"harps" poems
this is the garden:colours come and go,
frail azures fluttering from night’s outer wing
strong silent greens silently lingering,
absolute lights like baths of golden snow.
This is the garden:pursed lips do blow
upon cool flutes within wide glooms,and sing
(of harps celestial to the quivering string)
invisible faces hauntingly and slow.
This is the garden. Time shall surely reap
and on Death’s blade lie many a flower curled,
in other lands where other songs be sung;
yet stand They here enraptured,as among
the slow deep trees perpetual of sleep
some silver-fingered fountain steals the world.
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The angels' harps play a sacred tune,
while planets dance around the moon;
In subtle strains our spirits rise,
and leave us grateful and starry-eyed.
Recalling life as it once seemed,
this vision floated inside a dream;
In many days of endless chants,
the angels' harps cause us to dance.
When voices touch each other's hearts,
there's always a sign creating sparks;
And with that strong secure emotion,
then lives connect with pure devotion.
No longer chilled in fears of life,
all folks fly far away from strife;
The added wealth of kinship stands,
as children sing while holding hands.
Aug 8, 2019
Aug 8, 2019 at 6:25 PM UTC
Your colors are so heavy, how dare I, I cannot sleep. Years inundated under, through skin coils, marigold fields. Yellow crocuses, orange California poppies. Moors of cattle ranchers, yokes of oxen. Plasticine uber-confidence, silky white-skinned testubular thrice people harmonies. Blisses of contagion, contagious bliss. Wrists and incisors, tying down in a bedroom, waking up to live harps and choruses. You dance like you're so alive, but I'm so alive I can't dance. Or breathe. Or knead my fists of earthen wears, or sell my soul completely. I drove off a cliff last night, but the four foot fall ended neatly. The plateau authors my chance to sew my bright, beyond- my fortunes. But the hour before I fall asleep, seems to be the greatest torture.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 4:54 AM UTC
Trees (haiku #1)
Tree wood with fire
Nature equips survival
Light, heat, and cooking
-------------------------
Trees (haiku #2)
Leafy beings, green
Wood umbrellas, ancient roots
Growing, reaching sky
-------------------------------
Trees (haiku #3)
Pluck the tender fruit
Motherly branches feed all
Body and soul, blessed
---------------------------------
Trees (haiku #4)
Shelter for our homes
Furniture within our walls
Uses-myriads
--------------------------------
Trees (haiku #5)
Pencils, books, paper
Education thanks to trees
Writing, poetry
-------------------------------
Trees (haiku #6)
Trees crafted, songs sung
Guitars, violins, harps-more
Wood, melodious
---------------------------------
Trees ( haiku #7)
Birds, critters depend
Harmonious relations
Trees magical grace
------------------------------
Trees (haiku #8)
Bountiful beauty
Standing upright or chopped down
More precious than gold
Oct 29, 2013
Oct 29, 2013 at 7:10 PM UTC
In the rectory garden on his evening walk
Paced brisk Father Shawn. A cold day, a sodden one it was
In black November. After a sliding rain
Dew stood in chill sweat on each stalk,
Each thorn; spiring from wet earth, a blue haze
Hung caught in dark-webbed branches like a fabulous heron.
Hauled sudden from solitude,
Hair prickling on his head,
Father Shawn perceived a ghost
Shaping itself from that mist.
'How now,' Father Shawn crisply addressed the ghost
Wavering there, gauze-edged, smelling of woodsmoke,
'What manner of business are you on?
From your blue pallor, I'd say you inhabited the frozen waste
Of hell, and not the fiery part. Yet to judge by that dazzled look,
That noble mien, perhaps you've late quitted heaven?'
In voice furred with frost,
Ghost said to priest:
'Neither of those countries do I frequent:
Earth is my haunt.'
'Come, come,' Father Shawn gave an impatient shrug,
'I don't ask you to spin some ridiculous fable
Of gilded harps or gnawing fire: simply tell
After your life's end, what just epilogue
God ordained to follow up your days. Is it such trouble
To satisfy the questions of a curious old fool?'
'In life, love gnawed my skin
To this white bone;
What love did then, love does now:
Gnaws me through.'
'What love,' asked Father Shawn, 'but too great love
Of flawed earth-flesh could cause this sorry pass?
Some ****** condition you are in:
Thinking never to have left the world, you grieve
As though alive, shriveling in torment thus
To atone as shade for sin that lured blind man.'
'The day of doom
Is not yest come.
Until that time
A crock of dust is my dear hom.'
'Fond phantom,' cried shocked Father Shawn,
'Can there be such stubbornness--
A soul grown feverish, clutching its dead body-tree
Like a last storm-crossed leaf? Best get you gone
To judgment in a higher court of grace.
Repent, depart, before God's trump-crack splits the sky.'
From that pale mist
Ghost swore to priest:
'There sits no higher court
Than man's red heart.'
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*Cheer up, sweetie!!
You'll see Budgie again in Heaven
Where God takes all animals to be with Him
And Budgie is up there too
Singing with a voice that's loud
Perhaps Budgie is even playing on a harp
A harp of sparkling glittering gold
Budgie is singing for God
Praising Him with a voice that's sweet
Budgie is happily flying forever in Heaven
Which is literally Paradise
Where flowers grow
Birds sing
Where angels play upon harps
Where the sky is royal
Sapphire blue
And the Fountain of Life
Is reflected by the blue
In the sky
Where kittens chase butterflies
Forever happy
Every bird is singing
Praising God and so is Budgie
And she is happy with the Lord
Her Creator
Who made her in the likeness of Him*
~Marian~
Apr 7, 2013
Apr 7, 2013 at 4:38 PM UTC
Nocturnal melodies of the Harp
Sing of Winter's Solstice
Pristine strings chime out
A harmony of sublime beauty
Song of snowdrops hidden in the snow
Song of dogwoods not yet in bloom
Song of snowflakes falling sweetly on my cheeks
Song of footprints in the blanket of snow
Song of firs and pines swaying in the Winter wind
Song of tears being shed at it's beauty
Sung from the sweetest of Harps
O, how I love the Harp
And it's angelic beauty
Which makes me cry
'Tis a song of
Winter Solstice
Played
Upon
The
Harp
Of
Beauty
~Marian~
May 28, 2013
May 28, 2013 at 11:07 PM UTC
In a dreamy woodland
There's a cottage just for me
And it's waiting there now
Beside a peaceful stream
Where quiet maples grow
And deer are not afraid
Where mushrooms grow in sweet silence
And sunlight glistens amongst the leaves
There's an enchanted cottage
Hidden in those shady woods
Where running cedar
And lady ferns intertwine
Where tears never fall
From any eye
That is where my secret abode
Is found in shadowy canopy
Of sun-dappled trees
Where dewdrops passionately kiss
The demure bluebells
Where breezes whisper
Through tall, swaying pines
And rustle ancient autumn leaves
From many seasons ago
Where time stands still
And woodland fairies dance
Where willow harps are played
Echoing in dreamy breezes
Through the trees and dancing through the air
Waltzing with the butterflies
Touching the lemon citrus sun
With fingers of gold
And spring days bygone
That's where you'll find me
Dreaming riparian
Scent of petrichor
Healing my soul
In summer woodland yonder
~Marian~
Sep 3, 2015
Sep 3, 2015 at 12:54 AM UTC
A beautiful sunset
Fading in the west
A path in golden sand of footprints
Leading to the sea
The wind whistles through the trees
All around a heavenly dark golden glow
Shines at the shore
Beyond the sunset is heaven
Beyond that celestial veil
God is making a place for His Saints
Beyond the golden glow
The heavenly choir forever sing
Beyond the sea
God is there
Making many mansions
There will be harps for us to play
Beyond the sunset
He is there!
~Marian~
Aug 3, 2013
Aug 3, 2013 at 11:04 AM UTC
lovers are burning.] balsamic ****** gallops from shame
into the overwild wetness of labial volcanoes, caramelized in musk. by love's labor.
laid bare, their bodies origami inhibition...[ lovers are burning. ]
and surrender is victorious !
Eros is speechless. maidens howl into cumulus goose-down, chewing carnal haikus
with swayed backs.... hips wide and wanton. masculine wands plow oyster beds, unmade.
they joust pearls... and [ lovers are burning ]
.... a damp conflagration; tongue stoked and windswept, conspires.
monotony is slain !
puritan harps are plucked and thrummed ! lewd harmonies anoint the perfect pitch
and a chorus moans. the ghost of sylvia plath, straddles Apollo; and he earns his wreath
surging besotted. [ lovers are burning ] and laurels forgotten.
lotharios charge the seldom road; the starfish door to Saturn's parlor.
pumping unbridled, that glistening, cloven moon. her riding crop insists !
his urgency must do.
satyrs sup salaciously and summon staves to dip in brine. they grin and grind
their sutras, stripping karma gears with silk scarves. ankles to a post, well spread...
cushions crush. flowers press... stamen fed.
nymphs clutch their serpent stones
to drain what nectar slips the slit. they ***** and throat.
they peck and pinch their quivers; knock their arrows to the purpose, half spent.
[ lovers are burning ]
eyes ablaze. nostrils fetch randy fumes of consent. mouths seek.
a pouty swamp with Spanish moss.... finds a matador
and a bull, a china shop.
lovers are burning the rough sketch of a lost god
and their angels are voyeurs
with unclean thoughts
for gospels.
Aug 20, 2013
Aug 20, 2013 at 3:14 PM UTC
O sing a new song, to our God above,
Avoid profane ones, 'tis for holy choir:
Let Israel sing song of holy love
To him that made them, with their hearts on fire:
Let Zion's
sons life up their voice, and sing
Carols and anthems to their heavenly king.
Let not your voice alone his praise forth tell,
But move withal, and praise him in the dance;
Cymbals and harps
, let them be tuned well,
'Tis he that doth the poor's estate advance:
Do this not only on the solemn days,
But on your secret beds you spirits raise.
O let the saints bear in their mouth his praise,
And a two-edged sword drawn in their hand,
Therewith for to revenge the former days,
Upon all nations, that their zeal withstand;
To bind their kings in chains of iron strong,
And manacle their nobles for their wrong.
Expect the time, for 'tis decreed in heaven,
Such honor shall unto his saints be given.
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I'm making a pub pilgrimage,
A malted Mecca trip;
I'm leaving all I love at home
Crusading with the Picts.
I'll be alone with all my thoughts,
It's what must needs be done,
To keep the demons off.
Publicans meet me on the steps,
On Sundays by the side;
This trip of three thousand miles
May **** should I survive.
My altar's elbow worn,
The finest oaken wood;
I'll climb the stairs on knees,
Hear bells, raise cups of cheer.
There's games of chance,
Some romance,
With songs and several fools;
It has trappings of Canterbury
In pubs all called O'Tooles.
There's Highland mead,
And broken bread,
With harps from inner rooms,
I'll have dispirited spirits
And revel inside tombs.
My cave awaits on my return,
It's dark and hard and cold;
But I know the light's within my sight,
If I move this granite stone.
I'll bring with me a scapula
To make those visions stop,
The relics that I sought,
Those demons of a sot.
Sep 25, 2015
Sep 25, 2015 at 9:16 AM UTC
I dreamt of nights where only solace exists.
Filling lungs upon inhale-
Only hints of mahogany incense.
The nights where, darkness crept low enough for me to kiss the cheeks of crescent moons,
Trace galaxies with my index;
feel smiles from
Oshun.
She watches me-
Watch waves clash relentlessly
Against mountains of limitless heights.
I flew within autumns wind;
Quenched my thirst with natures nectar.
Danced to heavens harps and
Defined passion through the soul of Venus.
Only amplifying loves intensity
Now, earth shattering.
Submerging myself within her waterfalls of purity
Baptizing my mental to be freed from insecurities -
I emerged, no longer mortal.
Owls eyes replaced mine therefore
Dawn no longer intrigued me.
Embracing the silence of this night
I've found tranquility in a dream.
Found life within the depths
Of days transition.
-Danielle.a.watson
Jul 2, 2013
Jul 2, 2013 at 12:43 PM UTC
My daydreams of you
are that of daybreak cotton skies,
fleeting and unobtainable,
yet breathtakingly vivid.
It's as though heavenly harps,
singing their crimson morning light,
have your name floating among them,
basking in the wine-stained clouds above.
Apr 6, 2015
Apr 6, 2015 at 3:03 PM UTC
every profile of the body
drapes of a fallen dress
the flowers twang
the bassoons
the wooden harps
the human body is a temple
with the purpose of changing
into new forms
ephemeral
beauty
or love
or passion
or life
the metamorphosis of another
the brother
the kiss
the flowers of evil
the death of a maiden
Ovid
hear me
Ovid
love is simply a measure of
bumps and holes
Ovid
love grows out of soft marble
Ovid
we are one
the mythology of
passion ensues
the act encased in
fire
Mar 11, 2016
Mar 11, 2016 at 5:01 PM UTC
Trump STILL can't stand the thought
That Clinton won the popular vote.
In efforts to cause a major distraction,
He's keeping the voting fraud rumor afloat.
Clinton received two point eight
Million more votes than he--
Votes from voters physically present
Or votes from those voting absentee.
He says that he has evidence
Of widespread fraud. We can surmise
That he has his "alternative facts"--
A handy euphemism for lies.
It's a preposterous, baseless claim,
A mere BELIEF that he maintains,
Another false conspiracy theory,
An insult to people who use their brains.
Voting fraud is an issue
That Trump loves to keep in his sights.
For him it's a very useful excuse
To go after voting rights.
If there was so much voting fraud,
The chances of which are very slim,
Does Trump ever wonder how many
Fraudulent votes went to him?
The more he whines, the more he harps--
He's even driving Republicans mad!--
The more he loses the smattering
Of credibility that he once had.
- by Bob B (1-24-17)
Jan 25, 2017
Jan 25, 2017 at 8:48 AM UTC
*Cheer up, my sweetest Sis
Even though we are miles away we are so near
The bonds of love that we give each other
Make us seem so near
Please, my dearest you are my inspiration
So please, I beg you not to cry
And if I could play the harp for you and make
It's songs all sunshine and joy dedicated to YOU I would!
I'm happy now, my sis for
My Dad has been thinking a lot of your Cello
And how it's songs sound so pretty
And I've been thinking of the same
We spoke about your Cello just last night
And how all Cellos sound so pretty
And about Harps and Bassos we spoke
We talked about Trumpets and all kinds of instruments
Spoke about their beauty
And I still wondered how your Cello would sound
But I know it would sound very pretty and sad
Because I've heard Cellos before but none played as beautifully as yours!
That I know! And all I've said about you is true, SWEETEST Sis
And I understand your passion for all animals and can't
Stand when they get hit on the road
I can't stand it either so I can relate
If I could walk with you through fields of flowers,
Walk with you by the sea, pick some hibiscus blooms,
And listen to your Cello songs I would do so
But I feel so sad. . . and I am sickened at what I've done
Just look! I've made my sweetest Sis sad!
Oh, my Sis if only I could dry your tears
So let this poem comfort you, my Love
Please, feel happy
And know this if I could play Harps,
Cellos, Trumpets, Flutes, Violins,
Celestas, Chimes, Bassos, and the rest
I would, to make you happy and smile
What can I do, sweet Sis to make you smile?
If I were to play the Piano would your tears turn to smiles?
If I were to make an Hibicus Crown to grace your head,
Would your tears turn to dew?
If I were to walk with you by the sea would your tears turn to laughter?
What can I do to make you happy, my dearest sweetest Sis?
If I were to take you to Fairyland would you be glad
Instead of sad?*
~Marian~
Mar 18, 2013
Mar 18, 2013 at 11:38 AM UTC
I have a cute Vietnamese girl
Shes witty, bright and sweet;
with dimples in her cheeks;
and shining stars in her teeth
Beneath her silky hair
there comes her beautiful eye
God, I love it when her big
bubble eyes are looking
at me
Her breath is like a flower blown, in fragrance and perfume
Her voice seems from the
blissful throne
Where their harps the
angel tune
And when she turns her
dimpled cheek towords me
for a kiss
I lose expression, cnt speak
And take all there is of a bliss! <3
----de3pak
Apr 30, 2015
Apr 30, 2015 at 9:55 AM UTC
WRITTEN FOR HIS MOTHER
Dame du ciel, regents terrienne,
Emperiere des infemaux palus....
Lady of Heaven and earth, and therewithal
Crowned Empress of the nether clefts of Hell,—
I, thy poor Christian, on thy name do call,
Commending me to thee, with thee to dwell,
Albeit in nought I be commendable.
But all mine undeserving may not mar
Such mercies as thy sovereign mercies are;
Without the which (as true words testify)
No soul can reach thy Heaven so fair and far.
Even in this faith I choose to live and die.
Unto thy Son say thou that I am His,
And to me graceless make Him gracious.
Said Mary of Egypt lacked not of that bliss,
Nor yet the sorrowful clerk Theopbilus,
Whose bitter sins were set aside even thus
Though to the Fiend his bounden service was.
Oh help me, lest in vain for me should pass
(Sweet ****** that shalt have no loss thereby!)
The blessed Host and sacring of the Mass
Even in this faith I choose to live and die.
A pitiful poor woman, shrunk and old,
I am, and nothing learn'd in letter-lore.
Within my parish-cloister I behold
A painted Heaven where harps and lutes adore,
And eke an Hell whose ****** folk seethe full sore:
One bringeth fear, the other joy to me.
That joy, great Goddess, make thou mine to be,—
Thou of whom all must ask it even as I;
And that which faith desires, that let it see.
For in this faith I choose to live and die.
O excellent ****** Princess! thou didst bear
King Jesus, the most excellent comforter,
Who even of this our weakness craved a share
And for our sake stooped to us from on high,
Offering to death His young life sweet and fair.
Such as He is, Our Lord, I Him declare,
And in this faith I choose to live and die.
Dante Gabriel Rossetti, trans.
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Bluebirds dance gracefully,
Cardinals sing a symphony.
Announcing the return,
Of thee.
Righteous may be thy soul,
Kind may be thy heart.
What we ask of you,
Where art thou heart?
Harps ring beyond the flowers,
Of scarlet lovers.
Might the rose be thy veil?
Thy weddings renewal.
Bonded by Matrimony.
It shall be so.
Mar 26, 2014
Mar 26, 2014 at 11:19 AM UTC
Mists of beauty
Sprinkles of rain
Rain-covered leaves
On the beautiful trees
Raindrops on the green grass
Raindrops everywhere
Raindrops on the lacy ferns
Raindrops everywhere I turn
Pines and evergreens
And lovely cedars sweet
Saturated in raindrop kisses
Such a lovely prelude
The misty forest
Is enchanted
This I say
This forest
Is enchanted
No matter what
This is where Fairies live
This is where Fairies dance
This is where their wings flutter
In the ever blowing breeze
This is where the harps
Are played
This is where their songs are sung
This is where the Fairies harp
Plays nocturnal melodies
And graceful notes
This is where my Fairies live
~Marian~
May 18, 2013
May 18, 2013 at 3:41 PM UTC
Once in a dream I saw the flowers
That bud and bloom in Paradise;
More fair they are than waking eyes
Have seen in all this world of ours.
And faint the perfume-bearing rose,
And faint the lily on its stem,
And faint the perfect violet
Compared with them.
I heard the songs of Paradise:
Each bird sat singing in his place;
A tender song so full of grace
It soared like incense to the skies.
Each bird sat singing to his mate
Soft-cooing notes among the trees:
The nightingale herself were cold
To such as these.
I saw the fourfold River flow,
And deep it was, with golden sand;
It flowed between a mossy land
With murmured music grave and low.
It hath refreshment for all thirst,
For fainting spirits strength and rest;
Earth holds not such a draught as this
From east to west.
The Tree of Life stood budding there,
Abundant with its twelvefold fruits;
Eternal sap sustains its roots,
Its shadowing branches fill the air.
Its leaves are healing for the world,
Its fruit the hungry world can feed,
Sweeter than honey to the taste,
And balm indeed.
I saw the gate called Beautiful;
And looked, but scarce could look within;
I saw the golden streets begin,
And outskirts of the glassy pool.
Oh harps, oh crowns of plenteous stars,
O green palm branches many-leaved--
Eye hath not seen, nor ear hath heard,
Nor heart conceived!
I hope to see these things again,
But not as once in dreams by night;
To see them with my very sight,
And touch and handle and attain:
To have all Heaven beneath my feet
For narrow way that once they trod;
To have my part with all the saints,
And with my God.
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The Grim Reaper reaches deeper,
Over-eager to catch a keeper,
Create another ever-sleeper,
At the expense of ever-weepers.
Playing heart-string harps, his hand extends,
Lost in searching, he transcends
O'er prayers and pleas. He descends:
The catalyst of anguished ends.
A terminator of life's coda,
Enternally, he fills his quota.
Aug 25, 2015
Aug 25, 2015 at 6:11 PM UTC
Weeping turtles
On angels' wings
Electric harps
And choir sings
Traveling time
Remembering
As an era
Comes to close
French chabot
In fruited hues
Revving engines
With horses used
Nothing that
Compares 2 U
And songs
We'll never know
From pain
Was born a troubadour
Pushing limits
Breaking doors
Supernova
Evermore
Songs with
Silent lines
A legend lost
Within the mist
Of mewling souls
Interminus
Taking time
To reminisce
The party ends
In nines
Apr 22, 2016
Apr 22, 2016 at 3:11 AM UTC