"hasting" poems
Good-by, proud world, I'm going home,
Thou'rt not my friend, and I'm not thine;
Long through thy weary crowds I roam;
A river-ark on the ocean brine,
Long I've been tossed like the driven foam,
But now, proud world, I'm going home.
Good-by to Flattery's fawning face,
To Grandeur, with his wise grimace,
To upstart Wealth's averted eye,
To supple Office low and high,
To crowded halls, to court, and street,
To frozen hearts, and hasting feet,
To those who go, and those who come,
Good-by, proud world, I'm going home.
I'm going to my own hearth-stone
Bosomed in yon green hills, alone,
A secret nook in a pleasant land,
Whose groves the frolic fairies planned;
Where arches green the livelong day
Echo the blackbird's roundelay,
And ****** feet have never trod
A spot that is sacred to thought and God.
Oh, when I am safe in my sylvan home,
I tread on the pride of Greece and Rome;
And when I am stretched beneath the pines
Where the evening star so holy shines,
I laugh at the lore and the pride of man,
At the sophist schools, and the learned clan;
For what are they all in their high conceit,
When man in the bush with God may meet.
14.4k
Fair daffodils, we weep to see
You haste away so soon;
As yet the early-rising sun
Has not attain’d his noon.
Stay, stay
Until the hasting day
Has run
But to the evensong;
And, having pray’d together, we
Will go with you along.
We have short time to stay, as you,
We have as short a spring;
As quick a growth to meet decay,
As you, or anything.
We die
As your hours do, and dry
Away
Like to the summer’s rain;
Or as the pearls of morning’s dew,
Ne’er to be found again.
2.6k
The poplars are felled, farewell to the shade
And the whispering sound of the cool colonnade:
The winds play no longer and sing in the leaves,
Nor Ouse on his ***** their image receives.
Twelve years have elapsed since I first took a view
Of my favourite field, and the bank where they grew,
And now in the grass behold they are laid,
And the tree is my seat that once lent me a shade.
The blackbird has fled to another retreat
Where the hazels afford him a screen from the heat;
And the scene where his melody charmed me before
Resounds with his sweet-flowing ditty no more.
My fugitive years are all hasting away,
And I must ere long lie as lowly as they,
With a turf on my breast and a stone at my head,
Ere another such grove shall arise in its stead.
'Tis a sight to engage me, if anything can,
To muse on the perishing pleasures of man;
Short-lived as we are, our enjoyments, I see,
Have a still shorter date, and die sooner than we.
2.3k
Long I followed happy guides,—
I could never reach their sides.
Their step is forth, and, ere the day,
Breaks up their leaguer, and away.
Keen my sense, my heart was young,
Right goodwill my sinews strung,
But no speed of mine avails
To hunt upon their shining trails.
On and away, their hasting feet
Make the morning proud and sweet.
Flowers they strew, I catch the scent,
Or tone of silver instrument
Leaves on the wind melodious trace,
Yet I could never see their face.
On eastern hills I see their smokes
Mixed with mist by distant lochs.
I meet many travellers
Who the road had surely kept,—
They saw not my fine revellers,—
These had crossed them while they slept.
Some had heard their fair report
In the country or the court.
Fleetest couriers alive
Never yet could once arrive,
As they went or they returned,
At the house where these sojourned.
Sometimes their strong speed they slacken,
Though they are not overtaken:
In sleep, their jubilant troop is near,
I tuneful voices overhear,
It may be in wood or waste,—
At unawares 'tis come and passed.
Their near camp my spirit knows
By signs gracious as rainbows.
I thenceforward and long after
Listen for their harplike laughter,
And carry in my heart for days
Peace that hallows rudest ways.—
2.2k
VII
How soon hath Time the suttle theef of youth,
Stoln on his wing my three and twentith yeer!
My hasting dayes flie on with full career,
But my late spring no bud or blossom shew’th,
Perhaps my semblance might deceive the truth,
That I to manhood am arriv’d so near,
And inward ripenes doth much less appear,
That som more timely-happy spirits indu’th.
Yet be it less or more, or soon or slow.
It shall be still in strictest measure eev’n,
To that same lot, however mean, or high,
Toward which Time leads me, and the will of Heav’n;
All is, if I have grace to use it so,
As ever in my great task Masters eye.
1.7k
The Saviour, what a noble flame
Was kindled in his breast,
When hasting to Jerusalem,
He march'd before the rest.
Good will to men, and zeal for God,
His every thought engross;
He longs to be baptized with blood,
He pants to reach the cross!
With all His suffering full in view,
And woes to us unknown,
Forth to the task His spirit flew,
'Twas love that urged Him on.
Lord, we return Thee what we can:
Our hearts shall sound abroad,
Salvation to the dying Man,
And to the rising God!
And while Thy bleeding glories here
Engage our wondering eyes,
We learn our lighter cross to bear,
And hasten to the skies.
1.4k
Tiny little parcel
All wrapped up and waiting to be
Undone.
Sitting quietly
Under the shade of
Resentful
Ambiguity.
Cautious scarred and wry
(smiling)
insecurity
See me sitting calmly
assembled
All parceled up and wanting
Waiting
To be unpicked
Carefully
Hand stitched
Calling softly (upon deaf ears)
To be untied
To see what lies
Beneath each fettered
Layer.
Role player
This small and softly spoken
Box
Of being
Seeing nothing
Feeling everything
With wary
(doleful)
Soulful eyes.
(closed)
Dreaming of being
(open)
I am token
Bundle
******
a pile of sticks
untamed.
Paused upon the ground
unsound
Aspiring to to be burned
In order to
(feel)
spurned.
This collated stack
Of feelings lost to the numb of
Being wrapped up and tied to the self.
A book full of stories
Unnamed.
Pages upon pages
Loose words
Collected
Piled and falling
Upon a dusty
Neglected shelf
Too much of the self
Not enough of the other.
Resting.
Worn out
Dog eared
Belayed by fear.
Waiting
Wasting
Hasting
to be undone.
To be unknotted
Frayed
Displayed
Vast volume
Unspoken betray.
Hold fast
This minute
Package
Lying restless
At your feet.
Aug 22, 2010
Aug 22, 2010 at 4:07 PM UTC
I’m still surprised by change
Of half a dozen deaths
A crooked spin towards new age
With dying cells, replenished skin
And if a body can be replaced
Does the same apply to the mind?
Are you gone completely?
Or do you relapse from time to time?
To a person I know
With yearning touch and softer eyes
Remembering our lost lights
Suffocating silence with muffled love
Hasting the future
Stretching reality thin
I’m gone so far from comfort
Forgive me
Forgive me
Apr 1, 2013
Apr 1, 2013 at 5:03 AM UTC
his leisure suit is neatly folded
benith his sweating palms
each exact line per-measured and tailored
to demonstrate to all who gaze on his corrupt face
that he is a man in need of a beach
a little drink with an umbrella and
a dusky girl named Lola
she walks the fenceline
she mends the gaps with patchs from
the pants of this girl from phish tour
and peices of the tye-dye tapestry she uses as a blanket
we mend our lives with the things we have at hand
we see our lives in the slow motion
of each days new reality
regardless of its bearing on what reality really is
its a painting of a man painting a smile on a sad womans face
sitting on hasting's whisper wall
the corporate man
with his far eastern flavors
tends to exaggerate his bent frame
over people sitting at the whisper wall
his face sings a sweet song
but his fingers set fires in the pockets of passerby's
stealing the coins of the relm
but only the ones with a stuttering king
gone down this road many a time
seen this same company of rabble-rousers
dressed in folds of scented linen
walking along the river road
disscussing in mid-evil painters and poets
but they never resolve the questions of the universe
they never even agree what topping to get on the pizza
so much for the rule of wisdom
been many years since i sat at
hastings-on-the-hudson's whisper wall
with that girl
but i still cherish the conversations we had
and time i spent there with her
i have a new whisper wall
on a beach facing the setting sun
Sep 16, 2013
Sep 16, 2013 at 11:51 AM UTC
Instead of a light read
This is more of a late read
A wipe the slate read
New needs and different greeds
We're meant to meet when leaves sheath
I think about the time speed
or time spent amongst wasting
It's trash green, slime I bleed
Blood spilt while red lights gleam
High beams and tear streams
The skull seam
A conscious stream
of unconscious scenes
A habitual response to television screens
Thought patterns of your name seem
un-welcomed sit-ins for the brain team
It's a game spent creating
a world for the changing
A gut for the taking
and a heart for the breaking
I'd **** for a day dream
****** for a breath taking
Leave town for a quiet waking
that'd fulfill the craving
for the warmth of your body on my back claiming
to know something without wasting
love something without hasting
and trust something without caving
Inject into my blood stream
the heroine of your daily raining
DDD
(11/5/2013)
Nov 9, 2013
Nov 9, 2013 at 10:31 PM UTC
The sunflower droops
To the lazy wave; the wind sleeps;
Then, moving in dazzling links and loops,
A marvel of shadow and shine,
A glory of olive and amber and wine,
Runs the color in the wheat.
When the wild winds rumbled past you in the fall fields
and you blessed them, you surrendered
to splendor, when you lifted up your ruins on the old road
remember the seasons
when the wind was new, when your hands
were good fire in the hands of travelers,
A land of plenty, where
Toward the sun, as hasting there,
The colors run
Before the wind's feet
in the wheat.
Wind, as it sings you; kneel there,
So faint and far it seems the drone
Of bee or beetle, seems to come
as you must have done, in your first
world, when the wind
A cloud flies there—
A swirl
In the hollows like the twinkling feet
Of a fairy waltzer; the colors run
To the westward sun,
Through the deeps of the ripening wheat
was wind, when your ruin
was a music—you
who were no one, once, and colder,
and were open so wholly to the brokenness
that you sang to whatever left you empty
like the cello in the cello maker’s hands.
Oct 10, 2019
Oct 10, 2019 at 11:26 AM UTC
Atoning
Admonishment
Beloved
Blessings
Confusing
Contemplation
Debating
Disturbance
Everlasting
Eternity
Foreboding
Faithfulness
Gods
Goodness
Hasting
Heaven
Internal
Intuition
Jesus'
Judgement
Kings
King
Loving
Light
Monday's
Moment
Never
Numbing
Open
Opportunity
Peoples
Persons
Qualify
Quiet
Redeemer
Resemblance
Saving
Salvation
Thee
Truth
Undenying
Unity
Valient
Victory
Washed
White
X chromosome
X factor
You
Yelling
Zealously
Zapped
Nov 8, 2015
Nov 8, 2015 at 3:02 PM UTC
Squeaking, the kitchen door swings, unwillingly, in its rusty bends, a nodding, a blinking of astonishment. Where did that girl go in such a sturdy stepping out? She was just sitting there, as the early sun beams poured the yellow of a dusty swirl into the fishbowl. That fishbowl! An empty globe, a void, where she choreographed reddish tailed dreams that wouldn't turn to gold. There, there she goes, in the winding road, her shaggy curls hasting in the summer blue; in her arms, with her scarf looped around it, the glassy fishbowl pulses, waving its bright red scratched tail.
Sep 3, 2014
Sep 3, 2014 at 3:57 PM UTC
Summer heaven, beside the creatures
And the leaves grow, churning stem and pulp
There I fall, the wetted rock and willow
Aligned in twos from whence I stand
The sunset ruse, and each year after
With mother's tame, worn clothes with creases
Hasting days, beneath the Willows
Endowed with memories I release
Jun 27, 2016
Jun 27, 2016 at 5:08 PM UTC
Were always so expeditious to estimate one another,
Yet when at the same time we step into that glass mold thyself call's a mirror,
That glistened lookalike hasting back at thou,
Points back,
And rehashes thine own self!!!
May 26, 2015
May 26, 2015 at 5:19 PM UTC
Oh the click-clock of his shoes
Oh the click-clock of his steps
As swift as I could I ran
As swift as I could I did
Running
Hasting
Rushing to the music
Oh for the click-clock is back
The click-clock of this shoes
The sound I long, my muse
He’s home at last, at home at last he is.
On blog: http://designserif.com/post/69547664690/oh-the-click-clock-of-his-shoes-oh-the-click-clock
Dec 9, 2013
Dec 9, 2013 at 9:42 PM UTC
Are these slander & slurs,
I seem to be hear-
ing with these two ears?
How, men, may you hold valid opinions
of me as a pee-r -
when our acquaintance
has never been near-
er than a distant planet from here? -
Weird, -
you seem so sure of your facts.
However, it seems awfully whack -
as you've never crossed the back-
of my mind! -
Suggestion, sir: --
if I may concur; -
Stop hasting over others lives!
If you've already blown through
seven wives.. - don't you think -
just possibly -
that - YOU - might
be the issue?
Open your eyes!
Take control of your live!
& I'll continue down my own
the way I always have.
Trust me, friend.
Once you can see,
you may even thank me.
Surely- so much more, you can be!
Apr 7, 2016
Apr 7, 2016 at 9:32 PM UTC
The interpretation
of biblical equations
led to justified discrimination
And subsequent **********
including horrid abominations
committed by all the world’s nations
(which are simply human’s creations)
faking focus on all of the news stations
pretending to help all of those poor Haitians
until it forgot them too with such elation
As to turn your head no longer facing
the bullets and shell casings
leave you running and pacing
until cops are slowly tracing
your body in chalk
No more wine tastings Mr. Hasting
because you drank too much
and can’t talk.
Now your stalking your ex’s
and killing all in sight
“lord please protect us!”
From Moral assault in west Texas
brought to you and directed
by the world’s democratically elected
Except I figured it out
after I prodded and dissected
what is lauded and protected
the diseases of this world that are financially connected.
That Jesus will never be scientifically resurrected
and even with this conclusion
I am still being spiritually affected.
The END.
Oct 7, 2015
Oct 7, 2015 at 9:07 PM UTC
My heart skipped several beats
As i watched him caress his knife's hilt.
Suddenly numb went my feed.
Run, run my heart and head bid
But there I stood like a statue of liberty.
Darkness pressed at my shoulder
And the surrounding grew colder.
Each cut more ****** and deeper
Making him more satisfied and happier.
I tried moving but i grew stiffer.
Fast flashes and flares of fire
Seemed the sole sight my eyes sees.
It felt cold like being caked in an ice cube
Before all went bleak then black.
I could hear my heart hasting to a halt.
I started to find myself in bed
Frightened and gasping for breath.
Muscle cramped and wet with sweat
From the mere thought of death.
Surely being alive feels great
Oct 8, 2014
Oct 8, 2014 at 5:40 PM UTC