"grot" poems
Golden pulse grew on the shore,
Ferns along the hill,
And the red cliff roses bore
Bees to drink their fill;
Bees that from the meadows bring
Wine of melilot,
Honey-sups on golden wing
To the garden grot.
But to me, neglected flower,
Phaon will not see,
Passion brings no crowning hour,
Honey nor the bee.
7.6k
1
Ever musing I delight to tread
The Paths of honour and the Myrtle Grove
Whilst the pale Moon her beams doth shed
On disappointed Love.
While Philomel on airy hawthorn Bush
Sings sweet and Melancholy, And the thrush
Converses with the Dove.
2
Gently brawling down the turnpike road,
Sweetly noisy falls the Silent Stream —
The Moon emerges from behind a Cloud
And darts upon the Myrtle Grove her beam.
Ah! then what Lovely Scenes appear,
The hut, the Cot, the Grot, and Chapel queer,
And eke the Abbey too a mouldering heap,
Cnceal'd by aged pines her head doth rear
And quite invisible doth take a peep.
6.9k
In my childhood rumors ran
Of a world beyond our door—
Terrors to the life of man
That the highroad held in store.
Of mermaids' doleful game
In deep water I heard tell,
Of lofty dragons belching flame,
Of the hornèd fiend of Hell.
Tales like these were too absurd
For my laughter-loving ear:
Soon I mocked at all I heard,
Though with cause indeed for fear.
Now I know the mermaid kin
I find them bound by natural laws:
They have neither tail nor fin,
But are deadlier for that cause.
Dragons have no darting tongues,
Teeth saw-edged, nor rattling scales;
No fire issues from their lungs,
No black poison from their tails:
For they are creatures of dark air,
Unsubstantial tossing forms,
Thunderclaps of man's despair
In mid-whirl of mental storms.
And there's a true and only fiend
Worse than prophets prophesy,
Whose full powers to hurt are screened
Lest the race of man should die.
Ever in vain will courage plot
The dragon's death, in coat of proof;
Or love abjure the mermaid grot;
Or faith denounce the cloven hoof.
Mermaids will not be denied
The last bubbles of our shame,
The Dragon flaunts an unpierced hide,
The true fiend governs in God's name.
4.3k
Dry veins branch the dead gulch
cinder cones set on a marble tan scape
fanning sands sketch ephemeral
fossil plates fold under columns of gray
Mountain back steep at the crevasse
sinkhole spots form on parallel nine
sulfur pipe stems from molten ash
withered shrubs and crumbling spines
silt fields cover the foothills
swayback shed near the Whipple tree barn
tumbledown shacks form the patchwork
from goat canyon ranch to big bison farm
Salt lakes fractured in amber
sickle-bush cut at the bowline knot
a half-moon traced by the viper
oxbow streams and valley grot
Feb 13, 2019
Feb 13, 2019 at 1:43 PM UTC
The Kraken
by Alfred, Lord Tennyson
Below the thunders of the upper deep;
Far far beneath in the abysmal sea,
His ancient, dreamless, uninvaded sleep
The Kraken sleepeth: faintest sunlights flee
About his shadowy sides; above him swell
Huge sponges of millennial growth and height;
And far away into the sickly light,
From many a wondrous grot and secret cell
Unnumber'd and enormous polypi
Winnow with giant arms the slumbering green.
There hath he lain for ages, and will lie
Battening upon huge seaworms in his sleep,
Until the latter fire shall heat the deep;
Then once by man and angels to be seen,
In roaring he shall rise and on the surface die.
3.8k
Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight,
Alone and palely loitering;
The sedge is wither'd from the lake,
And no birds sing.
Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight,
So haggard and so woe-begone?
The squirrel's granary is full,
And the harvest's done.
I see a lily on thy brow,
With anguish moist and fever dew;
And on thy cheek a fading rose
Fast withereth too.
I met a lady in the meads
Full beautiful, a faery's child;
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
And her eyes were wild.
I set her on my pacing steed,
And nothing else saw all day long;
For sideways would she lean, and sing
A faery's song.
I made a garland for her head,
And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
She look'd at me as she did love,
And made sweet moan.
She found me roots of relish sweet,
And honey wild, and manna dew;
And sure in language strange she said,
I love thee true.
She took me to her elfin grot,
And there she gaz'd and sighed deep,
And there I shut her wild sad eyes--
So kiss'd to sleep.
And there we slumber'd on the moss,
And there I dream'd, ah woe betide,
The latest dream I ever dream'd
On the cold hill side.
I saw pale kings, and princes too,
Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
Who cry'd--"La belle Dame sans merci
Hath thee in thrall!"
I saw their starv'd lips in the gloam
With horrid warning gaped wide,
And I awoke, and found me here
On the cold hill side.
And this is why I sojourn here
Alone and palely loitering,
Though the sedge is wither'd from the lake,
And no birds sing.
3.1k
I scanned two lines with some surmise
As over Keats I chanced to pore:
'And there I shut her wild, wild eyes
With kisses four.'
Says I: 'Why was it only four,
Not five or six or seven?
I think I would have made it more,--
Even eleven.
'Gee! If she'd lured a guy like me
Into her gelid grot
I'd make that Belle Dame sans Merci
Sure kiss a lot.
'Them poets have their little tricks;
I think John counted kisses for,
Not two or three or five or six
To rhyme with "sore."'
2.9k
Where Claribel low-lieth
The breezes pause and die,
Letting the rose-leaves fall:
But the solemn oak-tree sigheth,
Thick-leaved, ambrosial,
With an ancient melody
Of an inward agony,
Where Claribel low-lieth.
At eve the beetle boometh
Athwart the thicket lone:
At noon the wild bee hummeth
About the moss'd headstone:
At midnight the moon cometh,
And looketh down alone.
Her song the lintwhite swelleth,
The clear-voiced mavis dwelleth,
The callow throstle lispeth,
The slumbrous wave outwelleth,
The babbling runnel crispeth,
The hollow grot replieth
Where Claribel low-lieth.
2.2k
Himself it was who wrote
His rank, and quartered his own coat.
There is no king nor sovereign state
That can fix a hero's rate;
Each to all is venerable,
Cap-a-pie invulnerable,
Until he write, where all eyes rest,
Slave or master on his breast.
I saw men go up and down
In the country and the town,
With this prayer upon their neck,
"Judgment and a judge we seek."
Not to monarchs they repair,
Nor to learned jurist's chair,
But they hurry to their peers,
To their kinsfolk and their dears,
Louder than with speech they pray,
What am I? companion; say.
And the friend not hesitates
To assign just place and mates,
Answers not in word or letter,
Yet is understood the better;—
Is to his friend a looking-glass,
Reflects his figure that doth pass.
Every wayfarer he meets
What himself declared, repeats;
What himself confessed, records;
Sentences him in his words,
The form is his own corporal form,
And his thought the penal worm.
Yet shine for ever ****** minds,
Loved by stars and purest winds,
Which, o'er passion throned sedate,
Have not hazarded their state,
Disconcert the searching spy,
Rendering to a curious eye
The durance of a granite ledge
To those who gaze from the sea's edge.
It is there for benefit,
It is there for purging light,
There for purifying storms,
And its depths reflect all forms;
It cannot parley with the mean,
Pure by impure is not seen.
For there's no sequestered grot,
Lone mountain tam, or isle forgot,
But justice journeying in the sphere
Daily stoops to harbor there.
1.7k
The Industrial Evolution
I want the rain to wash away the grime
From this filthy living corpse.
Its dross filled pores
And a life cloaked in rust ridden slime.
Dumped grot covers me.
Exhaled from the mephitic breath
Of a thousand septic chimneys refusing to fast.
Spewing out ****
Drowning all us luckless souls in muck.
The inevitable residue of greed
Deposited by those with no belief in the End of time.
A planet of zombies
Wading through a mire of death.
Only waiting for the time
They reach the END.
(Gerry Aldridge)
May 21, 2016
May 21, 2016 at 4:18 PM UTC
Skinny girls have big *****
and that's just no fun.
Sometimes when their pants drop,
it smells like fish and grot.
But that's okay, I'll lick it anyway,
be it the middle of the night
Or the dawn of a new day.
But baby when you ***
that sticky white goo,
I'll pop in a piece of gum
and then I'll leave you.
May 10, 2016
May 10, 2016 at 7:18 AM UTC
What bores you?
Do you accept BS too?
Yawn! Can't you get anyone better, grot,
Whining is so tiring, boring, I've got
so 'over' your whinging, you see,
I'm sure you can get someone better than me!
Feb 6, 2017
Feb 6, 2017 at 2:52 AM UTC
I think…
yes, I know, a dangerous pastime.
I was wondering silently among
the silent rolling hills and cowering the
booming tempest that has become
my mind. I stumbled upon your grave
once more. A small grot wedged
into the hillside, overlooked by the
darkest and loudest of storms,
flashing bright, illuminating, so that
I might never forget what lies here.
I sat with you and we exchanged words,
the grass above you whispering into
the wind, caressing my face once more,
but my heart does not sway like the
leaves of the Life Tree anymore. So
I found myself thinking…
about how very fragile trust is
about how little people put in one another,
but how quickly the blame burns blue.
A flame like that engulfs more than skin, dear,
it is still hungry after the house is gone
and the city sits in ruins. It came for you and I,
I can almost see it now, sitting among the rubble.
It took something from me, but left it in you.
I think my mother told me once,
that lone wolfs are alone for a reason,
and now I see why. But I digress…
I think…
the reason why the blue fire took me,
a simple notion that is clear to me now,
you couldn't trust, so you can’t be trusted.
Dec 2, 2014
Dec 2, 2014 at 10:27 AM UTC
Bitter grot,
daily grey hemlock pulp
wavy lays and apple flesh
at lull.
Brain floating static,
the kind that builds
in shoulder muscle
pushing through an image
mostly null
and void--
a happiness inherent in
South Korean absence
beaten to death by
self & blood & head--
a black that follows everything
in late class hurried laundry pickings
red and blue striped glass
of smoke & life & pine.
Needles ***** the sides of aether sighs
Halving forests by signing
American english bible verses
to the sky.
The path is inside
beside the others.
Content ears
hear nothing new.
Mar 18, 2014
Mar 18, 2014 at 12:55 AM UTC
Father, I place this in your hand,
Thanks for creating many a land,
Thanks for each spark of life,
Praise a peaceful time of life,
But, we thank you, God, sort of not,
For viruses and mosquito grot,
Why did you make such breeds?
Better gifts could fill our needs,
There's billions of humanity,
We can't control our fertility,
Daylight savings must be the cause,
Infallible men give us pause,
Thank you, God, we say any day,
No one's perfect, but thanks, okay!
Sep 27, 2025
Sep 27, 2025 at 4:32 PM UTC
*wolken voor de sterrenregen
als zij, houden van geheimen
een plek om te schuilen
bij zij die gelukkig zijn
geluk op een groot podium*
Dec 13, 2017
Dec 13, 2017 at 7:08 PM UTC