasses unload their griefs on my feet as if I were God
Prickling my ankles and murmuring of their humility
Fumy, spiritous mists inhabit this place.
Separated from my house by a row of headstones.
I simply cannot see where there is to get to.
The moon is no door. It is a face in its own right,
White as a knuckle and terribly upset.
It drags the sea after it like a dark crime; it is quiet
With the O-gape of complete despair. I live here.
Twice on Sunday, the bells startle the sky ----
Eight great tongues affirming the Resurrection
At the end, they soberly **** out their names.
The yew tree points up, it has a Gothic shape.
The eyes lift after it and find the moon.
The moon is my mother. She is not sweet like Mary.
Her blue garments unloose small bats and owls.
How I would like to believe in tenderness ----
The face of the effigy, gentled by candles,
Bending, on me in particular, its mild eyes.
I have fallen a long way. Clouds are flowering
Blue and mystical over the face of the stars
Inside the church, the saints will all be blue,
Floating on their delicate feet over the cold pews,
Their hands and faces stiff with holiness.
The moon sees nothing of this. She is bald and wild.
And the message of the yew tree is blackness -- blackness and silence
36.3k
Ah.. shes here...I shuffle around the stalls... watching..out of the corners of my eyes.... she knows ....Intimacy...a hand on flank..careful..
.you'll break me....with your gentle hands..
..My hard mouth....your soft lips..
..unruly, unruled....old horse...a kiss.
.. Confused, ...stallion in name only.
... You whisper... My ears *****
... forward..the hunt! ....your scent on..
..My bridle...I smell u still...
.. Calm...Comfort...Welcome...
.Gentled, not too gently....a strong hand.
. It grows trust …..truth...a Stallion! Once more.
Panting...pawing...'Be easy'..nervous eyes roll.
.a hand on the neck...a caress..'Gently '...you whisper,
.... hot breath against ear
… I snuffle and toss my head
…. still a bit frightened…..her power!
..Will you ride.? ! ..firm thighs and buttocks..
..Toes point... Heels dig...all Give and Take….
. Instruction to...from...the muscled beast.
..straddled. Awkward… too long without….
..A Rider … the matching... Gait with hip...
Walk-on.. Trot, pounding...Heels clip.
..faster, just a bit..Then smoothly they fit her to him.
...a canter.....this long stretch....rocking like one creature
….each a part of the other...breathing evenly…
...caught ….. Breath comes quick...bodies warm.
. Exertion...strength..trust.. Leaning forward..
knees grip..pulling...toes curl..in..
..hot breath..whisper in an ear… Now!
...hands grip mane... As they clench
… bit between the teeth...She..
...gives him his head... Finding his rhythm
…. home in sight...a last burst……
Rider/Stallion sweat soaked … blood pounding..There... againthe scent of her...Sweet Hay rising.
..she whispers… yes oh yes… I knew…
you had it in you.. In me...oh gods….YES! ! .
. No! not the pasture yet for you.. She chuckles..
.bodies tangled in sheets ….. Her mane of dark hair..
Scent of her fills him …
glad to be..Alive? Yes..head…. Heat…
heart...bursting…Not now… But soon.
. A gift.. This youth.. Who see's value in an old war horse.
..ridden.. but no more to war and blood..
.gentled, both he and she… sleep…bridled passion.
..her...a scent of sweet hay…
.him...an old spice..and gunpowder? ..mmm.
by Alexander K Hamilton
Jan 20, 2017
Jan 20, 2017 at 12:01 AM UTC
Our summer fellowships are over! We learned a lot - for instance - how summer’s a lot less fun when you’re hemmed-up, inside working. I mean, we preesh’d the clinical experience, the learning, and especially how good these fellowships will look on our med-school applications - seriously - but there were a hundred rules - aren’t rules incompatible with summer?
Hmm, Ok, let’s see, something poetic..
As the summer sun's blistering radiance waned, shadows,
muscled by sunrays to the marginal edges and corners,
gradually spread, like water - soothing, lenifying and assuaging
simmered nerves with their refreshing, canopied touch.
If sunlight scorched with heat, twilight soothed and gentled,
while varnishing, the dimming world with rainbow, event-horizons,
larger, more inventive, colorful and glorious than any mere mortal art.
Night gradually squeezed, unseen, through those vivid sunset cracks,
and refreshing night-air, drawn in by the last, escaping updrafts of heat,
rustled cooling relief to weary workers seeking the solace of evening and home.
back to unpoetic realities..
When work was finished, we’d retreat from the heat, racing up to the rooftop pool, like two happy porpoises out of school.
Whoever invented poolside food delivery, should win the Nobel Prize for ‘thank you very much.’ We wouldn’t go back to our rooms until it was dark and we’d started to prune.
Now, we’ve a month to relax before our Junior year begins. We got letters from Yale that said, “As upperclassmen..” “Upperclassmen!” We shouted as we danced in hand-holding circles, singing, “Upperclassmen, upperclassmen, upperclassmen, upperclassmen. upperclassmen.”
We’ve grown so much at Yale.
Aug 2, 2023
Aug 2, 2023 at 12:05 PM UTC
In homage - splicer of Aladdin's reel;
a bow, beneath the centered piece so drawn
and slants alive in shade of noblest seal,
no other blushing temptress ever worn.
To hasten tryst; may taint her Jasmine gaze
as lashes flutter onto other's love
how then beguile and keep her ardent daze,
thereby no more in spite - a lonely dove?
The mystic canvas; mine - eternal beat,
and soars in winds, which sail's her gentled tones,
adrift and glides, to bloom this rose, complete
once withered long beneath the hermit stones.
If journeyed nether brittle; sways no guise
remote and marvel then - her Jasmine eyes.
Aug 3, 2018
Aug 3, 2018 at 4:53 PM UTC
To sleep, my mind impounded,
My heartbeats, bass, lowly-sounded,
Each beat, a note upon mine ticking meter.
An unfamiliar feminine voice, not hers, poses,
Questioning noises, issued from a blackened figure.
This human-shaped metronome,
A singular inquisitor,
In rhythm, but not in rhyme,
Gravely announces repeatedly,
T'is your time, t'is your time,
Each pronouncement,
Spoken n'spiked distinctly:
*"Your prose now ended,
last-gentled sweetly."*
Wondering still, is it just sleep or truly death,
This forlorn eve, to go, to meet and greet,
Without having said my finale prayer.
Unprepared, thus with unaccustomed flair,
"Unfair" doth me protest, a newly-minted naysayer,
My book incomplete, black-brother frere!
If death indeed you be, my fellow cloaked-rider,
Then make me a one-last-time composer.
Let me whisper once more inside her,
A last poem of the greatest brevity,
But of the greatest import, laden heavy!
Good bye, my love, goodbye....
This closing writ, my finest ever...
Oct 6, 2013
Oct 6, 2013 at 5:21 AM UTC
~
the Nth culling
~
she gentled sleeps besides the imperfect poet,
who has wandered the hallways since four am,
retuning his returning
to their temple bed,
to cull, pluck, her each precious breathing sound,
source material for his
Nth
love poem
smirking at his own
Nth foolishness,
weeping tears at the consequences
of human interactions,
he wonders,
why does he worry,
searching to distinguish
between the black and white of life,
hunting for meaningful words
*when all the while
he has the vein of her breathing to mine,
as if he were a
Ruth,
following behind
the harvest reapers,
culling a bounty of
dropped grains,
fallen unto him to
garner, imbibe and memorize*
those Nth breaths,
that last but seconds,
but here memorialized for
his own
all time
Jun 18, 2016
Jun 18, 2016 at 10:59 AM UTC
when no man pursues
the truth,
the idea which contains all true ideas, aha
ideas are ideas, roses roses, names names
all true
evil ideas are in the set of true ideas as
sure as pi is in the set of true numbers,
i think
When the wicked rule the people mourn,
I think
How are all ideas equalible?
How is any idea equalible quant wise re
(long turbulent selah, lts)
questing
help, this is a talking point.
(lts)
okeh. for the future, I see.
we can make these faster with ideas pouring
into words flowing from gentled
untame-ible tongues,
----- untame-able is not
----- untame-ible, this may be an object
----- ifier lesson
-tension that re
l-eases
silent
darts, bullets(silent kind), missles, hymns'n'such
pointy grippy handles for cud
chawn story points upon
which any true story
idea must stand.
in spiritarian.
addinph
unitem
spirit and image of your father.
ohmygawd
Ambush
Clam slam shut, swoohoosh
pop
The infer
(implication layer upon layer,
thicker and thicker
naquering laquering query, could be dem pearl-ly gates,
early version o' Feynman's reversible tristatic NAND gates,
which work on ideas harnessed...)
see, there's the rub. one wee tetrahedral
trypointy foursidy sort of pearl maker
with words made
conversation
verses
versus insane unsane saners saved
by grace unmazing ungnostic
mumbling glosalialy
knot knox nor any o'them
puritans detected the
leaven in the game,
the periment
let out the
box,
"a republic, if you can keep it." unsaid went,
we cast all our cares to the gyre giver
guiding the great gulf river of pro
sperity providing us
our perspicacity.
Would that one might see one day,
the outcome of our American
experiment in leaven
in forming idle words mit ganz alte wahrheit
in dem Erste Zepto Planck Sec
just now. The idea that won was thought.
Good think you think.
We shall see.
Call your truth true.
Stand under knowing good and evil,
both, how and why, then chose,
knowing, my side won.
Apr 3, 2019
Apr 3, 2019 at 11:36 PM UTC
I knelt down and cried, within His gentle, multi colored hands.
Confessing to my sins and hoping He would understand.
I realized my own forgiveness was at my command.
I had been harder on myself, with my own reprimands.
Gently, in multi colored hands, I cried and knelt down within.
He said that my beliefs, were not looked upon as sins.
For was He not a part of everything we had been given?
And was He not at the core of every Sects religion?
His multi colored hands, gentled, as I knelt down within and cried.
For God has not one Nationality, nor one color, I realized.
And I did not see a sign that read Only Christians Need Apply.
An all encompassing love, was his way of a reply.
Jul 29, 2010
Jul 29, 2010 at 5:29 PM UTC
There we were at the beginning of the world
A forest
redwood
bay laurel
A watercourse chiseled
into the limestone of that ridge
opening outward
to the west and setting sun
We were almost under water
through miles, through layers of green
We sat together
listening
as the alto recorder in my hand
played on its own!
A tune that called
a mahogany-voiced bird
to harmonize
A tune
that gentled the sun into the sea.
A tune
that wove together
every instant
of the days we had yet to live
May 1, 2016
May 1, 2016 at 10:47 PM UTC
Shall I return to poems scribed of old?
That once with each a turn and covered page,
bereft a seeping fume that laden bold
and from that glyphic smudge - her cursive stage.
For still upon the tips of ink parades
the lissom bride beheld with gentled hand,
and prose's vigil neath the dust pervades;
that either I immerse within, or strand.
Though lyric embers flare her ardent kiss,
embedded texts peruse a lover's loss,
then should the torment forge my own abyss
the depths shall shadow me amongst the moss.
At least in chasms; beloved reels inside
so dwell shall I - where love has not yet died.
Aug 14, 2018
Aug 14, 2018 at 12:37 AM UTC
<|>
for some time,
in these troubled moments,
midst the uprooted formless firmament
where rawest poems come from,
and the saddest gentled, go to die,
colloquially a place, a space,
we call,
time
in these, them days of lockdown quarantine,
time has lost its preeminence,
the swagger of precision-swiss-definition
of the imposing measuring stick of
routine
is lost to that very
formless firmament
we look at each aghast,
with wild puzzlement faces,
inquiring of each other,
“what day of the week is it?”
the eavesdropping, spying voice of this device
answers,
“see the upper left corner”
which is kind of a miracle
but not nearly as amazing that
a few hours later,
or some time span of an approximate relevancy,
(we assume,)
we ask each other, once more,
in a reverie of hopelessness,
with total no-pretense of the
when,
no, worse,
the frightening pointy needlessness of
why
it matters
“*dearest darling,
pray, pray,
what day of the week is it?*”
Apr 29, 2020
Apr 29, 2020 at 4:38 AM UTC
ON LOOKING AT SCHILLER’S SKULL
by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
Here in this charnel-house full of bleaching bones,
like yesteryear’s
fading souvenirs,
I see the skulls arranged in strange ordered rows.
Who knows whose owners might have beheaded peers,
packed tightly here
despite once repellent hate?
Here weaponless, they stand, in this gentled state.
These arms and hands, they once were so delicate!
How articulately
they moved! Ah me!
What athletes once paced about on these padded feet?
Still there’s no hope of rest for you, lost souls!
Deprived of graves,
forced here like slaves
to occupy this overworld, unlamented ghouls!
Now who’s to know who loved one orb here detained?
Except for me;
reader, hear my plea:
I know the grandeur of the mind it contained!
Yes, and I know the impulse true love would stir
here, where I stand
in this alien land
surrounded by these husks, like a treasurer!
Even in this cold,
in this dust and mould
I am startled by an a strange, ancient reverie, …
as if this shrine to death could quicken me!
One shape out of the past keeps calling me
with its mystery!
Still retaining its former angelic grace!
And at that ecstatic sight, I am back at sea ...
Swept by that current to where immortals race.
O secret vessel, you
gave Life its truth.
It falls on me now to recall your expressive face.
I turn away, abashed here by what I see:
this mould was worth
more than all the earth.
Let me breathe fresh air and let my wild thoughts run free!
What is there better in this dark Life than he
who gives us a sense of man’s divinity,
of his place in the universe?
A man who’s both flesh and spirit—living verse!
Keywords/Tags: Goethe, Schiller, skull, bones, charnel, house, grave, souls, ghosts, spirit, flesh, death, shrine, divinity, universe
Sep 25, 2020
Sep 25, 2020 at 4:02 AM UTC
The flare of pain at the base of my spine
distracts me from the sharper pain
Of losing you.
Each evening I numb myself with wine,
It slops into the glass
And makes me think of angry tears.
Social butterfly, I whirl into the city
Wearing my fake face,
And ready for excess.
I need to be gentled
Away from these destructive interventions,
Does someone have a cure for the cure?
Sep 3, 2013
Sep 3, 2013 at 4:52 AM UTC
Mortal passions.
Whiling whole days away,
wishing instances of just this
artful vision made mere words.
Accounted for, line on line.
Actuational responders.
Hello,
World
Initiative, INIT run
plain, lain flat to show one side,
while hiding one side,
and all that lay beneath this
surface, now still pond holding the sky.
As intelligent, gentled warring monks
and monkeys, chatter in the trees,
solitary man, with an array of antenae,
sending and receiving dry ideas
to be read and rethunk, at once, indeed
as wisdom tends
to evaporate, leaving inklings
traced with artifact and story, back
to when our kind being generates
an instance of on
to logical word forming wills,
breaking branches in harvesting races,
to the victor goes the glory, in story form.
Drama brought from life experience, dared
and done,
for no good reason, at the time, daring devils,
mocking saints, saying in one's reading mind,
this day, have we not come to know, today,
now certain, this one day, we have to be in
and have our own being and breaths in.
May 1, 2024
May 1, 2024 at 2:28 PM UTC
When mine eyes near to close - for truest sleep
then best her gentled hand beside me hold
as I'd take with, her sketch into the deep
to let her fairest portrait, beacon gold.
Then into bodes of seraphs I'd have flown
and bid the high archangel grant me this;
that in his flock have one alike my own,
as only then has one bestowed true bliss.
Before the gilded counsel, I will gift
her glow that carried from the nether sphere
and blaze a shrine that'd bring an answer swift!
To match this beauty's flair, there are none here.
Then blast me into limbo! There I'd wait
for her eternal grace to be my fate.
Sep 15, 2018
Sep 15, 2018 at 2:26 PM UTC
Perseverance in adversity, grief and despair
Harshness the essence of life we lived then and now
Student of Jerusalem did you learn your lessons well?
When you walked in Syria, Libya and Mesopotamia
Never giving up on hope, dream and future vision
Faith in the Master urging you to higher thought
Turmoil ceased with spiritual conquests under raging sun
Forgotten Apostle, quietly moving ignorant mountains
Barbarian and savage gentled by your trust in One
Who would show them a far better place of repose
Brethren of the Sacred Heart, you healed the ***** king
Where once despondency lived as an ancient friend
Blessed martyr, in your father's footsteps, a murdered son
Life blood ebbing away onto crude, unenlightened hand
A woman lays weeping for her sin as her baby cries
Weak men surrender to the violence of stronger will
A purple eyed child trembles against a wall with fear
Bigots destroy those who seek God by another creed
Sons of plenty steal the harvests from the hungry
We implore you to hear us, pray for us and answer us
Invocation - will this be our only salvation?
Jan 15, 2016
Jan 15, 2016 at 5:37 PM UTC
There's no sweet hai-ku
Equal to you or your scent.
No garden holds you.
Words alone can not
Define the undefined You.
Flowers are your eyes.
From the skies clouds fall
To be gentled by your touch.
Whispering fogs weep.
There is no perfume
No stolen, wan aroma
Equal to your breath.
Armies march blindly,
And nations worry to dust,
While you rise and bloom.
There is no hai-ku
None that I can find, mind you,
No words to your Sweet.
You are forever.
A myth in the High Garden
Of Time's Secret Song.
Our hours were short.
Yet each moment was a World.
You bloom in my dark.
Golden petals weep.
You are more than counted lines.
Hai-ku's welter in your shade.
Love has winded by.
Breezed cool past my open heart.
It was you, Summer.
Jun 7, 2011
Jun 7, 2011 at 8:02 PM UTC
gentled away where
sound's
called forth from a
heap of black stones.
taste bittered to sweetness
in un-name.
mouthing.
late sight blasted red,
in the passion of its
rose.
it cannot be, yet is--
ash peppered finely
as space unto a toppling
sky.
all in all hail, gone to gone--
forever's betrothal cycle.
holding peace.
Mar 19, 2018
Mar 19, 2018 at 1:56 PM UTC
Whisper
In the dusk; the fading light
my consciousness floats
free to sleep, to roam, to dream.
Daytime’s resonance, artificial and brash, drifts away.
In its weakening wake,
within the soft quiet of evening, Nature speaks again.
Gently, she hums; she whispers;
shushes the leaves in the trees,
buzzes; at first a quiet drone -
cicada in the night - swelling,
a cacophony builds to crescendo,
to diminish as cools the night.
Nocturnal creatures rouse.
Night flowers with each new awakening.
Every one with their own instrument,
play their part in her Evensong;
deliver unseen complexity to the music.
Night deepens, and the Mother
puts down her baton, purses her lips
and breathes out her scent -
to float for the zephyr to take –
a bearer of her gentled nature
to those who dream within her tune.
The sparkle of the stars
bear cold and quiet witness
to the wonder of Her pristine night,
and the bearer of the keys of life:
This Earth - for which She is guardian.
Mother drifts into my dreams,
leaving me with bittersweet.
She touches my heart in whispers with her message,
and harkens me to carry it forward.
Dawn brings magenta skies.
Before the tinny, manmade sounds
carry me to daytime, I hear Her once more.
Reminding me of the song in my heart.
She bodes me remember where I will find it,
and to listen.
For it can only be found in her Whisper.
-Lin Cava
CC 25-October-2014
Jun 6, 2016
Jun 6, 2016 at 1:16 PM UTC
Glossary of generics, favourer of all merit, ****** to detach detained editorial.
Some come in softly, hard heads take big splats. Lukewarmness salts thy unfruitful earth, where newborn births are stars to their own mania's, Cranium's go connected! Stretched parsels to broken fibula's!
Moralist preachers teach to the misbehaved, can you account for the thousandth day you've encountered?
For the slaves you've made out of your own bloodline, you've lost much of your own commandments you lowly persuationer!!
Old partied savourer!!!
Dissatisfaction finalizes all authories where glory is none, cheatings no more fun? Haha for you can clap your solid hands to gentled tears, for missing years are operetic in cower and palate!!!!!
Wake yourself to thine nail, strike one time with a mallet for all reasonings gone, gone, gone . when its you that has lost,
When its thy world who hath won!!!
May 12, 2015
May 12, 2015 at 10:13 PM UTC
Despite a lonely glaze within my chest
that steady beat still drummed a pattern true
and had not missed; as lonesome would behest,
but pattered onward tho' it were anew.
Until the fairest gaze with hands sateen
caressed and conquered in, with dainty feel
that stroked, and wrought to change what peace had been
to tap behind my breast her fervent zeal.
At will, and touch she spurred a thumping pulse
as tho' my core were drums, and she'd out-play;
a trancing mood no man could then repulse
but let the beauty dance and waltz her way.
My gentled rapping churned, her grace outdone!
To thwart in that was mine, till then, she'd won.
Oct 8, 2018
Oct 8, 2018 at 9:08 AM UTC
A cluster of engraved birches
personifies a love of old,
upon sequins – Eros perches
bowing echoes 'long the wold.
Sweeten dew of noble rain
debris not – the emblem crust
nor bird of plumage stain
the hearted sketch of trust.
Nimble scouts of chirping worth
cavort and tune a number
wrought the song of her ole mirth
upon the sleek n' lumber.
Spectres - Illume of gold
stipple maps the spine
each bark n' rip that holed
glistens that was mine
Shrubbery - melodious swaying
curious tips like many eyes
as though my love were playing
and I - was in her guise.
Amorous whispers breeze;
she lingers not 'neath the burrow
but bristles with the trees,
in rooted limbs that furrow.
Wonder if - by the brook
the hustle, still she graze
of gentled hand n' took
and swept my ardent daze.
When aboard and ponder
I drift back to amber birches
there in idle wonder
bequeaths - my soulful searches.
May 7, 2018
May 7, 2018 at 1:25 PM UTC
we have earned our ways out of this
marriage
the siren song of our love echoes in hollows,
disappears
awakens nothing anymore, except
companionship
shall we enter the echoes as they disappear,
look
for a hand held in softness, a hand held
fondly
a kiss gentled by years and
tears? or
shall we stay as we are: prope and still,
awaiting
the Beginning
c. 2017 Roberta Compton Rainwater
Oct 25, 2017
Oct 25, 2017 at 12:44 PM UTC
honey words
thick and rich and sweet
still
silent
and whilst bold
without hope's soft push
gentled by beauty
and golden-thick and wide,
sunset's glance and
my timid eye
'mid burnt bronze
eucalypt slow,
heavy-lidded
and head low
steeped in gin
and with that seaward sight
i find this tide
pulling
and dragging
my faltering feet
back to the sea
my deep, rich, and ragged love.
i fall,
face to the salt wind
and drown.
Jun 14, 2014
Jun 14, 2014 at 6:16 AM UTC