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L Maughan Aug 3
Cold moon come rest your face upon my breast,
leave the stars to poke their insufficient sparks.
Lie naked with your abalone chest
new, quartered, full against this matriarch.
Let fly the harnessed orbit of depressed
half circles hidden, stranded in the dark.
Sad satellite, unloved and second guessed;
glum pearliness, the sun has fallen west.
Bipasha Dutt Feb 2018
As the freezing months are here,
Migratory birds are seen no where.

Trees are only left with stem and branches,
Appear like wood that lost revival chances.

Squirrels have gathered food and gone.
Sullen and glum, I feel totally alone.

Frequent snowfall deteriorated weather manifold.
I shiver, sniffle and experience piercing cold.

Then sunlight enters window as a ray of hope,
And helps me perceive and gives me another scope,

And makes me realize nothing is lost
Even if everything is covered in frost.

After all, winter will not carry on forever
Nature will again rise from this deep slumber.
Mary Gay Kearns Jun 2018
I took the left path where hydrangeas grew and sleepy primroses under woods, edged shady trees.
The empty stream ran quietly dry
With grass cuttings piling high.
If one peeped, one would find tiny creatures
To cast a sparkle here and there, a delight.
So on tip-toe, with sandels bent
Up high I reached to take
The plastic fairy as she twirled a pirouette
In a theatre made by chance.
Reflected in a silver mirror intwinned with ivy branch
A mottled foal tends his dreams and Chrismas robin chirps.

My brother took the right hand path where the trees grew fruit
Ripe berries from the gooseberry bush bulged their prickles.
Dangling from hawthorn now a cowboy with a hat
Looking for his fellow Indian with the yellow back sack.
Sheep gather in a hollow, dark, protected from the sun
And Mr toad, now lost of paint, has turned a bit glum.

And so we leave our woodland friends and travel up the *****
Winding round the rose bed and goldfish where they float.
Then up we climb, the middle route, to jump the pruned clipped
The lawn divided in two halves, a contemporary taste.

Now we're nearly at that place where if one was to turn
Could see down across the land
To the sea and sand.
Of all the beauties that I've known
Nothing beats this Island home.

Love Mary x

My grandfather’s retirement bungalow was in Totland Isle of Wight.
It was named Innisfail meaning ‘Isle of Ireland’.
Behind, the garden led down to magical and delightful to children who came as visitors. My grandfather would prepare this woodland with some suitable surprises.
The garden and woodland deserved its own name and in retrospect
Is now named ‘Innislandia’ to suggest a separate, mysterious land.
Beyond the real world.
In the poem A Country Lane on page 8 the latched gate is the back gate to my grandparent’s garden and bungalow in Totland as above.
John Garbutt wrote the following piece on the meaning of the name 'Innisfail'.

My belief that the place-name came from Scotland was abandoned
on finding the gaelic origins of the name.
‘Inis’ or ‘Innis' mean ‘island’, while ‘fail’ is the word for
Ireland itself. ‘Innisfail’ means Ireland. But not just
geographically: the Ireland of tradition, customs, legends
and folk music, the Ireland of belonging.
So the explanation why the Irish ‘Innisfail’ was adopted as the name
of a town in Alberta, Canada, and a town in Australia,
can only be that migrants took the name, well  over a century ago
to their new homelands, though present-day Canadians
and Australians won’t have that same feeling about it.

The bungalow was designed by John Westbrook, who was an architect, as a wedding present for his father and Gwen Westbrook.
I do believe he also designed the very large and beautiful gardens.
It is there still on the Alan Bay Road. Love Mary xxxx
annh Dec 2018
Morning is not my time of day,
That's when concepts float away,
Across the garden, down the lane,
Through the gate at Hester Payne's.

Teacher's pet and top pass,
Hester sits eyes front in class,
With rubbers straight and pencils sharp,
A clean page ready to start.

I, of course, am running late,
Hair a-fly, face scrubbed in haste.
Chasing my thoughts, I see them now,
Bouncing ahead: ’Where? Why? How?’

Miss Armitage says I can do better,
Just follow her lead to the letter.
She raps twice: ’Attention, please!’
We all fall quiet - three sniffs, one sneeze.

’Now settle down, it's time to count.’
Braids and partings turn around
To face the board and I'm up first.
Chalk in hand, could things get worse?

In front of Danny, in front of Sue,
In front of Seamus. And you know who?
Three plus three, then five times six,
Square root of nine, just take your pick.

Six and...thirty...three, I'm sure.
Or was that seven? Maybe four.
My mouth goes dry, I stare and blink.
Lord knows, I find it hard to think.

Up the corridor, down the stairs,
Right then left, my thoughts in pairs,
Sift and swirl and giddy about.
’Behave yourself, now cut that out!’

’Come back here, where you belong.
Don't wonder off! Don't make me wrong!’

I scratch my answers, the class is aghast,
It seems I've something right at last.

Hester sighs, as glum as can be,
For today...this morning...for everyone to see,
My thoughts have stuck with me.
Children's verse.
Elena Mar 19
There was a wild fire
In a forest glum
The villagers screaming
At the top of their lungs
While the children scattered
And cried for their mums
The wind began howling,
And the wolves had now come

So tell me mighty river,
Why are you flowing away?
Past the gashes on tree trunks
And the blood pouring from the fray
Your purest fresh waters
Are now stained and at bay,
It doesn't mean your white waters
Cannot help them today

There was a sea serpent
In the eye of a storm
Her iris was burning
And she was whirling her form
Her venom was toxic
For all who had torn
Through her layers of skin
That she ever did mourn

So tell me mighty river,
Why are you flowing away?
Past these churning red waters
That our trauma has lain
The fear is engraving
And the worst is to stay
If your ripples of wisdom
Do not flow back this way.
Here’s the full version — Enjoy.
who cares anyway Jun 2018
for what i know a
feeling that turns you
frightend and glum
for thinking too much

every single time
enourmos because i allow it to
enlarge to an
expansion that now creates what this is

always present and has a talent for
appaearing when there’s nothing but urge
and seek

reverence and dread
rushing through my body
right now
right here:

honestly one of my favourite feelings.
the things people are willing to do and achieve because of fear is truly and absolutely thrilling.

it lies within every single soul
and is the one true thing that connects us.
because a human basically acts on fear.
think about it.
why are you nice to people in the first place?
well, probably because your mother or father or anybody taught you as a child, but did they do it without fearing you of something? of people rejecting you when you act rude, or did those people do it themselves? are you afraid of karma? or the opinion of others?
it doesn‘t really matter.

everything you do
is somehow based on fear.
fear you once felt.
fear that is still so painfully present.
fear lurking on the horizon of the future
or even the fear of fear.
ryn Aug 2014
A singular rose to say that you caught me from the start
Two of them would say that you too love me such
Three would mean three words that come from my heart
Five stalks would shout, "I love you very much!"

Six would spout six words that I always have said
"I love you, I miss you" is the message that they would give
Seven is the infatuation that I take to bed
Nine would want us together for as long as we'd live

Ten roses would state the absolute obvious
When they say that you are nice and so very pretty
"My treasured one", said eleven so filled with purpose
Twelve would cheekily suggest, "Will you be my steady"

Thirteen deemed to be unlucky for some
But roses represent that you are secretly admired
Fifteen is given with a face so glum
Apology is offered for what had transpired

Twenty would mean that I'm so much into you
Four more added to say that you're always on my mind
Thirty three reaffirms of my love so true
Thirty six would cherish all our moments in kind

Forty would mean genuine is my love and it's all I've got
I would genuinely love you if only you would let
Fifty of these flowers absolutely seem like an awful lot
But its worth to say that my love is free of regret

Ninety nine would cost but it'll say my love is forever
A hundred says that I'll remain forever devoted
One more joins to mean that you're my only love, ever
One hundred and eight is the big question that needs to be answered

Three hundred and sixty five roses represent the days in a year
They mean that I can't stop thinking of you every single day
I wish to give you eternal love that would span forever
On nine hundred and ninety nine roses these words would lay
zebra Jul 2017
the child's house
domicile of estrangements
his parents dressed him like a little girl
against his will
a pox of gender confusion
glum aura
he ascended by violence
and lived through the logic of a mirage
except for copulating with demons
which of course
was ruined by
the good Christians
they who always hate ***
not wanting to be reminded
they are animals too
their heaven withheld
their halo's sullied
the vulnerability of desire their crime
Eros a disgrace
still beating their genitals until a wicked thunder
the pro-creative
an affirmation of paradox
between the continuity of life
and the dread of death
***** resurrections
a second *******
**** flood
without redemption
Satan standing on their necks
while God pulls them up by their hair
rebels to reason
bewitchers of wit
deranged by the myth
of dolls
wood and plastic painted corpses staring
and a blossom throated Goddess
ham handed monkey fist
jerking off in search of a bulls eye anyway
eyes bleeding on bare legs; lifting a white cotton dress
a bulwark of erections
like canons blasting puce spats
under his frilly skirt; a red rain
haunted by dead girls dancing
like homeless hip bones sway
a bewildered phantasm
in a doll house dream
Paul Gilhooley Oct 2017
Gentle child sleeping in my chair,
Stay sweet your dreams, free from care,
Rest your head from weary day,
Exhaustion borne from adventurous play.

Gentle child with breath so soft,
Into deep slumber, you have been lost,
Knowing nothing of years to come,
A dreamy smile, you're rarely glum.

Gentle child resting free,
Cast adrift on your dream filled sea,
I wonder what thoughts fill your head,
Tho' I know your imagination is well fed.

Gentle child I hear you snore,
A man as child, yet only four,
You stir from slumber, look of surprise,
Confusion and beauty I see in your eyes.

Gentle child drifts back to sleep,
Your dreams they call you from the deep,
An uncomplicated life, youthful simpleness,
The greatest time, the age of innocence.

Cinco Espiritus Creation
October 2017
faith Feb 2018
boom boom,
feel the bass in the room,
clap clap,
get ready for it then snap,
listen to the music,
then go out and do it,
hear the drum thrum,
put on a smile don't be glum,
mouth the words,
then sing like that caged bird.
Nigdaw Jul 20
I gave my sadness to my cat
it fitted his deadpan face
and generally glum demeanour,
he had the personality for it
besides it made him cute,
and a massive hit with the ladies

of course, I couldn’t really
give my sadness to my cat
apart from it being really unfair,
on my best friend and only true
companion, it is ridiculous
to think that an animal is depressed,

though I am, even with his support
endless nights listening to my troubles
his expressionless face understanding
every word, he helps me of course
having to look after someone who relies
on you, makes you feel wanted,

useful, almost powerful in some ways
but after all he is just a cat, however
much I try to make him human,
did I tell you he talks, not really
I think I probably need a therapist
and he just needs to be a cat,

it’s what he does best after all.
Kanishka May 20
I wish I was an aurora.
My performance will be a blissful rare site.
I'll dance from sky to sky unhindered at night.
My manoeuvre making spectators gasp.
Witnessing me sing will render luck bright.

I wish I was an aurora,
My lovers would camp despite freezing just to peek.
They'll try to touch me but fail.
They'll hold me dear only to lose me instantly.
I'll be their memory, remembered vividly.

I wish I was an aurora.
I'll be the goddess of dawn.
I'll be the chariot of light in darkness.
I'll harbour revolutions in lives.
I'll enlighten everyone as my own.

I wish I was an aurora.
I'll be valued and worshipped by some.
But I'm not an aurora,
I'll die insignificant and glum.
Matthew Leon Sep 16
How much time can pass with nothing being done
How much time can pass without feeling shunned
How much time can pass without a sun
How much time can pass without feeling glum

How much time will pass before we are through
How much time will pass before the sky turns blue
How much time will pass before tears anew
How much time will pass before healing is true

Time will only tell what you've done to yourself
Time will only tell if your heart still cries for help
Time will only tell what you make of this fight
In the path we all walk will you walk with no light?
Homunculus Jan 31
The temperature has been in the low single digits since the early morning hours. As I venture outside, everything is gray and lifeless. The brightest and most vibrant objects in this glum portrait of a day are the snowflakes. They dance; they flicker; they undulate, glistening midair in balletic flourishes, descending hesitantly to the ground, and then scattering back into the winds as they land. One of nature's cryptic metaphors? Perhaps, but who's to say? As my eyes take stock of the world around me, I find that I am surrounded on all sides by death and decay. Time has stripped the deciduous trees of their once vibrant autumn leaves, which have long since abandoned the branches to be raked up and wither into mulch. Juxtaposed against these, every block or so, are the evergreens, which seem at once to mock proudly their barren counterparts, and also to weep quietly in sullen isolation. The sod has become a hazy yellow which resembles straw, brittle in texture, and browning toward the roots. Within this morbid scenery, I understand that in only a few hours, I could just as easily succumb to the forces of nature which brought it about and become but another mere instance of it. A true illustration of the philosophical doctrine of sublimity. As soon as the sting of the cold makes contact with the skin, the brain kicks into survival mode. “I must escape this.” Nothing could possibly be more important. The leisure with which the homeward journey is usually pursued is completely abandoned. Only urgency remains:

        GET IN CAR
        “TOO BAD; TOO SLOW;
        “TOO. *******. COLD.
        “I. GO. FIRST.

“****, NOW IT'S COLD AGAIN?!?!?!
        “TURN. THE VENTS. OFF.”
        “IF IT ONLY WORKS FOR 30 SEC-”
             THE ******* LIGHT IS



Well, maybe a sadomasochist on some “sir, please step out of the car” type ****, but I don't see one, anyhow.”

Okay, getting closer now. Can almost feel the loving protection of the stately brick walls, the roaring furnace, the tenacious water heater. Just another mile...
Up the hill- left turn- right turn- pull up- park. “Oh boy, here we go again”
*Rigorously examine pockets and center console to be sure nothing is accidentally left behind

Car door opens

­       I reach the door, shivering like a frightened Chihuahua, hands palsied with cold as I fumble desperately for my key and struggle in the darkness to find the lock. “Click” GOT IT!!!!!!! I turn the key and push the door, but experience resistance due to the towel placed underneath to prevent the draft from coming in. I heave with all my weight and the door budges as I violently stagger into my humble domicile. I make my way into my room to find my cats sleeping intently on my bed. One of them looks up at me like “What's your deal?” Oh, Dante, if only you knew.
I've been reading a lot of Pynchon lately. I like the sort of stream of consciousness prose he launches into sometimes, and decided to tinker with it in my daily writing practice.
I imported this from my word processor, and the HP algo ****** the entire original formatting up; so I hope you'll forgive some of the aesthetic deficiencies.
Jack Apr 3
*** is no sweet gum, but it makes you a wholesome *** who pours out all their income
Acting like a ****
Is this what you wanna become
Always glum
Balancing your hum that lost it’s silver tongue
A slow beating drum
Don’t let that be your sum
Put both hands on the drum and chew some ******* bubblegum.

Lilah Apr 2
After Sun washed Sky
Ridding her of all her sorrows,
White, fluffy suds
Were left intentionally on her blue surface
To frame the Sun’s own setting brightness
And set her fiery yellow rays
On everyone’s glum faces
And make them smile
Gulishta Oct 2018
Words are the power,
Words are the pain.
Words are misfortune,
Words are the gain.
            Words can heal,
            Words can hurt.
            Words can cure,
            Words can burn.
                          Words are friends,
                          Words are feud.
                          Words are beautiful,
                          Words are cruel.

Words cut deep,
Words are stitches.
Words are jewels,
Words are gems.
Words are play,
Words are games.

             Words are puzzles,
             Words are pieces.
             Words are questions,
             Words are the answers.

                               Words are romance,
                               Words are fight.
                               Words are darkness,
                               And ray of light.

Words are war,
Words are love.
Words are weapons.
Words are peace.
           Words are authority,
           Words are responsibility.
           Words are complication,
           Words are simplicity.

                             Words are glum,
                             Words are delight.
                             Words are emotions,
                             The greatest high.

Words are poem,
Words are songs.
A constant companion,
And so much more. .

Can you imagine a life without them?.
I honestly can't mine.
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