"glooming" poems
Snow falling
the bear snoozing
sunflowers stalling
A Sunflower blooming
The Sun is blinding
Sunflowers blooming
Mating calls for fighting
a sunflower glooming
Perennials rebloom
as a sunflower tries to
Sunflowers rebloom
a sunflower dies too
The snowflakes fall
a Sunflower grows tall
sunflowers wilt
the dens are built
Snow falling
The bear snoozing
sunflowers stalling
A Sunflower glooming
Sep 2, 2018
Sep 2, 2018 at 4:51 PM UTC
There’s a scurrying sound of something, burrowing,
Down in the depths of the dungeons, hurrying,
Skittering, pittering-pattering, scattering
When there’s a footstep, hear them chattering:
‘Here come the lords, and here comes the vassal,
Tripping their way through Cockroach Castle.’
Here come the ladies, all in their finery
Tripping and sipping the wine from the winery,
Trailing their silks, their satins and bustling,
Up in the ballroom, while the rustling
Army beneath the sounds of their razzle
Is down in the depths of Cockroach Castle.
Spilling their millions up in the glooming
Out from the flagstones, terror is looming,
Up on the awnings, hung from the ceiling
Under the swish of the skirts they’re stealing,
Dropping in hair, and burrowing faster,
Cockroach Castle is set for disaster.
Suddenly all of the room is screaming
Flapping of hands, the roaches are teeming,
Myriad hordes in the Carbonara,
Candles are tipped from the candelabra,
Choking smoke from the candles guttered,
Flames leap up from the ones that stuttered.
Clothing and flags and the awnings razing
Silks and satins flare up, and blazing,
Roaches in eyes and ears, they’re rasping
Clogging their throats, to leave them gasping,
There isn’t a lady or lord, or vassal
To come out alive from Cockroach Castle!
David Lewis Paget
Apr 3, 2014
Apr 3, 2014 at 1:08 PM UTC
Observing Raven feather-full,
A gleam of blue on black.
The beady eye could look at me
And widen every crack.
Mocking with
Hollow call.
Watch! Don’t let that feather fall.
Promises it’s not hole.
The Raven whispers thoughts of doubt,
Insides sobbing “let me out!"
A thought indeed bizarre
But one can only think that...
“Maybe these birds are?"
A glooming sense of winged wisdom,
Although black and beady eyed,
It would not come as a shock
That their little birds, they never cried!
One cannot help but wonder
If they can see indoors?
Of course it may not seem so
but they always come in fours!
Look out the window frame,
Take a peek!
Observe the Raven’s coarse black beak.
*Just mind he doesn’t watch you back,
Or he will widen every crack.*
Dec 22, 2014
Dec 22, 2014 at 8:43 AM UTC
rain,
peaceful, calm
pouring, pounding, dripping
cloudburst, drizzle, vapor, condenses
murking, glooming, falling
shimmering, thin
mist.
Mar 2, 2015
Mar 2, 2015 at 10:52 AM UTC
He is the sun to the lonely sky,
She is the wild wolf of the night.
A quiver in hand and a bow on back,
She makes her way while leading the pack.
Harmonizing to the tunes of the golden lyre,
He is the God whom all admire.
With the silver bow and the golden sword,
Defeating the Python he forged his path forward.
Apollo is the light to this glooming world,
Artemis is the moon-light that glowed and burned.
The twins of Zeus both fierce and strong,
Through different destinies stayed together all along.
The Goddess of the hunt walks with pride,
While the God of Poetry lives to enlight.
Medicine mixes together with wild,
When the sun and moon in the cosmos align.
Apr 28, 2021
Apr 28, 2021 at 6:37 AM UTC
And thus when the sun would rise, it should be determined;
I had lost, failed to wipe out the transience of a dreams miracle,
Leaning back as the stars fade one after another in the brightening sky
I find myself smiling, at the disappearing sight of the lunar rabbit after the moon too had sunken down to rest without a single cloud having witnessed it, the heavens remain only filled with great light.
While everyone rejoyed with a big smile to the morning which welcomes them to be again, hard working and productive, I can't help it but to feel sad, having to accept my destiny of never breaking free.
The fleeting time passes aimlessly, only for me to have faint courage,
Glooming, one would even embrace the darkness which befalls the world at a time which ceases to let even crystal starlight seep through,
This is where the dreams created in the world of fantasy are born,
That's a repeated story, they bloom, scatter then fall, recycling again.
Shining and withdrawing itself, there is always my presence in a dream, so dance in the dark night my beloved servant, have we really lost if I do not fade away and perish ~ ? Yes, we have, sadly enough.
Yet I should engage ourselves with the solance;
I don't have to die in a dream.
~ Umi
May 11, 2018
May 11, 2018 at 6:07 PM UTC
Mariana in the Moated Grange
by Alfred, Lord Tennyson
With blackest moss the flower-plots
Were thickly crusted, one and all:
The rusted nails fell from the knots
That held the pear to the gable-wall.
The broken sheds look'd sad and strange:
Unlifted was the clinking latch;
Weeded and worn the ancient thatch
Upon the lonely moated grange.
She only said, "My life is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said, "I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!"
Her tears fell with the dews at even;
Her tears fell ere the dews were dried;
She could not look on the sweet heaven,
Either at morn or eventide.
After the flitting of the bats,
When thickest dark did trance the sky,
She drew her casement-curtain by,
And glanced athwart the glooming flats.
She only said, "The night is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said, "I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!"
Upon the middle of the night,
Waking she heard the night-fowl crow:
The **** sung out an hour ere light:
From the dark fen the oxen's low
Came to her: without hope of change,
In sleep she seem'd to walk forlorn,
Till cold winds woke the gray-eyed morn
About the lonely moated grange.
She only said, "The day is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said, "I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!"
About a stone-cast from the wall
A sluice with blacken'd waters slept,
And o'er it many, round and small,
The cluster'd marish-mosses crept.
Hard by a poplar shook alway,
All silver-green with gnarled bark:
For leagues no other tree did mark
The level waste, the rounding gray.
She only said, "My life is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said "I am aweary, aweary
I would that I were dead!"
And ever when the moon was low,
And the shrill winds were up and away,
In the white curtain, to and fro,
She saw the gusty shadow sway.
But when the moon was very low
And wild winds bound within their cell,
The shadow of the poplar fell
Upon her bed, across her brow.
She only said, "The night is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said "I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!"
All day within the dreamy house,
The doors upon their hinges creak'd;
The blue fly sung in the pane; the mouse
Behind the mouldering wainscot shriek'd,
Or from the crevice peer'd about.
Old faces glimmer'd thro' the doors
Old footsteps trod the upper floors,
Old voices called her from without.
She only said, "My life is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said, "I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!"
The sparrow's chirrup on the roof,
The slow clock ticking, and the sound
Which to the wooing wind aloof
The poplar made, did all confound
Her sense; but most she loathed the hour
When the thick-moted sunbeam lay
Athwart the chambers, and the day
Was sloping toward his western bower.
Then said she, "I am very dreary,
He will not come," she said;
She wept, "I am aweary, aweary,
Oh God, that I were dead!"
3k
Pitter patter raindrops gently sprinkle my windows,
Thunder rumbles again.
Sky’s are dark, darker, glooming happily,
The day meanders, hiding and seeking,
and the sky starts pouring its heart out .
Pale silver threads, navigating their way down against a backdrop of green-black trees.
It is June.
And my day of revival, birth and reckoning.
Only a day away from the solstice.
Here in leafy, caressing, sleepy Goa,
the dusk will soon begin its slow, steady, inevitable drawing in.
In my secluded, fragrant, verdant labyrinth,
I sip coffee,
I notice the lone squirrel scurrying away to find shelter,
and listen to birds chirping, bees buzzing, the gurgle of water,
and to an insistent song in my head that just doesn’t stop playing but too spellbound to put pen to paper right now.
And now, as I go for a drive on this quiet, directionless, mellow afternoon,
I cannot remember the word I want to write,
I think I have no words.
The thunder is closer now.
It sounds like drumbeats , the rearranging of celestial furniture, like our transit to this beautiful abode we call home now.
Unexpectedly a bird is singing in the midst of it all unabashedly.
I think about the past.
Not in any structured way. Just people who have come and gone, who linger, who stay and who have left their indelible fragrance around me.
For a few moments, my mind wanders down the past and I sigh at my own predictability.
The thunder is passing. Grumbling and groaning in the distant now.
Each leaf looks freshly washed, scrubbed sparkling clean and shades of green hold my gaze.
The paddy fields look abundant and satiated.
The single bird has become a small chorus, a full roaring celebration on.
I stare at my page. I have still written nothing.
But, sweetness,
I just experienced divinity,
I feel blessed and just absorb the present.
I am the road and the paddy field,
I am the bird, the squirrel and the bee,
I am the thunder, and the rain,
I am the song and the quiet,
In the abundance ,
I am me, what I want to be❤️
Jun 20, 2021
Jun 20, 2021 at 10:54 AM UTC
"Mariana in the Moated Grange"
(Shakespeare, Measure for Measure)
With blackest moss the flower-plots
Were thickly crusted, one and all:
The rusted nails fell from the knots
That held the pear to the gable-wall.
The broken sheds look'd sad and strange:
Unlifted was the clinking latch;
Weeded and worn the ancient thatch
Upon the lonely moated grange.
She only said, "My life is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said, "I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!"
Her tears fell with the dews at even;
Her tears fell ere the dews were dried;
She could not look on the sweet heaven,
Either at morn or eventide.
After the flitting of the bats,
When thickest dark did trance the sky,
She drew her casement-curtain by,
And glanced athwart the glooming flats.
She only said, "The night is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said, "I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!"
Upon the middle of the night,
Waking she heard the night-fowl crow:
The **** sung out an hour ere light:
From the dark fen the oxen's low
In sleep she seem'd to walk forlorn,
Till cold winds woke the gray-eyed morn
About the lonely moated grange.
She only said, "The day is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said, "I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!"
About a stone-cast from the wall
A sluice with blacken'd waters slept,
And o'er it many, round and small,
The cluster'd marish-mosses crept.
Hard by a poplar shook alway,
All silver-green with gnarled bark:
For leagues no other tree did mark
The level waste, the rounding gray.
She only said, "My life is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said "I am aweary, aweary
I would that I were dead!"
And ever when the moon was low,
And the shrill winds were up and away,
In the white curtain, to and fro,
She saw the gusty shadow sway.
But when the moon was very low
And wild winds bound within their cell,
The shadow of the poplar fell
Upon her bed, across her brow.
She only said, "The night is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said "I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!"
All day within the dreamy house,
The doors upon their hinges creak'd;
The blue fly sung in the pane; the mouse
Behind the mouldering wainscot shriek'd,
Or from the crevice peer'd about.
Old faces glimmer'd thro' the doors
Old footsteps trod the upper floors,
Old voices called her from without.
She only said, "My life is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said, "I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!"
The sparrow's chirrup on the roof,
The slow clock ticking, and the sound
Which to the wooing wind aloof
The poplar made, did all confound
Her sense; but most she loathed the hour
When the thick-moted sunbeam lay
Athwart the chambers, and the day
Was sloping toward his western bower.
Then said she, "I am very dreary,
She wept, "I am aweary, aweary,
Oh God, that I were dead!"
1.8k
Like morning dew set like a duvet over the frail grass
mist laying thick but yet frail and thin like glass
stars still glooming on Gaea's black arch far above
pines resting deep until dawn calm thereof
the silence only broken by a mourning dove
not breaking, being of the serenity one of
only at times as these I can feel at bay
my own doubts can not even make me sway
for once I feel whole...
May 19, 2016
May 19, 2016 at 3:56 PM UTC
Telephone wires are tangled in the trees tonight
and the stars are copper colour,
as if scattered from a fountain
and Romeo is calling from beneath the balcony
of the Capulet family in Verona,
trying to get reception-
but the receiver is busy
moving on, and growing up-
Juliet, the girl he is calling, has a new phone
that she doesn't trust with unfamiliar numbers,
and his is listed 'unknown'
Unsent messages: *"goodnight
"goodnight- parting is such sweet sorrow,
that I shall say good night till it be morrow."*
The story of the star-cross'd lovers was no tragedy at is end.
Nobody died, nobody had to pretend
to die. They rarely think of one another now,
only from time to time do they wonder 'what if'
or regret the absence of a real goodbye.
Romeo never got the chance to defy the stars
Juliet never got the chance to contemplate him cut out in them
and neither of them got the chance to commit,
and neither of them took a chance with suicide.
Telephone wires in trees, copper stars-
-ghosts, wished on, shooting, burning far, far away-
Unspoken words: *"some consequence
yet hanging in the stars,
auspicious stars"*
(the fairest of them, he'd once found in her eyes)-
no reception, nothing received.
In this love story, nobody dies.
It is remembered as any other night before.
It was not long until where Romeo had come and gone
he'd left behind just a flicker of a frisson
in memory, growing distant,
gradual decay, and then
he was nothing more than threads to weave
the patchwork of a dream,-
hard to recall, a close call,
a near miss, a could-have been-
but it was harder, with time, to believe it was ever
the real love she yet knew nothing of
at the keen age of only thirteen.
It was Paris she fell for. The two were to marry
and for her bouquet that day, the flower she chose
to carry- for their romance and sweetness-
was the rose, and in her vows, she spoke of her love
being boundless and deep as the sea,
and infinite. All the wishes he'd made on stars
and coins in fountains had come to be.
Spoken words: "Have I thought long to see this morning's face..."
So many saved lives and one love lost and
a glooming sort of peace settled over
the star-cross'd streets of Verona.
Aug 8, 2014
Aug 8, 2014 at 2:02 PM UTC
'm as empty as the air
Weighing too hard for me to bear
I'm as free as the birds
What such freedom could be wrapped in pains
I'm as lonely as doom
Still glooming; as happy as I could
I hide from many moons
It's thoughtless; but it's worth that I should
Among my tranquility; there's one thing missing
Give me a lip, and make me crave for a kiss.
I'm softer than the sea
Holding nothing but all therein
I'm as strong as a bridge
So tender, so young, an unhappy king
I strive to beat challenges
Yet so poor, so battered are in my midst
I admire flowers; the true art of nature
Rendering in the hollow; was love I could fervour
I admire butterflies and the birds in the skies
Loving parrots and the errors of their speech
I love nature and all that therein
But there's one thing missing
So soothing it is; the embrace of ladies.
I'm as happy as the dead
Smiling so bright; such I could tame
I love children; and the blood in their veins
Their happiness, I say, was more bright than fair
They crowded me; a story telling fiction
They spoke to me; sounding waters from amazon
Their crave for me; was more than I could pardon
I loved little children; beyond compassion
But there's something missing
The one thing that had no meaning
Give me your embrace, and forever are gone my pains.
I'm as emotional as nothing
The true revelation of logic
I loved a lady; the very appearance of magic
She's as beautiful as beauty
And as elegant as misery
Her face made me happy
And her thought made me mystery
She was the one omnipresence
Beyond the reality of my dreams
Her name was magnamity
The creation of my innate reality
I love her; like I love nothing
But there's one thing missing
No, there's one thing missing
Nothing can fulfill me
Yes, nothing can fulfill me
Not even the glory
Absolutely, not even the glory
Not even the glory of the wide world's riches.
Among my tranquility; there's one thing missing
Give me a lip, and make me crave for a kiss.
I love nature and all that therein
But there's one thing missing
So soothing it is; the embrace of ladies.
The one thing that had no meaning
Give me your embrace, and forever are gone my pains.
But there's one thing missing
No, there's one thing missing
Nothing can fulfill me
Yes, nothing can fulfill me
Not even the glory
Absolutely, not even the glory
Not even the glory of the wide world's riches.
Aug 18, 2016
Aug 18, 2016 at 6:27 AM UTC
***** the wil-'o-the-wisp sadly sat at home
for he was young and much too small
to roam the swamp alone
He wanted to be an elusive light
mysterious, misguiding and haunting the night.
„Oh swamp“ he whined „it all goes so slow
I don't want to stay home – please help me to grow!“
„Shut up, little ones, enough of that weeping“
bubbled the swamp and then started sleeping
„Oh not again“ the old tree moaned as ***** burst out in tears
and raised his branches left and right
to cover up his ears.
Meanwhile a burglar with Police had a battle
with a big bag of loot he had to skedaddle
into the swamp and lost the way.
He watched out for a guiding light
but all he found was crying *****
(wil-o'-the whisping really not bright)
„What's that?“ the burglar snidely asked
„a lousy glooming firefly?
can't even light my cigarette
get out of my way little bug“
and proceeded to pass by.
This now was too much for Willy's pride
(teenagers often freak out)
He drew himself to his fullest height
and he shouted loud:
„listen you mean and human thing – I am no dim-lit light!
Beware of the rage of an wil-o'-the wisp!“
and then he run completely wild
„Hear what I will bring to you
first death then pain and sorrow
I'll **** you first then chase you down
for you there's no more tomorrow
I'll lead you into deepest swamp to a puddle of mud
and when you start to drown in it – I'll watch you in cold blood“
(if we were picky in logic and order we surely now have to complain
but let's close an eye for he is still very young – back to the story again)
Inspite all efforts and Willy's threats
the burglar did not catch a word
(wil-o'-the-wisping as language is not very common
and therefore not often heard)
Let's say (to help our ***** a bit)
the burglar was slightly confused
so nothing much happend
until the swamp woke up
and swamp was not amused
„Who dared to disturbe my holy sleep?“
he blubbered with utmost grim
Willy's finger pointed out to the burglar then
and he sheepishly squeaked „that was him!“
Swamp did not hesitate too long
burglar sank into swamp to a place deep and stealthy
(for medical reasons we have to admit
this can't be considered as healthy)
In the next days ***** did not no more complain
to spend some more time at home
as he learned one thing this very day:
there are many ways that lead to Rome.
(©Heike Borgard 2014)
Jun 14, 2014
Jun 14, 2014 at 6:58 PM UTC
With blackest moss the flower-plots
Were thickly crusted, one and all:
The rusted nails fell from the knots
That held the pear to the gable-wall.
The broken sheds look'd sad and strange:
Unlifted was the clinking latch;
Weeded and worn the ancient thatch
Upon the lonely moated grange.
She only said, "My life is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said, "I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!"
Her tears fell with the dews at even;
Her tears fell ere the dews were dried;
She could not look on the sweet heaven,
Either at morn or eventide.
After the flitting of the bats,
When thickest dark did trance the sky,
She drew her casement-curtain by,
And glanced athwart the glooming flats.
She only said, "The night is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said, "I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!"
Upon the middle of the night,
Waking she heard the night-fowl crow:
The **** sung out an hour ere light:
From the dark fen the oxen's low
Came to her: without hope of change,
In sleep she seem'd to walk forlorn,
Till cold winds woke the gray-eyed morn
About the lonely moated grange.
She only said, "The day is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said, "I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!"
About a stone-cast from the wall
A sluice with blacken'd waters slept,
And o'er it many, round and small,
The cluster'd marish-mosses crept.
Hard by a poplar shook alway,
All silver-green with gnarled bark:
For leagues no other tree did mark
The level waste, the rounding gray.
She only said, "My life is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said "I am aweary, aweary
I would that I were dead!"
And ever when the moon was low,
And the shrill winds were up and away,
In the white curtain, to and fro,
She saw the gusty shadow sway.
But when the moon was very low
And wild winds bound within their cell,
The shadow of the poplar fell
Upon her bed, across her brow.
She only said, "The night is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said "I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!"
All day within the dreamy house,
The doors upon their hinges creak'd;
The blue fly sung in the pane; the mouse
Behind the mouldering wainscot shriek'd,
Or from the crevice peer'd about.
Old faces glimmer'd thro' the doors
Old footsteps trod the upper floors,
Old voices called her from without.
She only said, "My life is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said, "I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!"
The sparrow's chirrup on the roof,
The slow clock ticking, and the sound
Which to the wooing wind aloof
The poplar made, did all confound
Her sense; but most she loathed the hour
When the thick-moted sunbeam lay
Athwart the chambers, and the day
Was sloping toward his western bower.
Then said she, "I am very dreary,
He will not come," she said;
She wept, "I am aweary, aweary,
Oh God, that I were dead!"
Alfred, Lord Tennyson
Jun 10, 2013
Jun 10, 2013 at 2:11 PM UTC
I typed the first line and it didn't come out write
Holy **** how do I even begin to right
This wasn't intentional
It was just my subliminal
Telling me, "Hey you drank to much last night!"
The first 2 lines were meant to be that way
Hangovers can fun, especially with wordplay
For once in my life, I left my typos untouched
And here's the story about how I drank too much
We started at home with a bottle of wine
Shared between the four of us, we were feeling fine
We got to the car
We didn't go to a bar
Instead we went to a friend of mine
His place was close, about 15 minutes away,
As soon as we got there, we were like "Heeeeyyyy!!"
We played a drinking game, called 'ride a bus'
And soon enough, I felt like I was on an actual bus
My head started to spin, my chest felt heavy
I hurried to the bathroom feeling very dizzy
I looked into the mirror
I felt this glooming fear
I thought to myself, "Oh **** come out already"
And out it came, the wine from before
Just when I thought it was over, and then came more
The punishment I get, for not eating before I drink
Is hurling up everything into the sink
So cleaned myself up, and the sink as well
I wobbled around, I think I almost fell
Someone asked me, "Did you throw up?"
I don't remember who, but I was like... "YUP!"
We got to the car, and reached home safely
I crawled into bed, and I slept like a baby
I woke up this morning, 6.30am, actually
I cleaned up the car, where I threw up unintentionally
Thanks for the party guys, I had a blast
And surely enough, it won't be our last
The next time we drink
Or when our glasses clink
I'll make sure I don't drink it too fast
May 16, 2014
May 16, 2014 at 7:27 PM UTC
once was a star sparkling bright
towards the burning sun he ran
but he got blinded by the light
and with his rise his fall began
.
by falling deep he scorched the sky
and thus brought others down with him
one brother died and one got burned
fading brilliance, gloom and grim
.
far away from sun and sky
the star could see again
he saw a milion distant lights
and he would understand
and he would spread his wings and fly
back to his brothers side
.
from then, the star
can still be seen
upon a summersky at night
his mind shines starry, pale and clear
and when they saw his glooming light
they named him Altair
Jan 16, 2019
Jan 16, 2019 at 2:45 PM UTC
I’ve seen some patterns that happen every day
In the growth and the stagnant way we decay
In these walls with no windows and the teachers all glazed
Eye’s glazed from the all-consuming glooming haze
Of what we all must become someday, right?
So live it up now because in ten years we’ll be settled
We’ll either grind it out or run away from the ghetto
To suburbia where no black man resides
This is the land where white men all hide
Have kids, hate your wife, hate your life because you have resigned
To what you hated at sixteen because it happens all the time
I need to SCREAM that this is not the only thing
We are not all cogs in this machine that lacks life’s meaning
Dr. Manhattan said that we’re all tied to strings
And the FDA keeps on poisoning
Well he had a point and our food disappoints
But we are not hopeless, we can anoint
Our own power to see the strings that toy with girls and boys
And slow the rate at which we destroy
Our own bodies and homes and the earth and our minds
We are capable of breaking societal binds
Beat
So pass that joint to the **** and get out
Because substance doesn’t need more substance when your mind could spill out
From thinking, from capability, from plane to plane
Polluting the air while you pollute your own brain
I’m not disrespecting, there’s always a place
But get out of that scene so you can get out of the race to the end
Of youthful reputation that always constantly needs mending
Escaping won’t help because it’s always just pretending
We are not victims and we are not martyrs
We have contributed to this world from the very start
Of our ephemeral, radical, illogical existence
With our parents raising us to never know resistance
But it’s in our bodies we just refuse to assist it
The birth is messy, ****** not gut-free, completely you and completely me
Covered in what we call wicked tragedy
And from the womb of our souls we take a new body with standards to break
It slithers from slender thighs like a domesticated snake
Down our legs and across the floor so we can FINALLY RELATE
To a world that this city doesn’t know
A world outside of the common, the rotting, the flow
And you know that I know that we know we can feel it
We feel it because we can hardly believe it
Feb 13, 2013
Feb 13, 2013 at 1:42 PM UTC
Shadows
Inky, somber
Shrouding, murking, glooming
My soul conjoins with the umbra
Darkness
Aug 26, 2014
Aug 26, 2014 at 6:43 PM UTC
Witch-elms that counterchange the floor
Of this flat lawn with dusk and bright;
And thou, with all thy breadth and height
Of foliage, towering sycamore;
How often, hither wandering down,
My Arthur found your shadows fair,
And shook to all the liberal air
The dust and din and steam of town:
He brought an eye for all he saw;
He mixt in all our simple sports;
They pleased him, fresh from brawling courts
And dusty purlieus of the law.
O joy to him in this retreat,
Immantled in ambrosial dark,
To drink the cooler air, and mark
The landscape winking thro' the heat:
O sound to rout the brood of cares,
The sweep of scythe in morning dew,
The gust that round the garden flew,
And tumbled half the mellowing pears!
O bliss, when all in circle drawn
About him, heart and ear were fed
To hear him, as he lay and read
The Tuscan poets on the lawn:
Or in the all-golden afternoon
A guest, or happy sister, sung,
Or here she brought the harp and flung
A ballad to the brightening moon:
Nor less it pleased in livelier moods,
Beyond the bounding hill to stray,
And break the livelong summer day
With banquet in the distant woods;
Whereat we glanced from theme to theme,
Discuss'd the books to love or hate,
Or touch'd the changes of the state,
Or threaded some Socratic dream;
But if I praised the busy town,
He loved to rail against it still,
For 'ground in yonder social mill
We rub each other's angles down,
'And merge' he said 'in form and gloss
The picturesque of man and man.'
We talk'd: the stream beneath us ran,
The wine-flask lying couch'd in moss,
Or cool'd within the glooming wave;
And last, returning from afar,
Before the crimson-circled star
Had fall'n into her father's grave,
And brushing ankle-deep in flowers,
We heard behind the woodbine veil
The milk that bubbled in the pail,
And buzzings of the honied hours.
1.1k
Trapped up in this house of lies
covered ever so discreetly in its loving disguise
looking through the open door
begging, wishing, wanting more
each and every day passes me by
the seconds, minutes, and hours on the hands of time
watching as we all fade away
in the glooming encompass of everfading gray
windows closing
poeple imposing
trusting every enemy that fills your head
dancing the nights away with the living dead
tweak out
freak out
sleep out
melting your brain inside
praying for the rain of tears, but all thats left is dry
running through these shrinking hallways
trying to remember better days
force on a smile, so your friends won't see
what's eating you alive? The real me.
digging your own hole
picking apart your frail soul
pounding the nails into your own Cozy coffin
smothering memories of when you thought you were something
the wind blows
the doors close
your fire ignites inside
your laughing at the thought of being buried alive
the house is overtaken by flames
you start to forget your purpose, your life, your name.
the foundation you called your own disappears
your mind is flushed. your head is cleared.
you look over the horizon see a new beginning ahead
forget the past there's something new to be had
layer by layer
brick by brick
you rebuild your ways
after all, tomorrow is always a new day.
Jan 25, 2012
Jan 25, 2012 at 10:41 AM UTC
Dark and glooming
the clouds begin to rush
forcing hot into cold.
Lightening and thundering
the world begins to shake
with it's unsteady heartbeat.
Rain and hail
the ground turning to water
with the steady flow of tears.
Spinning and turning
the world moving too fast
suddenly out of control.
Quiet and calming
the clouds disappear
like nothing was ever there.
Shining and bright
the sun breaks through
leading us to a new life.
May 12, 2014
May 12, 2014 at 6:35 PM UTC
The tree that stood alone
Its wounded branches hung-
When spring, a happy time
Came swerving round the bend
The tree stood still
It whispered not
And stood to stand alone
It died that coming fall
Memoirs- they came to haunt
It stood -and still
Hung glooming
Because of lonely past
Its life had flown away
But left the saddened corpse
Where which it stood to stand
Away, beneath, alone
Now day and years alike
Have passed the saddened corpse
Life and ways have changed
But still, the corpse remain
Its long since rotted down
But still-
It is alone.
Jun 21, 2010
Jun 21, 2010 at 10:36 AM UTC
The metro station caged the slumbering metropolis
From this dingy mid-March town fridged in January wind
A ******** clad explorer marches in mellow strides
All the way to you
To back the lover's whisper spoken by static selfies
With fleshy whiffs, a borrowed jacket and a gawky face
Blind to but maybe fiddly pepples on the ground.
Down at a backstreet diner, its locked out doorstep,
A hygge cover made for two,
Humming low is the city's nocturnal remains' dubstep
Coming from an illuminating exit,
Luring the busy hands and buckled excitement, whereto ----
Whereto the vacant main street glides them
With the at ease traffic,
Down loops of everextending branches
I followed you
To the roundabout between
two surrounding glassware towers
Where gleaming sparks ***** on each other's windows
Divining themselves by lighting up pavements, entrance signs
and glooming heavens.
Corridors, lawned with clutters from refurbishments,
Lead to glassrooms of suspended business meetings,
And that cozy cavern,
Where you flump into a swivel chair.
Your inhibited expression unwinds
As my curious caress explores
The damp torso slumping deeper into the pliable seat.
And a devoted twitch of ecstasy, blossom unexpectedly
On your face,
Which already shied itself away from its audience,
Doubtlessly, for way too many times ----
A candid sight I could only cache from you,
Because I intend to see it again, your effortless reaction.
The sarcoma-like lump left uncut at the bottom,
Wrinkled like wind waves in a Ukiyo-e drawing.
I scoop the saline ripple, so you can taste it beforehand.
Our bodies started gravitating
onto each other or all over the place.
And lips, they startlingly perched,
out of wills, like magnets
For the very first time.
I've been feeling patient.
And I love taking my time with you
Nov 29, 2018
Nov 29, 2018 at 1:13 AM UTC
I like the way you are
I like every single things you do
I like the way you move your way out
I like the way you stare something
I like the way you explain sonething you love
I like the way you hold your breath and laugh at the same time when the teacher is coming
I like the way you blooming up my mind
watering my brain with lots of flowers
And soon it'll become a woods,
Birds singing, lion roaring, and the deep voice of a rainy forest,
And the glooming of a river flows
Make me wanna stay forever young and with you,
cause you're beautiful and you know it.
I like the way you miss
I like the way you love
I like the way you need
I like the way you see
Her.
- dlx
Aug 7, 2016
Aug 7, 2016 at 5:14 AM UTC