O happy rose-bud blooming
  Upon thy parent tree,--
Nay, thou art too presuming;
For soon the earth entombing
  Thy faded charms shall be,
And the chill damp consuming.

O happy skylark springing
  Up to the broad blue sky,
Too fearless in thy winging,
Too gladsome in thy singing,
  Thou also soon shalt lie
Where no sweet notes are ringing.

And through life's shine and shower
  We shall have joy and pain;
But in the summer bower,
And at the morning hour,
  We still shall look in vain
For the same bird and flower.

Ye distant spires, ye antique towers,
That crown the watery glade,
Where grateful Science still adores
Her Henry’s holy shade;
And ye, that from the stately brow
Of Windsor’s heights th’ expanse below
Of grove, of lawn, of mead survey,
Whose turf, whose shade, whose flowers among
Wanders the hoary Thames along
His silver-winding way.

Ah happy hills, ah pleasing shade,
Ah fields beloved in vain,
Where once my careless childhood strayed,
A stranger yet to pain!
I feel the gales, that from ye blow,
A momentary bliss bestow,
As waving fresh their gladsome wing
My weary soul they seem to soothe,
And, redolent of joy and youth,
To breathe a second spring.

Say, Father Thames, for thou hast seen
Full many a sprightly race
Disporting on thy margent green
The paths of pleasure trace,
Who foremost now delight to cleave
With pliant arm thy glassy wave?
The captive linnet which enthral?
What idle progeny succeed
To chase the rolling circle’s speed,
Or urge the flying ball?

While some on earnest business bent
Their murm’ring labours ply
‘Gainst graver hours, that bring constraint
To sweeten liberty:
Some bold adventurers disdain
The limits of their little reign,
And unknown regions dare descry:
Still as they run they look behind,
They hear a voice in every wind,
And ****** a fearful joy.

Gay hope is theirs by fancy fed,
Less pleasing when possest;
The tear forgot as soon as shed,
The sunshine of the breast:
Theirs buxom health of rosy hue,
Wild wit, invention ever-new,
And lively cheer of vigour born;
The thoughtless day, the easy night,
The spirits pure, the slumbers light,
That fly th’ approach of morn.

Alas! regardless of their doom
The little victims play!
No sense have they of ills to come,
Nor care beyond today:
Yet see how all around ’em wait
The Ministers of human fate,
And black Misfortune’s baleful train!
Ah, show them where in ambush stand,
To seize their prey, the murd’rous band!
Ah, tell them they are men!

These shall the fury Passions tear,
The vultures of the mind,
Disdainful Anger, pallid Fear,
And Shame that skulks behind;
Or pining Love shall waste their youth,
Or Jealousy with rankling tooth,
That inly gnaws the secret heart,
And Envy wan, and faded Care,
Grim-visaged comfortless Despair,
And Sorrow’s piercing dart.

Ambition this shall tempt to rise,
Then whirl the wretch from high,
To bitter Scorn a sacrifice,
And grinning Infamy.
The stings of Falsehood those shall try,
And hard Unkindness’ altered eye,
That mocks the tear it forced to flow;
And keen Remorse with blood defiled,
And moody Madness laughing wild
Amid severest woe.

Lo, in the vale of years beneath
A grisly troop are seen,
The painful family of Death,
More hideous than their Queen:
This racks the joints, this fires the veins,
That every labouring sinew strains,
Those in the deeper vitals rage:
Lo, Poverty, to fill the band,
That numbs the soul with icy hand,
And slow-consuming Age.

To each his suff’rings: all are men,
Condemned alike to groan;
The tender for another’s pain,
Th’ unfeeling for his own.
Yet ah! why should they know their fate?
Since sorrow never comes too late,
And happiness too swiftly flies.
Thought would destroy their paradise.
No more;—where ignorance is bliss,
’Tis folly to be wise.

High in the breathless Hall the Minstrel sate,
And Emont’s murmur mingled with the Song.—
The words of ancient time I thus translate,
A festal strain that hath been silent long:—

    “From town to town, from tower to tower,
    The red rose is a gladsome flower.
    Her thirty years of winter past,
    The red rose is revived at last;
    She lifts her head for endless spring,
    For everlasting blossoming:
    Both roses flourish, red and white:
    In love and sisterly delight
    The two that were at strife are blended,
    And all old troubles now are ended.—
    Joy! joy to both! but most to her
    Who is the flower of Lancaster!
    Behold her how She smiles to-day
    On this great throng, this bright array!
    Fair greeting doth she send to all
    From every corner of the hall;
    But chiefly from above the board
    Where sits in state our rightful Lord,
    A Clifford to his own restored!

        “They came with banner, spear, and shield;
    And it was proved in Bosworth-field.
    Not long the Avenger was withstood—
    Earth helped him with the cry of blood:
    St. George was for us, and the might
    Of blessed Angels crowned the right.
    Loud voice the Land has uttered forth,
    We loudest in the faithful north:
    Our fields rejoice, our mountains ring,
    Our streams proclaim a welcoming;
    Our strong-abodes and castles see
    The glory of their loyalty.

        “How glad is Skipton at this hour—
    Though lonely, a deserted Tower;
    Knight, squire, and yeoman, page and groom,
    We have them at the feast of Brough’m.
    How glad Pendragon—though the sleep
    Of years be on her!—She shall reap
    A taste of this great pleasure, viewing
    As in a dream her own renewing.
    Rejoiced is Brough, right glad, I deem,
    Beside her little humble stream;
    And she that keepeth watch and ward
    Her statelier Eden’s course to guard;
    They both are happy at this hour,
    Though each is but a lonely Tower:—
    But here is perfect joy and pride
    For one fair House by Emont’s side,
    This day, distinguished without peer,
    To see her Master and to cheer—
    Him, and his Lady-mother dear!

        “Oh! it was a time forlorn
    When the fatherless was born—
    Give her wings that she may fly,
    Or she sees her infant die!
    Swords that are with slaughter wild
    Hunt the Mother and the Child.
    Who will take them from the light?
    —Yonder is a man in sight—
    Yonder is a house—but where?
    No, they must not enter there.
    To the caves, and to the brooks,
    To the clouds of heaven she looks;
    She is speechless, but her eyes
    Pray in ghostly agonies.
    Blissful Mary, Mother mild,
    Maid and Mother undefiled,
    Save a Mother and her Child!

        “Now who is he that bounds with joy
    On Carrock’s side, a Shepherd-boy?
    No thoughts hath he but thoughts that pass
    Light as the wind along the grass.
    Can this be He who hither came
    In secret, like a smothered flame?
    O’er whom such thankful tears were shed
    For shelter, and a poor man’s bread!
    God loves the Child; and God hath willed
    That those dear words should be fulfilled,
    The Lady’s words, when forced away
    The last she to her Babe did say:
    “My own, my own, thy fellow-guest
    I may not be; but rest thee, rest,
    For lowly shepherd’s life is best!”

        “Alas! when evil men are strong
    No life is good, no pleasure long.
    The Boy must part from Mosedale’s groves,
    And leave Blencathara’s rugged coves,
    And quit the flowers that summer brings
    To Glenderamakin’s lofty springs;
    Must vanish, and his careless cheer
    Be turned to heaviness and fear.
    —Give Sir Lancelot Threlkeld praise!
    Hear it, good man, old in days!
    Thou tree of covert and of rest
    For this young Bird that is distrest;
    Among thy branches safe he lay,
    And he was free to sport and play,
    When falcons were abroad for prey.

        “A recreant harp, that sings of fear
    And heaviness in Clifford’s ear!
    I said, when evil men are strong,
    No life is good, no pleasure long,
    A weak and cowardly untruth!
    Our Clifford was a happy Youth,
    And thankful through a weary time,
    That brought him up to manhood’s prime.
    —Again he wanders forth at will,
    And tends a flock from hill to hill:
    His garb is humble; ne’er was seen
    Such garb with such a noble mien;
    Among the shepherd-grooms no mate
    Hath he, a Child of strength and state!
    Yet lacks not friends for simple glee,
    Nor yet for higher sympathy.

    To his side the fallow-deer
    Came and rested without fear;
    The eagle, lord of land and sea,
    Stooped down to pay him fealty;
    And both the undying fish that swim
    Through Bowscale-tarn did wait on him;
    The pair were servants of his eye
    In their immortality;
    And glancing, gleaming, dark or bright,
    Moved to and fro, for his delight.
    He knew the rocks which Angels haunt
    Upon the mountains visitant;
    He hath kenned them taking wing:
    And into caves where Faeries sing
    He hath entered; and been told
    By Voices how men lived of old.
    Among the heavens his eye can see
    The face of thing that is to be;
    And, if that men report him right,
    His tongue could whisper words of might.
    —Now another day is come,
    Fitter hope, and nobler doom;
    He hath thrown aside his crook,
    And hath buried deep his book;
    Armour rusting in his halls
    On the blood of Clifford calls,—
    ‘Quell the Scot,’ exclaims the Lance—
    Bear me to the heart of France,
    Is the longing of the Shield—
    Tell thy name, thou trembling field;
    Field of death, where’er thou be,
    Groan thou with our victory!
    Happy day, and mighty hour,
    When our Shepherd, in his power,
    Mailed and horsed, with lance and sword,
    To his ancestors restored
    Like a re-appearing Star,
    Like a glory from afar
    First shall head the flock of war!”

Alas! the impassioned minstrel did not know
How, by Heaven’s grace, this Clifford’s heart was framed:
How he, long forced in humble walks to go,
Was softened into feeling, soothed, and tamed.

Love had he found in huts where poor men lie;
His daily teachers had been woods and rills,
The silence that is in the starry sky,
The sleep that is among the lonely hills.

In him the savage virtue of the Race,
Revenge and all ferocious thoughts were dead:
Nor did he change; but kept in lofty place
The wisdom which adversity had bred.

Glad were the vales, and every cottage-hearth;
The Shepherd-lord was honoured more and more;
And, ages after he was laid in earth,
“The good Lord Clifford” was the name he bore.

Sweet, harmless lives! (on whose holy leisure
     Waits innocence and pleasure),
Whose leaders to those pastures, and clear springs,
     Were patriarchs, saints, and kings,
How happened it that in the dead of night
     You only saw true light,
While Palestine was fast asleep, and lay
     Without one thought of day?
Was it because those first and blessed swains
     Were pilgrims on those plains
When they received the promise, for which now
     ’Twas there first shown to you?
’Tis true, He loves that dust whereon they go
     That serve Him here below,
And therefore might for memory of those
     His love there first disclose;
But wretched Salem, once His love, must now
     No voice, nor vision know,
Her stately piles with all their height and pride
     Now languished and died,
And Bethlem’s humble cotes above them stepped
     While all her seers slept;
Her cedar, fir, hewed stones and gold were all
     Polluted through their fall,
And those once sacred mansions were now
     Mere emptiness and show;
This made the angel call at reeds and thatch,
     Yet where the shepherds watch,
And God’s own lodging (though He could not lack)
     To be a common rack;
No costly pride, no soft-clothed luxury
     In those thin cells could lie,
Each stirring wind and storm blew through their cots
     Which never harbored plots,
Only content, and love, and humble joys
     Lived there without all noise,
Perhaps some harmless cares for the next day
     Did in their bosoms play,
As where to lead their sheep, what silent nook,
     What springs or shades to look,
But that was all; and now with gladsome care
     They for the town prepare,
They leave their flock, and in a busy talk
     All towards Bethlem walk
To see their souls’ Great Shepherd, Who was come
     To bring all stragglers home,
Where now they find Him out, and taught before
     That Lamb of God adore,
That Lamb whose days great kings and prophets wished
     And longed to see, but missed.
The first light they beheld was bright and gay
     And turned their night to day,
But to this later light they saw in Him,
     Their day was dark, and dim.

The shell of objects inwardly consumed
Will stand, till some convulsive wind awakes;
Such sense hath Fire to waste the heart of things,
Nature, such love to hold the form she makes.
Thus, wasted joys will show their early bloom,
Yet crumble at the breath of a caress;
The golden fruitage hides the scathèd bough,
****** it, thou scatterest wide its emptiness.
For pleasure bidden, I went forth last night
To where, thick hung, the festal torches gleamed;
Here were the flowers, the music, as of old,
Almost the very olden time it seemed.
For one with cheek unfaded, (though he brings
My buried brothers to me, in his look,)
Said, 'Will you dance?' At the accustomed words
I gave my hand, the old position took.
Sound, gladsome measure! at whose bidding once
I felt the flush of pleasure to my brow,
While my soul shook the burthen of the flesh,
And in its young pride said, 'Lie lightly thou!'

Then, like a gallant swimmer, flinging high
My breast against the golden waves of sound,
I rode the madd'ning tumult of the dance,
Mocking fatigue, that never could be found.

Chide not,--it was not vanity, nor sense,
(The brutish scorn such vaporous delight,)
But Nature, cadencing her joy of strength
To the harmonious limits of her right.

She gave her impulse to the dancing Hours,
To winds that sweep, to stars that noiseless turn;
She marked the measure rapid hearts must keep
Devised each pace that glancing feet should learn.

And sure, that prodigal o'erflow of life,
Unvow'd as yet to family or state,
Sweet sounds, white garments, flowery coronals
Make holy, in the pageant of our fate.

Sound, measure! but to stir my heart no more--
For, as I moved to join the dizzy race,
My youth fell from me; all its blooms were gone,
And others showed them, smiling, in my face.

Faintly I met the shock of circling forms
Linked each to other, Fashion's galley-slaves,
Dream-wondering, like an unaccustomed ghost
That starts, surprised, to stumble over graves.

For graves were 'neath my feet, whose placid masks
Smiled out upon my folly mournfully,
While all the host of the departed said,
'Tread lightly--thou art ashes, even as we.'

He called in for a shower after being alone on the streets for a week.

Is that time enough
to get ***** for a shower
   as a man nearly twenty-six
in years.
She could turn him away
like her father’s sister
might have and did.
From time to time.

It all depended on how many times in a week,
month, or year
he would show up without a call.
Without knowing he still existed.

Somehow, his presence and
absence
were a mixed blessing.
His presence was like a merry-go-round
that goes against the earth’s pull.
Like a brazen thorn
stuck into your shoe.
Unpredictable.
Vacuum-like.
******* all the ***** things in.
Taking everything in its sight
and power and making
everything contort
to his reality.
Where he and only he resided.
Would she open the door for him?

What she does know
is that she might risk speaking
in a bright happy voice
of a mother
so gladsome to see her son.
Welcoming him in.
Rather than turning him away
because of his inconvenience.
Grief is inconvenient.
That is one thing she knows.

And is this—Yarrow?—This the stream
Of which my fancy cherished,
So faithfully, a waking dream?
An image that hath perished!
O that some Minstrel’s harp were near,
To utter notes of gladness,
And chase this silence from the air,
That fills my heart with sadness!

Yet why?—a silvery current flows
With uncontrolled meanderings;
Nor have these eyes by greener hills
Been soothed, in all my wanderings.
And, through her depths, Saint Mary’s Lake
Is visibly delighted;
For not a feature of those hills
Is in the mirror slighted.

A blue sky bends o’er Yarrow vale,
Save where that pearly whiteness
Is round the rising sun diffused,
A tender hazy brightness;
Mild dawn of promise! that excludes
All profitless dejection;
Though not unwilling here to admit
A pensive recollection.

Where was it that the famous Flower
Of Yarrow Vale lay bleeding?
His bed perchance was yon smooth mound
On which the herd is feeding:
And haply from this crystal pool,
Now peaceful as the morning,
The Water-wraith ascended thrice—
And gave his doleful warning.

Delicious is the Lay that sings
The haunts of happy Lovers,
The path that leads them to the grove,
The leafy grove that covers:
And Pity sanctifies the Verse
That paints, by strength of sorrow,
The unconquerable strength of love;
Bear witness, rueful Yarrow!

But thou, that didst appear so fair
To fond imagination,
Dost rival in the light of day
Her delicate creation:
Meek loveliness is round thee spread,
A softness still and holy;
The grace of forest charms decayed,
And pastoral melancholy.

That region left, the vale unfolds
Rich groves of lofty stature,
With Yarrow winding through the pomp
Of cultivated nature;
And, rising from those lofty groves,
Behold a Ruin hoary!
The shattered front of Newark’s Towers,
Renowned in Border story.

Fair scenes for childhood’s opening bloom,
For sportive youth to stray in;
For manhood to enjoy his strength;
And age to wear away in!
Yon cottage seems a bower of bliss,
A covert for protection
Of tender thoughts, that nestle there—
The brood of chaste affection.

How sweet, on this autumnal day,
The wild-wood fruits to gather,
And on my True-love’s forehead plant
A crest of blooming heather!
And what if I enwreathed my own!
’Twere no offence to reason;
The sober Hills thus deck their brows
To meet the wintry season.

I see—but not by sight alone,
Loved Yarrow, have I won thee;
A ray of fancy still survives—
Her sunshine plays upon thee!
Thy ever-youthful waters keep
A course of lively pleasure;
And gladsome notes my lips can breathe,
Accordant to the measure.

The vapours linger round the Heights,
They melt, and soon must vanish;
One hour is theirs, nor more is mine—
Sad thought, which I would banish,
But that I know, where’er I go,
Thy genuine image, Yarrow!
Will dwell with me—to heighten joy,
And cheer my mind in sorrow.

Where hast thou been since round the walls of Troy
The sons of God fought in that great emprise?
Why dost thou walk our common earth again?
Hast thou forgotten that impassioned boy,
His purple galley and his Tyrian men
And treacherous Aphrodite’s mocking eyes?
For surely it was thou, who, like a star
Hung in the silver silence of the night,
Didst lure the Old World’s chivalry and might
Into the clamorous crimson waves of war!

Or didst thou rule the fire-laden moon?
In amorous Sidon was thy temple built
Over the light and laughter of the sea
Where, behind lattice scarlet-wrought and gilt,
Some brown-limbed girl did weave thee tapestry,
All through the waste and wearied hours of noon;
Till her wan cheek with flame of passion burned,
And she rose up the sea-washed lips to kiss
Of some glad Cyprian sailor, safe returned
From Calpe and the cliffs of Herakles!

No! thou art Helen, and none other one!
It was for thee that young Sarpedon died,
And Memnon’s manhood was untimely spent;
It was for thee gold-crested Hector tried
With Thetis’ child that evil race to run,
In the last year of thy beleaguerment;
Ay! even now the glory of thy fame
Burns in those fields of trampled asphodel,
Where the high lords whom Ilion knew so well
Clash ghostly shields, and call upon thy name.

Where hast thou been? in that enchanted land
Whose slumbering vales forlorn Calypso knew,
Where never mower rose at break of day
But all unswathed the trammelling grasses grew,
And the sad shepherd saw the tall corn stand
Till summer’s red had changed to withered grey?
Didst thou lie there by some Lethaean stream
Deep brooding on thine ancient memory,
The crash of broken spears, the fiery gleam
From shivered helm, the Grecian battle-cry?

Nay, thou wert hidden in that hollow hill
With one who is forgotten utterly,
That discrowned Queen men call the Erycine;
Hidden away that never mightst thou see
The face of Her, before whose mouldering shrine
To-day at Rome the silent nations kneel;
Who gat from Love no joyous gladdening,
But only Love’s intolerable pain,
Only a sword to pierce her heart in twain,
Only the bitterness of child-bearing.

The lotus-leaves which heal the wounds of Death
Lie in thy hand; O, be thou kind to me,
While yet I know the summer of my days;
For hardly can my tremulous lips draw breath
To fill the silver trumpet with thy praise,
So bowed am I before thy mystery;
So bowed and broken on Love’s terrible wheel,
That I have lost all hope and heart to sing,
Yet care I not what ruin time may bring
If in thy temple thou wilt let me kneel.

Alas, alas, thou wilt not tarry here,
But, like that bird, the servant of the sun,
Who flies before the north wind and the night,
So wilt thou fly our evil land and drear,
Back to the tower of thine old delight,
And the red lips of young Euphorion;
Nor shall I ever see thy face again,
But in this poisonous garden-close must stay,
Crowning my brows with the thorn-crown of pain,
Till all my loveless life shall pass away.

O Helen!  Helen! Helen! yet a while,
Yet for a little while, O, tarry here,
Till the dawn cometh and the shadows flee!
For in the gladsome sunlight of thy smile
Of heaven or hell I have no thought or fear,
Seeing I know no other god but thee:
No other god save him, before whose feet
In nets of gold the tired planets move,
The incarnate spirit of spiritual love
Who in thy body holds his joyous seat.

Thou wert not born as common women are!
But, girt with silver splendour of the foam,
Didst from the depths of sapphire seas arise!
And at thy coming some immortal star,
Bearded with flame, blazed in the Eastern skies,
And waked the shepherds on thine island-home.
Thou shalt not die:  no asps of Egypt creep
Close at thy heels to taint the delicate air;
No sullen-blooming poppies stain thy hair,
Those scarlet heralds of eternal sleep.

Lily of love, pure and inviolate!
Tower of ivory! red rose of fire!
Thou hast come down our darkness to illume:
For we, close-caught in the wide nets of Fate,
Wearied with waiting for the World’s Desire,
Aimlessly wandered in the House of gloom,
Aimlessly sought some slumberous anodyne
For wasted lives, for lingering wretchedness,
Till we beheld thy re-arisen shrine,
And the white glory of thy loveliness.

Sometimes when ev'ning lamps are ebbing low
And all the earth lies hushed in solemn sleep
Within my lonely heart there burns a glow,
As lengthening shadows about me creep.

My weary glance falls o'er the dismal room
Where with rapturous eyes I seem to see
Beyond thick cobwebs, dust and direst gloom
A merry host of friends-my own library!

Worn musty books on shelves from olden days,
Brittle pages yellowed by hands of time,
Illuminating night with gladsome rays,
Lifting my bleak spirit to realms sublime.

Trooping merrily before my rapt gaze
Into flick'ring lamplight I watch them come,
Quaint men and ladies of forgotten days;
Golden laughter echoing in my home.

Into my eyes they smile, murm'ring with grace
Aerial speech they blithely chat with me,
They seem to belong to another race
Wakening in my heart sweet melody.

Dying lamplight sputters and they are gone.
Vanished! I stare about but find I none
Save a drowsy thrush flutes with hush of dawn
Only myself in the parlour alone.

~Hilda~

tradition is more than yesterday’s stories
old photographs and dusty keepsakes
it is the remembering of tomorrow

it is the nervous acting out
of ceremony with candles and words
of an ancient story of wonder and light

it is the gladsome preparation
of the festive foods for the jolbord
and the pride of happy hosts

it is the gentle noise of children playing
the rumbling conversation of friends remembering
the tear in a grandparent’s eye

it is the leap in our hearts at midwinter’s turn
it is the song that ever celebrates life’s wonder

Oft, in the tranquility of the night,
Ere the fetters of idleness bind me,
Tender thought of you bears a light
Of distant offbeat days that find me:
The tenderness expressed, the tears
Of young manhood's sluggish years;
The sound of lovely words so spoken;
The eyes that at that moment shone
Now eclipsed, obscured, and gone.
The gladsome hearts now broken!
Thus, in the tranquility of the night,
Ere the fetters of idleness bind me,
Sad thoughts of you bring no light
By melancholy days that find me.

Like a child,
you're silly and soft,
giddy and gladsome.
Like a child -
ever-inquisitive -
you love to learn.
You find those you admire
and question, not docile,
yet sure of more.

No hesitation in your advances,
like those who have yet to learn
to be unsure of themselves.
Age so often removes from us
the ability to love without hesitation,
or even to love at all,

but not from you.

slackened armature where
flesh once was,

brought by the
moment is a flurry of once kisses
dampening this limpid bed

  that we will once again paint
  with the lacquer of the white noon,

  leaning closer
  is this heady fate of stone:

  i must

     unlearn the work
  of your hands, this clay molded
  into something ominously touchable

  forget the rudiments of soul
  that i once fastened still and straight
  with the weight of my tongue tasting
  the sweetness of losing myself
  in a thick crowd of intent murmurs
  and then finding myself still
      down on you, ships anchored
       to pure linen of sea with hands clenched to a taut grip

    drown the silence and seek
      roads in an uttered word's dwindling
      light - this gladsome dark now
   spreads its wings and then sings
      a frightful muting each to its
    own questions owning up to
     the answerlessness of all that has
    left me still
           down on you,
       clambering my way up
   yet deeper i am, felled
      and only so
      ineffably little, like a moment
   still heavy,
   still pressing on us both
    and separately.

My legacy was
To be laved twice a day,
To disport myself around the garden.
Enveloped in my crisp creaseless clothes,
Encircled by the aroma of blossoms.
My gladsome day was rounded
Off with a dinner fit for a King.
My education taught me
To read, write and a lot more.
I was conditioned to expect nothing less.


Her legacy was
To toil the soil on the farm
In threadbare clothes.
Steeped in baked clay,
Engulfed by the stench of the fields.
Her meed was to eat
Whatever there was.
Her education was to do
More than her fair share.
She was privileged to expect nothing more.


We walked the earth,
We breath the same air,
Yet,
Like the two oceans,
Our lives never transgress.
Our challenge is to reconcile our inheritances with what should be.

The heart is but the microcosm

      of the universe's macrocosm

      which holds it in its gladsome *****

      where love is,  there's the richest blossom

Reaching the peak?
such I dreamt never
despite the strife
the sweat and the fire

no legend nor Ulysses
he was the indomitable power
the highest building I stooped to watch
hitting the sky was its tower

that scene humbled and shook me
so long ago but I still remember
it portended to warn me of vanity
a friendly and timely eye-opener

hence, content to know and acknowledge
I am but a from-time-to-time simple writer
skirting on the edges of words and ideas
for consolation and new worlds to discover

upon my dying bed before long
a voice I'll hear:  be a humble learner
as a child you were---in gladsome wonder
forget the peak as you write or speak---just be a beauty-bearer!

Ah, life is over-much

in its excess

both love and hate

joy and pain

what's happiness

is that which but shivers

in the coldness

of my doubting heart-



in two worlds I dwell

the living and seemingly dead

the former indeed

gives me much more dread



what's fidelity?

that of little

I've known or read

poor poets

they should lament

over love's self-exultation

the virulence

of the words they said



ah, the open sea

how majestic

how restful

how serene

how welcoming

as the last sunset

embraces its waters

in perfect peace

and acceptance

this is silent perfection

more than words

which are but imperfection



this, this sacred moment

my heart is in harmony

like every note of the symphony

over is the introduction

then the exposition

I'd need no recapitulation

I have chosen

not in doubt nor fear

but in gladsome resignation

only the waters will remember

what I have lived for

what I have written

Prayers from
The book of kindness.
Supplications
Made in stillness.

Thankful
For the life I have
Come to know.
The knowledge,
Which now I possess.
With a gladsome heart,
I shall process.
When the dark days are not yet fallen
upon me.



While my heart
Stays alert.
While my deeds
Regard change.
While the definitive factor of time,
Remains

By my side.
Now shall I bask
Now shall I furiously
Embark on the struggle.
Calling the powers
Which be. The guardians of the universe.
Of our very sphere called earth.



Requesting their blessings.
Demanding their favours.
Accepting their mysteries.
Admiring their beauties.
Upon these positives,
I shall dwell.
Till my prayers
Receive a response
And my atrium
Dwells in satisfaction.

Deception is a part of life that you want to leave behind
Betrayal is its friend of the night that you want to take
Off your mind and let it run in summers breeze so free
Without it just being a dream
If you watch closely to your pains
You will only find many doors you left open
yet you will never be free
The people that gave so much pain's in your life
They’re not different in the end
So let them go
Let go of the pain and let the rain come down
Slam that door as hard as you can and move on in life
You cannot have both so just let go
I know love is bliss
Sadly I will never have a part of this
Just another dream that faded away just as fast
Lost in the moment of one lasting kiss
Something my poor heart miss
Oh this hurts so bad
My heart is taken the beatings that it should never have
Gladsome things are gone washed away in the rain
But there are still some pains that remain
Slamming doors that yet have not came
You are like a song that I will not miss
But when the rain comes I will cry out slamming doors
I need your love today
But then I don't need any more pains from you and all
Those sad lies you tell
I need you now before you go away
Trying to hold on, I know the cause is lost
Does this mean nothing?
I promised you, my heart was crossed in the rain of your pains
I've kept all my promises to you
Can you say the same?
We're losing touch what is true love
You're driving me insane I cannot keep playing your games
Are you so heartless to say you still love me
When I saw you with you know who
You must have me confused
My heart was open, the key was yours
But now all I'm doing is slamming the doors
Walking out of this darken life of your lies
Slamming all the doors.
I hate these childish games
Let the rain pour because I'm slamming this door.

- Judy Emery © 1984
The Queen Of Darken Dreams Poetic Lilly Emery

THE SUPREME SURRENDER
(Bijoylakshmi Das, 28th Jan, 2020)
Lost in Solitude's celestial surprise
Dazed by the dazzling dews of the
skyless hue;
The spirit in me awakes to the audacious adventure
Clad with impeccable iridescent hue.

The sky shakes its silvery flowers
Of starlit mirth and moonlit joy,
An alien Delight reigns over Earth
To take you to the Land of Bliss far away.

There dwells the lonesome lovely heart
In harmony's kingdom of the highest order ;
The hierarchy of the Supreme Felicity
In the midst of the spotless splendour.

The Sun goes humbler as it rises high:
Humility of the most magnanimous soul,
The Divine principle of Wisdom profound
The long-sought quest of the human goal.

The Earth turns timid in her tiresome toil
Of disharmony's delirium dreadful dance,;
All her attempts to make man Human
In an ennobled sacrosanct birth.

The gladsome gifts of the grateful Green
Are showered down at the feet of earth;
To let you live in Gratitude's ken -
With grace and dignity of an angelic heart.

The seraphic Damsel sheds tears from Sky
At the pressing plight of the Creation's Art;
So perfect and sublime once upon a time,
Now sleepless laments in the limitless Vast.

The beautiful Blossoms bring Bliss transcendent
Love's endless ecstasy enlivens the soul,
"Surrender unconditional" - the One Rule inalienable
To reach Humanity's the most cherished goal.

The little "I" that lies in you and me
The Ego that raises its head so high;
The insignificant Self:s earthly compromise
Brings sorrow and agony and timeless sigh.

The priceless Bounty of the Beatitude's crown,
The immortal treasure of Rapture recondite;
The Creation garbed in an eternal radiance
Of Compassion infinite in prophetic foresight.

Be vast like the Ocean,
Be ever-giving like the noblest tree
The Art of Giving is vibrant in Nature -
The Creation is the ceaseless Poetry.
Make its Liberty an integrated Whole,
Freedom beyond the freedom vast,
"Supreme Surrender" as your life divine's Goal.
(Bijoylakshmi Das, Puri)

SOMEONE SOMEWHERE
(Bijoylakshmi Das)
Oh Dear, my dear, my ever Sweet Dear
Tell me where do you now live?
Whether Earth's Paradise or Heaven's
El Dorado
Live alone in your Soul's delightful blithe.

The sweet melody of the little birds
Wings your hours with limitless mirth,
Your dwelling is the measureless masquerade
Of an invisible immortal Birth.

The Dawn descends with her soft solemn footsteps
Delivers the visionary message of the Unknown,
Your unseen presence soon touches my heart's inmost recess
Where I sit oblivious of the world
on my own.

The swaying cascades in their gladsome dance
Send Mystic signals in solitude,
At once makes your subtle presence vibrant in air
To aureate the splendours of Beatitude.

The bubbling babbles rise so fast
From the deep blue ocean's breast,
Your whisper and whistle reverberate in ether
Just at a glance I touch the momentous moment.

The Night sky sparkles with Eden-like
magnificence
Star-spangled moonbeams speak of Bliss,.
I listen then to your muse-moist murmur
And feel the rarest rainbow-rapt kiss.

Oh Dear! My Sweet Invisible Dear!
Tell me the name of the land you dwell,
Just a glimpse I long to have of you
And bid adieu to this earthly hell.

The Sun-robed mountains utter the Truth:
Vast, Golden and Sublime,
The thunderous rains with their sobbing tears
Sing Nature's ceaseless rhyme.


There you appear in a sudden flicker
In lightening's unforeseen advance,
Then you play hide and seek beneath the clouds
In their clamorous frightful dance.

Just a touch of yours is here and there
On the huge stretch of Blue,
Ever enlivening for the tired brown earth
Full of revelry and unseized awe.

The rare roisterer of joy of
buoyant moments -
The lone Emperor in the Kingdom of Victory,
The solemn Grace offers its gratitude
In untold felicity of self-rapt mystery.

So, there you sit on your triumphant throne
Alone on the peak of your archetypal win,
Far removed from Earth's periphery beyond time and space -
Like Godhead's nearest Kin.
(Bijoylakshmi Das Haridwar. 28th June 2019)








I

Deception is a part of life
that you want to leave behind
Betrayal is its friend of the night
that you want to take
Off your mind and let it run in
summers breeze so free
Without it just being a dream
If you watch closely to your pains
You will only find many doors you left open
And you will never be free
The people that gave so much pain's in your life
They’re not different in the end
So let them go
Let go of the pain and let
the rain comes down
Slam that door as hard
as you can and move on in life
You cannot have both so just let go
I know love is bliss
Sadly I will never have a part of this
Just another dream that faded away just as fast
Lost in the moment of one lasting kiss
Something my poor heart miss
Oh this hurts so bad
My heart is taken the beatings
that it should never have
Gladsome things are gone
washed away in the rain
But there are still some pains that remain
Slamming doors that yet have not came
You are like a song that I will not miss
But when the rain comes
I will cry out slamming doors
I need your love today
But then I don't need
no more pains from you and all
Those sad lies you tell
I need you now before you go away
Trying to hold on, I know the cause is lost
Does this mean nothing?
I promised you, my heart
was crossed in the rain of your pains
I've  kept all my  promises to you
Can you say the same?
We're losing touch what is true love
You're driving me insane
I cannot keep playing your games
Are you so heartless to say you still love me
When I saw you with you know who
You must have me confused
My heart was open, the key was yours
But now all I'm doing is slamming the doors
Walking out of this darken life of your lies
Slamming all the doors.
I hate these childish games
Let the rain pour because
I'm slamming this door.

Judy Emery © 1989
The Queen Of Darken Dreams Poetic Judy Emery

I don't need reminding
     though time is on my heels
     in impatience.  I know
     age is telling and I'm drifting
     toward the edge of final darkness
     with no return. Yet how calm
     tender, comforting are the echoes
     that are resonating in my being entire
     and how gladsome am I
     to embrace the ultimate beauty
     and poignancy as my heart
     reflects upon the kisses
     of lips, the songs sung and the touch
     that only love alone could ever impart

      for there's no loss nor diminution
      in the willing surrender
      to that which is more sublime, stronger
      than the dying.  All that life is
      is but a dream-felt harbinger
      to a glory and splendour
      beyond the ken of every earthly treasure

      come then,  come
      let me feel the pulse
      of this caressing ending
      that's but the beginning
      beautified, blessed and sanctifying
      the departing that's most endearing

From streetcorner pulpits near and far.
We’re watering wisdom’s seed with fear.
If your melanin’s under par,
Slave-trader heathen, listen here:
God’s own holy unpronounceable name
Now translated for you: Whites Are To Blame.

King JAMES was black. You heard it first
From me—before those Israelites
Began to preach to the accursed
Of Edom (meaning heathen whites).
So, his authorized text is meant
Only for those of true Hebrew descent.

No flaming redhead Scottish king
Was he who bore Azania’s crown
Upon his brow. It’s time to bring
The truth. James Stuart? Dusky brown.
No bagpipes here, nor usquebaugh, nor oats.
Just afro-polyrhythm’s gladsome notes.

Mansa Musa filled his coffers;
Sub-Saharan James grew wealthy
More than Solomonic offers
Kept King James both wise and healthy.
No puppet monarch for Britannic schemes
But African sage, of vision and dreams.

ELIZABETH, of Albion’s fame,
Was also misperceived for hue.
A white rose, yes. But only in name.
Pure African was she—it’s true!
You’ve been lied to about these royal folks;
High time we rewrite such ethnic jokes.

Don’t believe the Edomite hype
They want to keep our tribes suppressed.
And Moses is our prototype
His law we follow, and we’re blessed.
REAL understanding: it’s something you earn.
Once gained, ain’t no trick you cannot discern.

No context needed. History
Is mainly  Edomite propaganda.
King JAMES was black. No mystery.
And Edinburgh’s in Uganda.
The first king of Scotland will not be last…
Our exegesis is unsurpassed.