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"harbingers" poems
Prophesies of impending fall      creep stealthily over the Great Divide. Gold-green Aspens shiver in the breeze      like leagues of fibrous wind chimes serenading the mountain slopes      with aires of shimmering gold. A few distant bugle calls echo      across the Big Thompson valley as bull elks warm up for the autumn rut.      Sudden early gusts of frigid wind bring waves of sleet and snow -      in tune with the turning polar axis. The greater chill is soon to come.      The animals know it as do we. Bears bulk up on grasses, roots and berries.      Elk and deer drift down from the heights To show their young the ways       of the plains and river valleys. We pull our sweaters on      and toss another log on the flames and greet the harbingers of approaching fall     creeping stealthily over the Great Divide. September, 2018
0
Sep 7, 2018
Sep 7, 2018 at 1:56 PM UTC
robert-c-howard
Harbingers of Autumn
Prophesies of impending fall      creep stealthily over the Great Divide. Gold-green Aspens shiver in the breeze      like leagues of fibrous wind chimes serenading the mountain slopes      with aires of shimmering gold. A few distant bugle calls echo      across the Big Thompson valley as bull elks warm up for the autumn rut.      Sudden early gusts of frigid wind bring waves of sleet and snow -      in tune with the turning polar axis. The greater chill is soon to come.      The animals know it as do we. Bears bulk up on grasses, roots and berries.      Elk and deer drift down from the heights To show their young the ways       of the plains and river valleys. We pull our sweaters on      and toss another log on the flames and greet the harbingers of approaching fall     creeping stealthily over the Great Divide. September, 2018
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23
Autumn’s brusque wind slices its way through the remnants of summer, painting maples in hues of brilliant oranges and reds. Long shadows of late September streak across the last blades of grass, as fall’s stark contrasts light the afternoon. The seasonal wind breathes cold with the smell of autumn in the air. Autumn’s brusque wind slices its way through the remnants of summer, while cottony clouds in a sea of cornflower blue, slowly slide out of view, chased down by v’s of geese as they race across the sun. Helicopter seeds line the sidewalks, green and gold, as others float on the wind, down to join with cones and acorns awaiting next year’s crop.   Autumn’s brusque wind slices its way through the remnants of summer. Crows, harbingers of the winter to come, make their sad calls. Squirrels pause to pack their cheeks with Fall’s fare and scurry to secret caches, their bulging cheeks filled with fallen nuts and acorns. Fall greets me with a kiss as summer bows to its chill, as Autumn’s brusque wind slices its way through the remnants of summer.
0
Sep 27, 2018
Sep 27, 2018 at 10:26 AM UTC
vicki-kralapp
PAINT THE AIR WITH AUTUMN
Autumn’s brusque wind slices its way through the remnants of summer, painting maples in hues of brilliant oranges and reds. Long shadows of late September streak across the last blades of grass, as fall’s stark contrasts light the afternoon. The seasonal wind breathes cold with the smell of autumn in the air. Autumn’s brusque wind slices its way through the remnants of summer, while cottony clouds in a sea of cornflower blue, slowly slide out of view, chased down by v’s of geese as they race across the sun. Helicopter seeds line the sidewalks, green and gold, as others float on the wind, down to join with cones and acorns awaiting next year’s crop.   Autumn’s brusque wind slices its way through the remnants of summer. Crows, harbingers of the winter to come, make their sad calls. Squirrels pause to pack their cheeks with Fall’s fare and scurry to secret caches, their bulging cheeks filled with fallen nuts and acorns. Fall greets me with a kiss as summer bows to its chill, as Autumn’s brusque wind slices its way through the remnants of summer.
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16
Distance traveled time spent's dynamic progressiveness, existentially transcendental's clairaudience clairvoyance.  Metaphysical mystique’s  evolutionally metamorphic futurity's fatidic incarnate.  Due yesterday’s retrospectively retroactive.  Protractive analyses' dimensional delineations.  Enigma entity’s dexterously tactile acuity and coordinated agility on the identity crisis.  Cerebral cortex’s ****** matrix to synaptic syntax semantics.  Prospectus perplexity surreally sublime.  Quagmire quandary’s poshly plush.  Who am I to think I can conception of the infinite supply?  Even the syntactics of eclectic synectics pale by compare to the atrociously impetuous impudence in pugnaciously audacious.  Impromptu innuendo's juncture.   Imagination’s immaturities are psychic clarity’s entelechy to evolutional tenants élan vital.  Fiduciary principle's financially responsible fiscal policies.   Mercenary mendacity's plenary plenipotentiary.  Innocuous noumenal verity, mystic symbiotic’s chicanery dynamism fealties.  Proximity parameter’s perimeter peripherals, vicinity victuals to vigilante villain,   propinquity habitation’s harbingers of harangued.  The question remains on the tribal:  how can I stand next to the person I’m standing next to if I’m carrying on right through them.  It’s the trajectory extant in spatiotemporal's telemetry tactician.  Well graspy greedy on the stingy frugal to mingy minion and paw flaw laws claws on it.  Get a glove, objectified manifest’s diminutive minutia iota’s of self-inductive interstitial extrapolation.  Detinue perfective.  Traveling down this obtusely overt contusion in my vehicular contrivance convection convolution.  Nimbus nimiety exorcism’s aura roan to rainbow mare.  Unicorn railway nails.  Swarthy ******** swath swizzles on the sweaty swelter swerve to verve.
0
May 28, 2019
May 28, 2019 at 12:10 PM UTC
toreinss-pinwinkel-iii
Astral Projection's Existential Hubris
Distance traveled time spent's dynamic progressiveness, existentially transcendental's clairaudience clairvoyance.  Metaphysical mystique’s  evolutionally metamorphic futurity's fatidic incarnate.  Due yesterday’s retrospectively retroactive.  Protractive analyses' dimensional delineations.  Enigma entity’s dexterously tactile acuity and coordinated agility on the identity crisis.  Cerebral cortex’s ****** matrix to synaptic syntax semantics.  Prospectus perplexity surreally sublime.  Quagmire quandary’s poshly plush.  Who am I to think I can conception of the infinite supply?  Even the syntactics of eclectic synectics pale by compare to the atrociously impetuous impudence in pugnaciously audacious.  Impromptu innuendo's juncture.   Imagination’s immaturities are psychic clarity’s entelechy to evolutional tenants élan vital.  Fiduciary principle's financially responsible fiscal policies.   Mercenary mendacity's plenary plenipotentiary.  Innocuous noumenal verity, mystic symbiotic’s chicanery dynamism fealties.  Proximity parameter’s perimeter peripherals, vicinity victuals to vigilante villain,   propinquity habitation’s harbingers of harangued.  The question remains on the tribal:  how can I stand next to the person I’m standing next to if I’m carrying on right through them.  It’s the trajectory extant in spatiotemporal's telemetry tactician.  Well graspy greedy on the stingy frugal to mingy minion and paw flaw laws claws on it.  Get a glove, objectified manifest’s diminutive minutia iota’s of self-inductive interstitial extrapolation.  Detinue perfective.  Traveling down this obtusely overt contusion in my vehicular contrivance convection convolution.  Nimbus nimiety exorcism’s aura roan to rainbow mare.  Unicorn railway nails.  Swarthy ******** swath swizzles on the sweaty swelter swerve to verve.
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1
The chill of an autumn morning A rising steam as the fallen leaves exhale The lonesome trees have given up their glory A carpet of red, yellow, orange, and brown An overcast sky with no definition Is but a blur Movement indiscernible There is wisdom in the sky, revealed to a few The smoke of the day’s first fire ascends Wafting its familiar fall fragrances Brings warmth and comfort to the soul And campsite memories of long ago We pass the bleak and barren cornfield Stippled with autumn’s harbingers The Raven They stare with the blackest of black eyes
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Sep 20, 2014
Sep 20, 2014 at 7:01 AM UTC
john-k-trainer
Autumn Morning
The chill of an autumn morning A rising steam as the fallen leaves exhale The lonesome trees have given up their glory A carpet of red, yellow, orange, and brown An overcast sky with no definition Is but a blur Movement indiscernible There is wisdom in the sky, revealed to a few The smoke of the day’s first fire ascends Wafting its familiar fall fragrances Brings warmth and comfort to the soul And campsite memories of long ago We pass the bleak and barren cornfield Stippled with autumn’s harbingers The Raven They stare with the blackest of black eyes
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16
*First light in the Hudson Valley Arbor Day of April, 1970.* Adrenaline coursed through our young bodies, our hearts on fire with purpose. As we rode our bikes, walked, or jogged miles to our rural high school, red-winged blackbirds called out from the misty swamps. Beautiful but invading, acres of purple loosestrife were rapidly taking over their wetland habitats. Harbingers of the forests, blue jays issued warning cries from deep in the woods, where blights were killing our trees with increasing frequency. Three of us rode together, cycling in relative silence, until we came to a meadow selected for our early breakfast picnic. We feasted on special fruits and cheeses, hungrily stuffing in rare treats. One friend began to send iridescent soap bubbles into the chilly air. Up they rose, up over the soft, puffy cloud of her reddish curls, and into the dawning sun. One bubble landed, unbroken, in the cold, dewy grass. We stared at it, somehow understanding that here was a delicate metaphor for our own fragile planet. Approaching our school now, we breathed deeply the fragrance of apple blossoms from commercial orchards all around us. The spraying of pesticides had yet to be banned. We were sleepy in our classes that morning; most of our teachers understanding that we stood now for something worthwhile, that we believed in, and they smiled with kindness, some even with approval. Our principal agreed to an awareness-raising slide show designed for our fellow students, teachers and parents. An intelligent man, he was admirably tolerant of the wave of changes that our generation brought with us. Smoke stacks, polluted water, and dying wildlife flashed onto a screen in the darkened auditorium, accompanied by the vivid symphonic power of Stravinsky's 'Rite of Spring'- a score so revolutionary that a riot broke out at its premier, in May of 1913. We had no idea then how much worse things would become. All these years later, we each do our part, blessing the efforts of our children and their children, hoping fervently that we are not too late.
0
Apr 22, 2016
Apr 22, 2016 at 2:37 PM UTC
FrancescaRegan
Earth Day, 1970
*First light in the Hudson Valley Arbor Day of April, 1970.* Adrenaline coursed through our young bodies, our hearts on fire with purpose. As we rode our bikes, walked, or jogged miles to our rural high school, red-winged blackbirds called out from the misty swamps. Beautiful but invading, acres of purple loosestrife were rapidly taking over their wetland habitats. Harbingers of the forests, blue jays issued warning cries from deep in the woods, where blights were killing our trees with increasing frequency. Three of us rode together, cycling in relative silence, until we came to a meadow selected for our early breakfast picnic. We feasted on special fruits and cheeses, hungrily stuffing in rare treats. One friend began to send iridescent soap bubbles into the chilly air. Up they rose, up over the soft, puffy cloud of her reddish curls, and into the dawning sun. One bubble landed, unbroken, in the cold, dewy grass. We stared at it, somehow understanding that here was a delicate metaphor for our own fragile planet. Approaching our school now, we breathed deeply the fragrance of apple blossoms from commercial orchards all around us. The spraying of pesticides had yet to be banned. We were sleepy in our classes that morning; most of our teachers understanding that we stood now for something worthwhile, that we believed in, and they smiled with kindness, some even with approval. Our principal agreed to an awareness-raising slide show designed for our fellow students, teachers and parents. An intelligent man, he was admirably tolerant of the wave of changes that our generation brought with us. Smoke stacks, polluted water, and dying wildlife flashed onto a screen in the darkened auditorium, accompanied by the vivid symphonic power of Stravinsky's 'Rite of Spring'- a score so revolutionary that a riot broke out at its premier, in May of 1913. We had no idea then how much worse things would become. All these years later, we each do our part, blessing the efforts of our children and their children, hoping fervently that we are not too late.
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45
7/12/12   16:25pm At what price does man find favour with God? Down through the roiling clouds, from heavenly heights to earthly clay, where scribes had written scrolls of doctrines; down through old crumbling architraves, temples of cold ideals,  man spawned the Vengeful Word. With rage of angels, like effigies of gods, there sprang forth lords and hypocrites; all claimed to speak for God.  Then, in the maelstrom, came genocide of innocents, and hellfire fell like rain. When does a tower become too tall for God? Out of a clear blue sky came silver harbingers of doom, where men were writing drafts and spreadsheets; now crumbling down around them, swathed in hate-begotten fire; spawned from a vengeful god. No mortal angels could save the ones who perished, caught above the line of flame; while some below survived. Yet, in the chaos, sworn enemies in faith came out to save each other's fall. At what price can man enter Paradise? High above the minarets, the veiled dome of the sky students look up with wistful longing; yearning to be good radicals and cross the lines of fire to reap heaven's reward. Hate's vengeful angels pretenders to the throne of God take many shapes and forms, while moderates stay quiet; and with their silence give passive leave for lunatics to prate at heaven's door.
0
Dec 7, 2012
Dec 7, 2012 at 11:28 AM UTC
sara-l-russell
Rage of Angels
7/12/12   16:25pm At what price does man find favour with God? Down through the roiling clouds, from heavenly heights to earthly clay, where scribes had written scrolls of doctrines; down through old crumbling architraves, temples of cold ideals,  man spawned the Vengeful Word. With rage of angels, like effigies of gods, there sprang forth lords and hypocrites; all claimed to speak for God.  Then, in the maelstrom, came genocide of innocents, and hellfire fell like rain. When does a tower become too tall for God? Out of a clear blue sky came silver harbingers of doom, where men were writing drafts and spreadsheets; now crumbling down around them, swathed in hate-begotten fire; spawned from a vengeful god. No mortal angels could save the ones who perished, caught above the line of flame; while some below survived. Yet, in the chaos, sworn enemies in faith came out to save each other's fall. At what price can man enter Paradise? High above the minarets, the veiled dome of the sky students look up with wistful longing; yearning to be good radicals and cross the lines of fire to reap heaven's reward. Hate's vengeful angels pretenders to the throne of God take many shapes and forms, while moderates stay quiet; and with their silence give passive leave for lunatics to prate at heaven's door.
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31
One Republic pick and mix, assorted all sorted wrinkles missing, smooth as glaciers toils reversing on harbingers like excesses does walking the trodden alleys learning Sods mathematics organs pains for non-organics are inherent consequences so one Republic and the anthropologists utters a myth in passing all bananas look like all bananas because bananas are bananas alike sing a song of three pence and a pocket full of fear Plato's cave a grand auditorium for lames united disunited ages in anti-virus glares white noise in white air and masses sigh the emperor's coat plays invisible chess ladies think long and hard in minds for a dolphin swims like none-other the glides of the sweetest depths and in those places unseen expanded vibes of feels know reasons why so it's the bigger snap it's the difference the forbidden fruit lures will not move not go in
0
Apr 20, 2019
Apr 20, 2019 at 6:07 AM UTC
yenson
Can't stop, he's coming now!.....
One Republic pick and mix, assorted all sorted wrinkles missing, smooth as glaciers toils reversing on harbingers like excesses does walking the trodden alleys learning Sods mathematics organs pains for non-organics are inherent consequences so one Republic and the anthropologists utters a myth in passing all bananas look like all bananas because bananas are bananas alike sing a song of three pence and a pocket full of fear Plato's cave a grand auditorium for lames united disunited ages in anti-virus glares white noise in white air and masses sigh the emperor's coat plays invisible chess ladies think long and hard in minds for a dolphin swims like none-other the glides of the sweetest depths and in those places unseen expanded vibes of feels know reasons why so it's the bigger snap it's the difference the forbidden fruit lures will not move not go in
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28
Hops and topsy-turvy jumps ― blurred movement muddles across  the dewy meadow floor, as though dawn brushes away the sandman’s magic from the corner of sleepy eyes,                                   to cast an enchanting spell     A sudden hazy yet abrupt stop…     hastily,  halting ,   frozen motionless Stillness, as if some final destination has been reached…    Neck stretched and craning, tilted with an eye to mother earth ; a canted focus beyond interruption    In the blink of an eye,    with a vigor too rapid to capture,    as the nowness of urgency flashes ―       She stretches the earthworm    with the grasp of subsistence knowing after fall   becomes the long winterlude. The morning sun illuminates the glow of the native Maple’s glorious fiery orange and yellow color palette   A steady stream of animation rushes in and out    of the giant tree’s golden splendor Abundance perishes with the seasonal gardens decay. Mornings of blueberry and strawberry feasts have left the red breasted robbers foraging for the last rotting apples the deer have left behind.    Harbingers of spring…       Blueberry sneakers…       Gleaners of fall and winter.. “Teeek”  “tuk” “tuk” “Tseep”....         fills the overhead air    with a beautifully chaotic verve The flock returns repeatedly     to and fro     the towering Maple to the ripened cornucopia of scarlet berry clusters of the Mountain Ash The Robin’s flock ravage and gorge on the plentiful delights Soon the crimson berries fuel of flight will disappear    as if it were only an unspoken allusion           of the passing seasons The pearl gray sky is an ominous backdrop           for the fickle fleeting migrants Daylight fades as the flock disappears           into a break                in the clouds fleeting unto the ominous pending winter sky… In the blink of an eye ... life’s  senescent seasons transform the stormy whirling winds of change bearing the golden Autumn leave’s splendor    across the rolling vista like a higgledy-piggledy murmuration    of a migrating beautiful mess The naked rooted scaffold’s branches stretch across the sprawling tapestry of the wooded sanctuary. Winter flocks of Thrush and Robins,     arrive on a frosty new dawn Red breast feathers puff with the morning sun’s rays, warming the tree tops leaning toward the southern sky;    Their journey here and now, from distant mountainous horizons,    is part of a soul’s sacred circle of life… November rivers ...the final autumn entry of 2017
0
Nov 3, 2017
Nov 3, 2017 at 10:26 AM UTC
harlon-rivers
Flight of the Red Breasted Robin...
Hops and topsy-turvy jumps ― blurred movement muddles across  the dewy meadow floor, as though dawn brushes away the sandman’s magic from the corner of sleepy eyes,                                   to cast an enchanting spell     A sudden hazy yet abrupt stop…     hastily,  halting ,   frozen motionless Stillness, as if some final destination has been reached…    Neck stretched and craning, tilted with an eye to mother earth ; a canted focus beyond interruption    In the blink of an eye,    with a vigor too rapid to capture,    as the nowness of urgency flashes ―       She stretches the earthworm    with the grasp of subsistence knowing after fall   becomes the long winterlude. The morning sun illuminates the glow of the native Maple’s glorious fiery orange and yellow color palette   A steady stream of animation rushes in and out    of the giant tree’s golden splendor Abundance perishes with the seasonal gardens decay. Mornings of blueberry and strawberry feasts have left the red breasted robbers foraging for the last rotting apples the deer have left behind.    Harbingers of spring…       Blueberry sneakers…       Gleaners of fall and winter.. “Teeek”  “tuk” “tuk” “Tseep”....         fills the overhead air    with a beautifully chaotic verve The flock returns repeatedly     to and fro     the towering Maple to the ripened cornucopia of scarlet berry clusters of the Mountain Ash The Robin’s flock ravage and gorge on the plentiful delights Soon the crimson berries fuel of flight will disappear    as if it were only an unspoken allusion           of the passing seasons The pearl gray sky is an ominous backdrop           for the fickle fleeting migrants Daylight fades as the flock disappears           into a break                in the clouds fleeting unto the ominous pending winter sky… In the blink of an eye ... life’s  senescent seasons transform the stormy whirling winds of change bearing the golden Autumn leave’s splendor    across the rolling vista like a higgledy-piggledy murmuration    of a migrating beautiful mess The naked rooted scaffold’s branches stretch across the sprawling tapestry of the wooded sanctuary. Winter flocks of Thrush and Robins,     arrive on a frosty new dawn Red breast feathers puff with the morning sun’s rays, warming the tree tops leaning toward the southern sky;    Their journey here and now, from distant mountainous horizons,    is part of a soul’s sacred circle of life… November rivers ...the final autumn entry of 2017
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58
My anomalous trip thus far has been dichotomous. Harbingers motivate my advent: a chorus. Acceptance of frolic ventures sent: a quest. My sneakers meet familiar soil at last. Designed to be a panacea, yet I fall ill. Sleets of rain impact my soul: a slight chill. Hazed trance, awashed clean of all acrimony. A lurid stroll, downhill, parallel, perfunctory. I, a stoic mercenary, avenging my ties tonight. Arcane magic flow through my veins, my sight. Moisture sparkle, glistens through my mental maze. Resistance, control: I attempt to regain ablaze. Synaptics fuse, burn, misfire, discombobulate. Higher functions remain: calculus, formulate. Veritas! Visual focus be on 2D layer sharp. Disintegrated data sung with melodious harp. Laissez-faire slayed by Communist meritocracy. Mental hierarchy arise from wayward sorcery. My affection for her nets only melancholia. The amity cease... yet reborn by spying cornea. Upon a hill from sea to sea brings forth diplomacy. Lively lads, enshrouded in black; they be prodigies. Persons of worth: one stranger joins their ranks. If my creed offend, beg you pardon pranks. Silent drizzle softly sings of night and majesty. Lament under moonlight, behold gray sanctity. Ne'er shall dreadful turmoil befall our facilities. Literature conceals such divine secrecy.
0
Aug 28, 2010
Aug 28, 2010 at 5:15 AM UTC
jacky-xiang
Felicitous Hindsight
My anomalous trip thus far has been dichotomous. Harbingers motivate my advent: a chorus. Acceptance of frolic ventures sent: a quest. My sneakers meet familiar soil at last. Designed to be a panacea, yet I fall ill. Sleets of rain impact my soul: a slight chill. Hazed trance, awashed clean of all acrimony. A lurid stroll, downhill, parallel, perfunctory. I, a stoic mercenary, avenging my ties tonight. Arcane magic flow through my veins, my sight. Moisture sparkle, glistens through my mental maze. Resistance, control: I attempt to regain ablaze. Synaptics fuse, burn, misfire, discombobulate. Higher functions remain: calculus, formulate. Veritas! Visual focus be on 2D layer sharp. Disintegrated data sung with melodious harp. Laissez-faire slayed by Communist meritocracy. Mental hierarchy arise from wayward sorcery. My affection for her nets only melancholia. The amity cease... yet reborn by spying cornea. Upon a hill from sea to sea brings forth diplomacy. Lively lads, enshrouded in black; they be prodigies. Persons of worth: one stranger joins their ranks. If my creed offend, beg you pardon pranks. Silent drizzle softly sings of night and majesty. Lament under moonlight, behold gray sanctity. Ne'er shall dreadful turmoil befall our facilities. Literature conceals such divine secrecy.
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28
blood now is the accoutrement. night's tenure is the morning's leasing: what will continue to light like a beacon in this vicissitude is the flash of a snuff-nosed nozzle. no sound is heard. no bones were felt trembling. all the voices were muffled, thrown into a makeshift exodus. the pains will be etched away like moss unraveling the secret of wall upon wounds like old scarves. but the ground, which has girdled this resounding feat, will never forget: death's squadron enters. harbingers. what has hidden them in the lull has now sung severances: a distance closed by a fusillade of bullets.
0
Sep 14, 2015
Sep 14, 2015 at 10:28 AM UTC
windsor-i-guadalupe-jr
Lumad
blood now is the accoutrement. night's tenure is the morning's leasing: what will continue to light like a beacon in this vicissitude is the flash of a snuff-nosed nozzle. no sound is heard. no bones were felt trembling. all the voices were muffled, thrown into a makeshift exodus. the pains will be etched away like moss unraveling the secret of wall upon wounds like old scarves. but the ground, which has girdled this resounding feat, will never forget: death's squadron enters. harbingers. what has hidden them in the lull has now sung severances: a distance closed by a fusillade of bullets.
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22
Daybreak brushes pink clad hovering skies beyond back lit mountains of Cascadia Sunrise peaks through the dawning nimbus a variegated rosy glowing consonance The passing marine endowed sky, framed by pinecone adorned old growth timber stand, near and far ***Red sky some mornings, awakens heart on sleeve without warning*** a lone mourning dove calls out -- unanswered drowning out the drone a lonely heart's throb Harbingers of seasons change cast nebulous shadows over mountain greenery meadows imminent reminders -- *ready or not -- what’s come and gone a moment passed* Though hearts may shine brightly carefree summer's lazy days, prevailing currents portend the ever-present winds of change Someday heaven's healing rain is going to fall softly on this restless solitude; cleansing a weary soul, renewed once again, mostly whole © H.  Rivers ... today all rights reserved
0
Aug 8, 2016
Aug 8, 2016 at 4:47 PM UTC
harlon-rivers
This restless solitude
Daybreak brushes pink clad hovering skies beyond back lit mountains of Cascadia Sunrise peaks through the dawning nimbus a variegated rosy glowing consonance The passing marine endowed sky, framed by pinecone adorned old growth timber stand, near and far ***Red sky some mornings, awakens heart on sleeve without warning*** a lone mourning dove calls out -- unanswered drowning out the drone a lonely heart's throb Harbingers of seasons change cast nebulous shadows over mountain greenery meadows imminent reminders -- *ready or not -- what’s come and gone a moment passed* Though hearts may shine brightly carefree summer's lazy days, prevailing currents portend the ever-present winds of change Someday heaven's healing rain is going to fall softly on this restless solitude; cleansing a weary soul, renewed once again, mostly whole © H.  Rivers ... today all rights reserved
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39
The storm– she will come, Oh- by the roar of the drum, The boom of the beat– Now cometh defeat, Four seals are now shattered, The ground will be battered, Come forth thy lost line, Thou shall face His divine… The sky opened to set them free– The creature like thunder: “Come and See!” Foremost in the lead– Upon the White steed– Arrow of the Bow, All obstruction fall low, Striking the weaker down– The fire glistens about his crown, Above all the rest, Behold all victory; CONQUEST… The bizarre of the steeds– The color that bleeds– A Fiery red that burns in the eyes, As each soldier dies– The civil war spark, As if for a lark! In the fight of the four, The second is WAR… Come and See! Come and See! Now the count is to three, The black horse doth ride, The third horseman as guide, The hand bears balance not gore– The sole vocal of four; “…And see thou hurt not the oil and the wine” The third–oh the third–John! The third is FAMINE… Oh the horror– the horror– the fire filled eyes! All that follows in path now simply just dies, The pale green beast is a savage- a monster- no heart, The ending- the rebirth- the salvation doth start, The fourth rider tears– ravaging all the land, The unholy Reaper with scythe in it’s hand! The harvester hath expelled mankind’s final breath– With Hell at the rear– the fourth and final is DEATH… The war now to heaven and Hell now to Earth, The charcoals are black and red hot in the hearth, Cast forth by the Lion of Judah- the Lamb of the Lord! With all of existence- the Divine became bored, The Harbingers of the Last Judgment- the servants divine, The living creatures cometh to steal all hope from thine, Cometh One then come Two from the mythical Seal, Cometh Three then come Four from the seven rumored to be real… CONQUEST– the archer- the first rider of pure WHITE, Crown capped with unholy deception of light… WAR– the swordsman- the second rider of fiery RED, Blood and betrayal as thou mark thy brother dead… FAMINE– the balance- the third rider of pitch BLACK, Food and resources all man will soon lack… DEATH– the reaper- the fourth rider of pale GREEN, Hell guiding scythe ridding Earth of all souls unclean… The horsemen they triumph in biblical tale– Consider an alternate story and detail, Think not of no hope in the book Revelation, Rather- imagine the truth of a war of no rotation, The power unbalanced to alter dimension, A different battle scene with a similar intention… – Written By: Jacob Coffey – ********************************* Just my take on a Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. Hope you enjoyed it! – Jacob Coffey
0
Nov 17, 2013
Nov 17, 2013 at 7:30 PM UTC
jacob-dexter-coffey
The Four Harbingers.
The storm– she will come, Oh- by the roar of the drum, The boom of the beat– Now cometh defeat, Four seals are now shattered, The ground will be battered, Come forth thy lost line, Thou shall face His divine… The sky opened to set them free– The creature like thunder: “Come and See!” Foremost in the lead– Upon the White steed– Arrow of the Bow, All obstruction fall low, Striking the weaker down– The fire glistens about his crown, Above all the rest, Behold all victory; CONQUEST… The bizarre of the steeds– The color that bleeds– A Fiery red that burns in the eyes, As each soldier dies– The civil war spark, As if for a lark! In the fight of the four, The second is WAR… Come and See! Come and See! Now the count is to three, The black horse doth ride, The third horseman as guide, The hand bears balance not gore– The sole vocal of four; “…And see thou hurt not the oil and the wine” The third–oh the third–John! The third is FAMINE… Oh the horror– the horror– the fire filled eyes! All that follows in path now simply just dies, The pale green beast is a savage- a monster- no heart, The ending- the rebirth- the salvation doth start, The fourth rider tears– ravaging all the land, The unholy Reaper with scythe in it’s hand! The harvester hath expelled mankind’s final breath– With Hell at the rear– the fourth and final is DEATH… The war now to heaven and Hell now to Earth, The charcoals are black and red hot in the hearth, Cast forth by the Lion of Judah- the Lamb of the Lord! With all of existence- the Divine became bored, The Harbingers of the Last Judgment- the servants divine, The living creatures cometh to steal all hope from thine, Cometh One then come Two from the mythical Seal, Cometh Three then come Four from the seven rumored to be real… CONQUEST– the archer- the first rider of pure WHITE, Crown capped with unholy deception of light… WAR– the swordsman- the second rider of fiery RED, Blood and betrayal as thou mark thy brother dead… FAMINE– the balance- the third rider of pitch BLACK, Food and resources all man will soon lack… DEATH– the reaper- the fourth rider of pale GREEN, Hell guiding scythe ridding Earth of all souls unclean… The horsemen they triumph in biblical tale– Consider an alternate story and detail, Think not of no hope in the book Revelation, Rather- imagine the truth of a war of no rotation, The power unbalanced to alter dimension, A different battle scene with a similar intention… – Written By: Jacob Coffey – ********************************* Just my take on a Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. Hope you enjoyed it! – Jacob Coffey
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68
monstrous sound slashes silence the bellow of a giant beast, the flutter of a thousand wings elevation and indiscriminate creed will not heed sinister stirs the mix, the rise of wicked extravagance black feathers flutter to bewilder against the pale frontier the mock of a starlings flight, the fall in a sparrow’s might countless sullen wings unfold, to rally their squadrons for show a mobbing cry meets a redeeming sky, their rising tones mimic heaven heralding high contrast to the core, countless black rap-tor destroy the fading blue sapphire display a rebel twist in the storm suspends them again harbingers dawning a verge of wonder, stands close the small dark outlines, bask a golden shine peripheries slight motion, a graceful shimmer perched as an alert, the slight snap of the fingers a single feather cascades turning in the elegant dance of a ballerina's descent laying at the step vaguely pointing to the entrance, the pride of a black bird, there is no place for an Omen here, one last frailty, is my secret near and dear Terry D’Arcy-Ryan
0
Feb 14, 2018
Feb 14, 2018 at 6:51 PM UTC
SheerTerror
The Last Frailty
monstrous sound slashes silence the bellow of a giant beast, the flutter of a thousand wings elevation and indiscriminate creed will not heed sinister stirs the mix, the rise of wicked extravagance black feathers flutter to bewilder against the pale frontier the mock of a starlings flight, the fall in a sparrow’s might countless sullen wings unfold, to rally their squadrons for show a mobbing cry meets a redeeming sky, their rising tones mimic heaven heralding high contrast to the core, countless black rap-tor destroy the fading blue sapphire display a rebel twist in the storm suspends them again harbingers dawning a verge of wonder, stands close the small dark outlines, bask a golden shine peripheries slight motion, a graceful shimmer perched as an alert, the slight snap of the fingers a single feather cascades turning in the elegant dance of a ballerina's descent laying at the step vaguely pointing to the entrance, the pride of a black bird, there is no place for an Omen here, one last frailty, is my secret near and dear Terry D’Arcy-Ryan
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25
He paints his ashtray alkaline blue, a petty tip-of-the-hat to harbingers of evil, men between men and women sitting aside, head bobbed in embarrassment. What have we become which normalized gestures do not puncture? His alkaline blue ashtray trading dust for roach buds and where is he off to, brain sorting sentiment with barred numbers, statistics, inaccessible phenomena. Pains to say most often he is wandering in the wings flapping for attention. How humanity must suffer in the name of self-effacement. He and his alkaline blue ashtray skitter across the landscape (a da Vinci, a Mona Lisa) again in apathy to watch petty tip-of-the-hat prisoners wag thumbs and call each other names. In the end of things, reason does not prevail. The dust is all.
0
Jan 29, 2015
Jan 29, 2015 at 2:19 AM UTC
christopher-hendrix
Dust to Dust
He paints his ashtray alkaline blue, a petty tip-of-the-hat to harbingers of evil, men between men and women sitting aside, head bobbed in embarrassment. What have we become which normalized gestures do not puncture? His alkaline blue ashtray trading dust for roach buds and where is he off to, brain sorting sentiment with barred numbers, statistics, inaccessible phenomena. Pains to say most often he is wandering in the wings flapping for attention. How humanity must suffer in the name of self-effacement. He and his alkaline blue ashtray skitter across the landscape (a da Vinci, a Mona Lisa) again in apathy to watch petty tip-of-the-hat prisoners wag thumbs and call each other names. In the end of things, reason does not prevail. The dust is all.
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35
#ክብረ ነገሥት *Oh Sovereign of wisdom Solomonic, forgive us. The wicked wax demonic. Golden vessels fill with foulness man is bankrupt, sold and soulless Unsettling harbingers loom dystopian. Sheba rises in dreams Ethiopian.* Tested with questions, her spirit once gone, occultic suggestions postponed her dawn. (Six-hundred and sixty-six talents of gold paid Nineveh’s rise as Messiah foretold. Go read it in Matthew, obstinate sinner You think He intends to have Satan the winner?) Her ruins now surveyed by satellite beheld on the screens of the Canaanite: canals to expose, southern deserts to cross, Eritrean legends of Prophet (and loss), the Ark of King Menelik—Kebra Negast, treasures of darkness presented, now past have us checking those texts that worldlings despise as we wait under dread Luciferian skies. Break the sixth seal of the seventh scroll; let the thirteenth angel spill the bowl ! (or smoke it up in the courts of Heaven till ganja’s infinitude totals seven…) Exhume Axum with the ****** of Marib. decode the encryption on Adam’s rib unearthed from some Antediluvian ravine— Blast from the past: she explodes on our scene! Seven oaths shall be sworn on her spectral beauty (our Biblical transcendental duty). The libation is mixed. Are we ready to swill it? Beersheba? She brew ! Let us rise to fulfill it. from sita to Saba fifth columns are ready: Oh Sovereign — render their pillars unsteady. For after explosions there’s mess to clean up, and it’s worse than the horrors inside of her cup.
0
Apr 27, 2016
Apr 27, 2016 at 9:47 AM UTC
connecthook
Sabean Inscription
#ክብረ ነገሥት *Oh Sovereign of wisdom Solomonic, forgive us. The wicked wax demonic. Golden vessels fill with foulness man is bankrupt, sold and soulless Unsettling harbingers loom dystopian. Sheba rises in dreams Ethiopian.* Tested with questions, her spirit once gone, occultic suggestions postponed her dawn. (Six-hundred and sixty-six talents of gold paid Nineveh’s rise as Messiah foretold. Go read it in Matthew, obstinate sinner You think He intends to have Satan the winner?) Her ruins now surveyed by satellite beheld on the screens of the Canaanite: canals to expose, southern deserts to cross, Eritrean legends of Prophet (and loss), the Ark of King Menelik—Kebra Negast, treasures of darkness presented, now past have us checking those texts that worldlings despise as we wait under dread Luciferian skies. Break the sixth seal of the seventh scroll; let the thirteenth angel spill the bowl ! (or smoke it up in the courts of Heaven till ganja’s infinitude totals seven…) Exhume Axum with the ****** of Marib. decode the encryption on Adam’s rib unearthed from some Antediluvian ravine— Blast from the past: she explodes on our scene! Seven oaths shall be sworn on her spectral beauty (our Biblical transcendental duty). The libation is mixed. Are we ready to swill it? Beersheba? She brew ! Let us rise to fulfill it. from sita to Saba fifth columns are ready: Oh Sovereign — render their pillars unsteady. For after explosions there’s mess to clean up, and it’s worse than the horrors inside of her cup.
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37
Night Train, travel through the world unknown The black hills with a maroon sky thick behind it The metallic sound of friction valiantly losing battle to the poignant silence Night Train, write an epic of the hands that cup around the eyes Of the eyes that talk to the distant light Of the lights that blink and the ones that stay still Night Train, don't slow down for each breath falls faster than the wind outside Night Train, don't slow down for the still is more piercing than the dark blades of grass lying far below The rhythmic oscillation of the half sleeping bodies stacked one above the other The threatening aura of the stiff backbones stoically awake The lone observer is lost in the nightly delusion Night Train, chronicle a dark fantasy of the broken fragments the night narrates Night Train, stop, send a jolt, deaden the incantations Before the dawn or its harbingers intrude
0
Sep 13, 2017
Sep 13, 2017 at 2:16 AM UTC
thiabasu
NIGHT TRAIN
Night Train, travel through the world unknown The black hills with a maroon sky thick behind it The metallic sound of friction valiantly losing battle to the poignant silence Night Train, write an epic of the hands that cup around the eyes Of the eyes that talk to the distant light Of the lights that blink and the ones that stay still Night Train, don't slow down for each breath falls faster than the wind outside Night Train, don't slow down for the still is more piercing than the dark blades of grass lying far below The rhythmic oscillation of the half sleeping bodies stacked one above the other The threatening aura of the stiff backbones stoically awake The lone observer is lost in the nightly delusion Night Train, chronicle a dark fantasy of the broken fragments the night narrates Night Train, stop, send a jolt, deaden the incantations Before the dawn or its harbingers intrude
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14
Once, long ago I gazed upon the world with conformity’s eyes and found it absurd And I cursed existence and my fellow man I built a wall to defend the tattered remnants of the sanity I perceived I still possessed I built a wall that quickly became a desolate prison standing cold in the face of forgiveness and love I ignored beauty’s gentle bliss I insulted love in the name of an antiquated morality Oh spirits Oh demons Oh harbingers of what lies beyond perception It was to you that I entrusted my salvation It was to you that I prayed in expectation of deliverance I begged for naught but a cessation of being to relieve the nightmare of existence In desperation I grasped the reins of intolerance I drew the sword of superficial righteousness carving a swath of condemnation through the ranks of my brothers for the sake of a disapproving God I wounded virtue in the name of heaven I exchanged reason for faith I threw compassion to the dogs of indifference What pain has my existence brought my fellow man? My path to salvation lies hidden among the bones of those I once held dear Heaven should not exact such remuneration for paradise cannot be purchased with the blood of hatred and the tears of martyred tolerance I will not kneel before such an altar Not again Never again
0
Sep 7, 2013
Sep 7, 2013 at 10:46 AM UTC
patrick-mcfarland
Conquistador
Once, long ago I gazed upon the world with conformity’s eyes and found it absurd And I cursed existence and my fellow man I built a wall to defend the tattered remnants of the sanity I perceived I still possessed I built a wall that quickly became a desolate prison standing cold in the face of forgiveness and love I ignored beauty’s gentle bliss I insulted love in the name of an antiquated morality Oh spirits Oh demons Oh harbingers of what lies beyond perception It was to you that I entrusted my salvation It was to you that I prayed in expectation of deliverance I begged for naught but a cessation of being to relieve the nightmare of existence In desperation I grasped the reins of intolerance I drew the sword of superficial righteousness carving a swath of condemnation through the ranks of my brothers for the sake of a disapproving God I wounded virtue in the name of heaven I exchanged reason for faith I threw compassion to the dogs of indifference What pain has my existence brought my fellow man? My path to salvation lies hidden among the bones of those I once held dear Heaven should not exact such remuneration for paradise cannot be purchased with the blood of hatred and the tears of martyred tolerance I will not kneel before such an altar Not again Never again
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60
Distance traveled time spent's dynamic progressiveness, existentially transcendental's clairaudience clairvoyance. Metaphysical mystique’s evolutionally metamorphic futurity's fatidic incarnate. Due yesterday’s retrospectively retroactive. Protractive analysis' dimensional delineation. Enigma entity’s dexterously tactile acuity and coordinated agility on the identity crisis. Cerebral cortex’s ****** matrix to synaptic syntax semantics. Prospectus perplexity surreally sublime. Quagmire quandary’s poshly plush. Who am I to think I can conception of the infinite supply? Even the syntactics of eclectic synectics pale by compare to the atrociously impetuous impudence in pugnaciously audacious. Impromptu innuendo's juncture. Imagination’s immaturities are psychic clarity’s entelechy to evolutional tenants élan vital. Fiduciary principle's financially responsible fiscal policies. Mercenary mendacity's plenary plenipotentiary. Innocuous noumenal verity, mystic symbiotic’s chicanery dynamism fealties. Proximity parameter’s perimeter peripherals, vicinity victuals to vigilante villain, propinquity habitation’s harbingers of harangued. The question remains on the tribal: how can I stand next to the person I’m standing next to if I’m carrying on right through them. It’s the trajectory extant in spatiotemporal's telemetry tactician. Well graspy greedy on the stingy frugal to mingy minion and paw flaw laws claws on it. Get a glove, objectified manifest’s diminutive minutia iota’s of self-inductive interstitial extrapolation. Detinue perfective. Traveling down this obtusely overt contusion in my vehicular contrivance convection convolution. Nimbus nimiety exorcism’s aura roan to rainbow mare. Unicorn railway nails. Swarthy swastica swath swizzles on the sweaty swelter swerve to verve.
0
May 6, 2016
May 6, 2016 at 10:57 PM UTC
toreinss-pinwinkel-iii
Astral Projection's Existential Hubris
Distance traveled time spent's dynamic progressiveness, existentially transcendental's clairaudience clairvoyance. Metaphysical mystique’s evolutionally metamorphic futurity's fatidic incarnate. Due yesterday’s retrospectively retroactive. Protractive analysis' dimensional delineation. Enigma entity’s dexterously tactile acuity and coordinated agility on the identity crisis. Cerebral cortex’s ****** matrix to synaptic syntax semantics. Prospectus perplexity surreally sublime. Quagmire quandary’s poshly plush. Who am I to think I can conception of the infinite supply? Even the syntactics of eclectic synectics pale by compare to the atrociously impetuous impudence in pugnaciously audacious. Impromptu innuendo's juncture. Imagination’s immaturities are psychic clarity’s entelechy to evolutional tenants élan vital. Fiduciary principle's financially responsible fiscal policies. Mercenary mendacity's plenary plenipotentiary. Innocuous noumenal verity, mystic symbiotic’s chicanery dynamism fealties. Proximity parameter’s perimeter peripherals, vicinity victuals to vigilante villain, propinquity habitation’s harbingers of harangued. The question remains on the tribal: how can I stand next to the person I’m standing next to if I’m carrying on right through them. It’s the trajectory extant in spatiotemporal's telemetry tactician. Well graspy greedy on the stingy frugal to mingy minion and paw flaw laws claws on it. Get a glove, objectified manifest’s diminutive minutia iota’s of self-inductive interstitial extrapolation. Detinue perfective. Traveling down this obtusely overt contusion in my vehicular contrivance convection convolution. Nimbus nimiety exorcism’s aura roan to rainbow mare. Unicorn railway nails. Swarthy swastica swath swizzles on the sweaty swelter swerve to verve.
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1
Good-byes bid one by one, like a row of candles Glowing, but flickering with the most temporary relief. The disbelief, a pathetic excuse to suffice as justification Prove me wrong, but offer no reason or explanation, Only lies. Harbingers are callow cries Marked by the change of season Or waning of the moon, Take your pick, Pick the scabs That flake away, Like the broken air vents scratching your room Noiselessly. Blame the airwaves for failure, Fail to deliver an honest example, a sample Of blood you donated to a lost cause, A ship without a sailor Headed for a vacuum in the wrathful waters, bubbling blue.   Your blue Crystalline eyes that spoke emotionlessly, Evoking commitment devotionlessly. My intention, apparent and there Your attention limited to a direct, directionless stare. A washed out jacket smelled of sweet dry sands Concealed your regret, a heart held weak with grainy hands, Like the hands of a clock Or an hour glass, releasing a last tock Before the neglected and battered boat Caught glimpse of the welcoming flock Of seagulls Lounging lazily upon a desolate dock, Waiting for the incoming tide Relying on your "sick and pale" Grieving orbital That refuses to abide By the laws of science, set So stubbornly, Setting itself for denial, Demands that will never again be met, A decision thought out without precision, Finality embodied through Hands waving away. Those cleansing waves indicating disarray... Or perhaps welcoming the sun's promising rays.
0
Dec 26, 2010
Dec 26, 2010 at 11:33 AM UTC
doctorshay
Luna(tic)
Good-byes bid one by one, like a row of candles Glowing, but flickering with the most temporary relief. The disbelief, a pathetic excuse to suffice as justification Prove me wrong, but offer no reason or explanation, Only lies. Harbingers are callow cries Marked by the change of season Or waning of the moon, Take your pick, Pick the scabs That flake away, Like the broken air vents scratching your room Noiselessly. Blame the airwaves for failure, Fail to deliver an honest example, a sample Of blood you donated to a lost cause, A ship without a sailor Headed for a vacuum in the wrathful waters, bubbling blue.   Your blue Crystalline eyes that spoke emotionlessly, Evoking commitment devotionlessly. My intention, apparent and there Your attention limited to a direct, directionless stare. A washed out jacket smelled of sweet dry sands Concealed your regret, a heart held weak with grainy hands, Like the hands of a clock Or an hour glass, releasing a last tock Before the neglected and battered boat Caught glimpse of the welcoming flock Of seagulls Lounging lazily upon a desolate dock, Waiting for the incoming tide Relying on your "sick and pale" Grieving orbital That refuses to abide By the laws of science, set So stubbornly, Setting itself for denial, Demands that will never again be met, A decision thought out without precision, Finality embodied through Hands waving away. Those cleansing waves indicating disarray... Or perhaps welcoming the sun's promising rays.
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44
Have you heard the words spoken by the ocean, when the cliff tops call its name with disparaging diatribe? And how do you fare as the undulating waves tell tales of a million generations of fish? I sat there as the days wore on like so many jazz men beating holistic drums and blowing those crazy brass horns as if possessed by the demons of some ancient tribe way out in the Kalahari, masked by the illuminating stares of wonderment and the children in the darkened bar, silent, speculating. I see the waning wood through magnificent trees, behemoths in the dusk skies. I see the ground too, for it is stable and true. As true as one could attest to its objectivity, I often ponder the relevance of truth and whether the whole concept is but a twisted lie fed by the men before us. Quite cruel these thoughts, and barely worthy of the hours I waste. The ocean too speaks truth but its truth is one I have faith in. Sure as I am, sitting here, witnessing the waves as they mourn the changing sands and the rubble they sift, sure as I am, that the gently faltering ripples will retreat before attacking the shore once more. I am sure of these acts, as I am sure that I will die with laughter on my lips and a tear in my eye. Take your water and let it flow through the bodies of man, take it, take it and do good. Let those clear drops circulate and bring about true knowledge in one and all. Let your rocks fall to the ground, erosion of the city and decay of the populace. Let them fall with dignity, while we scream from the Atlantic and feel tumultuous waves of apathetic foreboding ripple into our skin and bring us to ****** These rocks in the sea, these rocks in you… and in me. Has the land seen distress like its inhabitants, or have they been the harbingers of such malcontent abuse to these fare isles? Have you, You, have you seen the sea when its tranquil repose turns to solemn spite at the ego of the cliff face? I have heard the ocean speak, and it told me to fall to its mercy and ebb into the unified conscious. Have you heard the words spoken by the ocean, or do you too stand with your back to the truth and one leg bowed cocksure over the top of some deteriorating construct?
0
Jun 2, 2013
Jun 2, 2013 at 4:29 PM UTC
reece
With Softly Spoken Words and a Wandering Eye, The Tide Will Confide and Reveal Unto You The Truth
Have you heard the words spoken by the ocean, when the cliff tops call its name with disparaging diatribe? And how do you fare as the undulating waves tell tales of a million generations of fish? I sat there as the days wore on like so many jazz men beating holistic drums and blowing those crazy brass horns as if possessed by the demons of some ancient tribe way out in the Kalahari, masked by the illuminating stares of wonderment and the children in the darkened bar, silent, speculating. I see the waning wood through magnificent trees, behemoths in the dusk skies. I see the ground too, for it is stable and true. As true as one could attest to its objectivity, I often ponder the relevance of truth and whether the whole concept is but a twisted lie fed by the men before us. Quite cruel these thoughts, and barely worthy of the hours I waste. The ocean too speaks truth but its truth is one I have faith in. Sure as I am, sitting here, witnessing the waves as they mourn the changing sands and the rubble they sift, sure as I am, that the gently faltering ripples will retreat before attacking the shore once more. I am sure of these acts, as I am sure that I will die with laughter on my lips and a tear in my eye. Take your water and let it flow through the bodies of man, take it, take it and do good. Let those clear drops circulate and bring about true knowledge in one and all. Let your rocks fall to the ground, erosion of the city and decay of the populace. Let them fall with dignity, while we scream from the Atlantic and feel tumultuous waves of apathetic foreboding ripple into our skin and bring us to ****** These rocks in the sea, these rocks in you… and in me. Has the land seen distress like its inhabitants, or have they been the harbingers of such malcontent abuse to these fare isles? Have you, You, have you seen the sea when its tranquil repose turns to solemn spite at the ego of the cliff face? I have heard the ocean speak, and it told me to fall to its mercy and ebb into the unified conscious. Have you heard the words spoken by the ocean, or do you too stand with your back to the truth and one leg bowed cocksure over the top of some deteriorating construct?
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6
Fine droplets yearn in time discern Moving while script written We find beauty in forms we yearn In sweep of wind listen Our world a heart, rain is the mould Watch skies in blood towards rolled Our world, a heart Our world, a heart Clouds harbingers of lives untold
0
Sep 13, 2015
Sep 13, 2015 at 12:01 PM UTC
andrew-taylor
Clouds gather
Fine droplets yearn in time discern Moving while script written We find beauty in forms we yearn In sweep of wind listen Our world a heart, rain is the mould Watch skies in blood towards rolled Our world, a heart Our world, a heart Clouds harbingers of lives untold
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9
If you must squander potential, squander only that of your own; sacrifice not the potential of others: they, be the harbingers of Doom. If you should choose to throw your Dreams away, do not make those around you do the same! They, who would seek to defile, corrupt, extinguish, shatter and destroy the potential of their fellow Beings, deserve not this Holy blessing to be alive and breathing, and bearing witness to this sacred, beautiful, wondrous illusion; this physical and spiritual transient ephemera; this sentient, inanimate, scientific, counter-intuitive fledgling, fleeting Dream that we, over the years, come to recognize as Life.
0
Feb 3, 2014
Feb 3, 2014 at 5:14 PM UTC
Anubis-the-Philosomancer
Sovereignty
If you must squander potential, squander only that of your own; sacrifice not the potential of others: they, be the harbingers of Doom. If you should choose to throw your Dreams away, do not make those around you do the same! They, who would seek to defile, corrupt, extinguish, shatter and destroy the potential of their fellow Beings, deserve not this Holy blessing to be alive and breathing, and bearing witness to this sacred, beautiful, wondrous illusion; this physical and spiritual transient ephemera; this sentient, inanimate, scientific, counter-intuitive fledgling, fleeting Dream that we, over the years, come to recognize as Life.
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33
Innocent children of the air, Why do you come to my call? Does the sound of my music resonate within as your wings swoop and skim along the water's edge? God's sun shines on your backs now blue! Now green! Reflecting the colour of His eyes. How do you make my plodding heart so light? Harbingers of God's joy I am a temporal creature and never shall fly. I need not touch the purity of your feathers. You need only dip your wings to lend God's grace to  me.
0
May 24, 2010
May 24, 2010 at 5:20 PM UTC
deborah-birch
The Swallows of Our Abbey
Innocent children of the air, Why do you come to my call? Does the sound of my music resonate within as your wings swoop and skim along the water's edge? God's sun shines on your backs now blue! Now green! Reflecting the colour of His eyes. How do you make my plodding heart so light? Harbingers of God's joy I am a temporal creature and never shall fly. I need not touch the purity of your feathers. You need only dip your wings to lend God's grace to  me.
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15
Offence has no real validity, Yet it is used to justify the taking of lives Is there one, that the world does not offend If so that person has not lived or felt, Warlords, rapists, racists, murderers and those who are cancers on society walk among us daily Those who profess to know the will of god and act on his behalf, Perceiving  and executing unhelpful dogma that infects our reality   The words respect and correctness have become harbingers for cowards, As our muteness silently strips us of our freedom, Apologies are offered gift wrapped in fear Sticks and stones still break our bones but pictures and words now **** us**
0
Jan 7, 2015
Jan 7, 2015 at 8:26 PM UTC
patrick-n
Off the fence
Offence has no real validity, Yet it is used to justify the taking of lives Is there one, that the world does not offend If so that person has not lived or felt, Warlords, rapists, racists, murderers and those who are cancers on society walk among us daily Those who profess to know the will of god and act on his behalf, Perceiving  and executing unhelpful dogma that infects our reality   The words respect and correctness have become harbingers for cowards, As our muteness silently strips us of our freedom, Apologies are offered gift wrapped in fear Sticks and stones still break our bones but pictures and words now **** us**
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11
The vultures swarmed above me, and I wondered if it was I who lay before their narrowing gaze. If they were fallen angels, Lucifer's harbingers, they'd have harvested on the soul I'd left to decay.
0
Mar 21, 2016
Mar 21, 2016 at 4:59 PM UTC
jarjarrhine
Decay
The vultures swarmed above me, and I wondered if it was I who lay before their narrowing gaze. If they were fallen angels, Lucifer's harbingers, they'd have harvested on the soul I'd left to decay.
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7