"harpie" poems
Busy,busy,busy!.
No time to stop,
They're always behind me.
Waiting for the moment.
I stumble and fall.
The voices have me.
"You're useless" comes a hissing whisper.
"Everybody hates you" spits another.
"You have no friends" screams a third.
A babble of Harpie like voices screaming around my head.
Voices joining in unison.
A choir of negativity screaming to a crescendo
"Worthless,worthless,worthless!"
Dec 12, 2010
Dec 12, 2010 at 4:35 AM UTC
Static whimpered then, now
was a moment, is and will be.
But in my deeper blue, waits a
Sapphire cesspool; waste and ivory
the Isle of Man, wades and drowns
silk swollen in the silence of still water,
through Hesperian greed and the tide
of golden apples.
In wandering, the cicada and cypress
grew in a moment's swan song,
Paradise was a pyre, and it was Winter
and the modern world.
And in what days of one day
would the enchantment bring-- of
the red faces and quivering tongues?
And what would the harpie bring--
icy tendrils of Spring to cool the flame?
A wretched smile, of the witness
blackened, knelt cradling his
head in his hands.
and in that moment, I was a lost man,
a lost man,
And then the happiest on the face of the Earth:
Now, the night is shallow.
****** is a breath, Eros is breathing, I am still.
Still
caught in the net of waking dreams,
when a binary sunset births the piercing tone,
of frequency high and ears hollow:
I was on my back, floating
and Death stood waiting
at the end.
Chariot yoked, pinion on pinion,
I gritted my teeth, unfurled my wings
and wept-- the mind is vengeance
As cruelty is the Mother of love.
and Now
stands waiting,
in the memory of himself.
A war is waged each moment,
with the echo of forever:
soul for soul,
talon for talon.
Aug 28, 2012
Aug 28, 2012 at 1:03 AM UTC
Two paths diverged,
and I, wood in hand
made it my own
with tended shrubs,
arranged pebbles,
and wild pelt
for game.
Twas a good road
until a harpie
came to roost.
"Such a beautiful Way--
let's woo and trick
more trekking feet
to feed our hungry
family" she says.
Now there's a Free way
turning my Ki, driving
me solo somewhere
with no family, friends
or even a fornicating Fable.
Jan 4, 2014
Jan 4, 2014 at 2:04 AM UTC
her words laid out before
me like a feast of the fanciful mind
and her inner demons like ravens of the soiled soul
hold themselves at the ready with wary eyes
her words spill in slow honey
smooth on the minds tongue
and leaves an aftertaste like mull wine
leaves one lightheaded and without inhibition
i become a drunkard of her thought
forever lounging near her lips in my mind
waiting for the intoxications to begin
my own words come like the unshaven behemoth
like the fair maidens foul brother
my conversation a meal with dance of the clumsy attempt
each step has a sticky note of scrawled apology attached
like new lovers trying too hard
being overly tender with eachothers words
her heart has spoken its mind
and she feels childish recanting its
written in stone meanings
so she follows
silently behind with her head hanging low
trying to be picture perfect
in the pliant girlfriend role
the inner demons like ravens of my own soiled soul
each moment spent like a misers coin
harpie fingers oiled grip
on the narrow metal
slipping ever so slowly past the eye
each day i sit here and watch as the sun settles
like dust onto the deadpan horizon
each day i pray fervently that i find
a better phrase than the one i live
Dec 9, 2013
Dec 9, 2013 at 7:18 AM UTC
The harpie crows
As I settle my toes
'Neath the bleeding suicide tree
I look left and right
As packs of dogs race by
The harpie begins tearing leaves
I wait for the tears to stop
I wait for the blood to clot
All this coming from the suicide tree
Loneliness and fear
This is what brought me here
Slumped beneath the suicide tree
Again I search
For the sign of a first
Light, here in this life's debris
Blinded like I,
A man puts his hand in mine
And leads me away from the suicide tree
Unexpected as ever
I'm light as a feather
As he leads me away from the loss of me
Still I can't help but guess
That this isn't the best
And on weeps the suicide tree
Feb 10, 2011
Feb 10, 2011 at 6:04 PM UTC
thick curly black hair
huge dark carnelian eyes
beautiful harpie
petite to a perfection
each curves return a wonder
her face the shape of a heart
with a tiny freckled nose
full lips all scarlet painted
this goddess from the levant
so luscious and flirtatious
a sweet ripe pomegranate
asking to be peeled
Dec 14, 2015
Dec 14, 2015 at 11:30 PM UTC
It was the night of the thundersnow,
Meteorological harpie normally reserved for our northern brethren.
She stood grimly at the window,
In wait for a dawn which would not come
Save for the odd light, the incongruous rumbling,
Mock forbearer of those easy languid evenings of August.
She'd made some noise approximating a sigh,
Then returned to undress,
I hurriedly unlacing my boots, removing my pants,
(My feigned nonchalance a foolish, pitiable thing)
And I remember her ******* as oddly demure,
Her ******* bewitching gumdrops,
The triangle below her waist downy, almost kittenish.
I'd broken her maiden clumsily, eagerly, all unheeding haste.
We'd lain next to each other for a short while afterwards
(The schools already closed for the next day,
Her father recently gone to the boneyard on Ludlow Hill,
She soon to be shuttled off to some spinster aunt in Dillsboro.)
I'd nattered on about summer vacations and thens and laters;
She'd said little, simply studying me with the bemused half-smile
One saves for sad dreamers not intimate with the knowledge
That notions of tomorrow and forever are strictly for suckers,
And as I strolled home come mid-morning,
The sun implacably straddled the sky,
Leaving the sidewalks and shoulders of the road
Completely dry, as if the night before had been a thing
Of perhaps-only, of dreams and tales for a later time.
Mar 7, 2018
Mar 7, 2018 at 8:54 AM UTC
I shall hold you close as you take your last breath.
Stroking your hair as you slip away.
As a last request.
I will kiss you.
As I know you're leaving.
With my tears.
I shan't wake you.
I will whisper goodbye.
As you slip into the land of eternal night.
But I won't sing to you...
My voice is that of harpie.
You deserve sweet tenderness.
The best that I could give!
(C) Livvi Kent 16/10/2013
Oct 16, 2013
Oct 16, 2013 at 11:05 AM UTC
A harpie you may
have been...
Yet, delicate as lace
your fingers spin around
the spinning wheel.
To sit and watch you weave
is life's delight.
This keeps you near and in my sight
when eyes grow dim.
You weave a tapestry of our
love filled past.
Your wifely smiles are
just for him.
I feast my eyes
upon you in delight.
You may be his
but not this night...
Our love is such
refined.
The fates we tempt
yet, endure sublime.
Our souls as one
till dust in time...
I can wait and watch
till he is done.
Jun 26, 2010
Jun 26, 2010 at 10:30 AM UTC
Woman, thy nastiness to me
Is like old Nikes on the floor
Where sweat and mildew disagree
And force me to the nearest door
A stench I can't ignore.
Your heart weighs less than styrofoam,
Thy stinking feet, thy scowling face,
Belong in some state nursing home . . .
Free me up some breathing space,
You mean-hair clipped-face gnome.
Lo, in yon dark recliner-chair
How meatloaf-like I see thee slump,
Upon your wide immobile ****
Ah! Harpie of the greasy hair
Unholy Frump!
Apr 3, 2023
Apr 3, 2023 at 6:23 PM UTC
Elle passa, je crois qu'elle m'avait souri.
C'était une grisette ou bien une houri.
Je ne sais si l'effet fut moral ou physique,
Mais son pas en marchant faisait une musique.
Quoi ! Ton pavé bruyant et fangeux, ô Paris,
A de ces visions ineffables ! Je pris
Ses yeux fixés sur moi pour deux étoiles bleues.
Fraîche et joyeuse enfant ! Moineaux et hochequeues
Ont moins de gaîté folle et de vivacité.
Elle avait une robe en taffetas d'été,
De petits brodequins couleur de scarabée,
L'air d'une ombre qui passe avant la nuit tombée,
Je ne sais quoi de fier qui permettait l'espoir.
Pendant que je songeais, croyant encor la voir
Même après qu'elle était enfuie et disparue,
Et que debout, pensif au milieu de la rue,
Contemplant, ébloui, cet être gracieux,
J'avais l'œil dans l'espace et l'âme dans les cieux,
Une vieille, moitié chatte et moitié harpie,
Au menton hérissé d'une barbe en charpie,
Vêtue affreusement d'un sinistre haillon,
Effroyable, et parlant comme avec un bâillon,
Me dit tout bas : - Monsieur veut-il de cette fille ?
Ô pauvre colibri que vend une chenille !
386
I am a whisper that relays on twine,
a promise
cackling in a stream of gossip
I am your worst dream a harpie,
a reverie that has long played
in some forgotten bordello labelled shame?
May 29, 2018
May 29, 2018 at 12:52 PM UTC