"hearers" poems
Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy!
Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy! Holy!
The world is holy! The soul is holy! The skin is holy!
The nose is holy! The tongue and **** and hand
and ******* holy!
Everything is holy! everybody's holy! everywhere is
holy! everyday is in eternity! Everyman's an
angel!
The bum's as holy as the seraphim! the madman is
holy as you my soul are holy!
The typewriter is holy the poem is holy the voice is
holy the hearers are holy the ecstasy is holy!
Holy Peter holy Allen holy Solomon holy Lucien holy
Kerouac holy Huncke holy Burroughs holy Cas-
sady holy the unknown buggered and suffering
beggars holy the hideous human angels!
Holy my mother in the insane asylum! Holy the *****
of the grandfathers of Kansas!
Holy the groaning saxophone! Holy the bop
apocalypse! Holy the jazzbands marijuana
hipsters peace & junk & drums!
Holy the solitudes of skyscrapers and pavements! Holy
the cafeterias filled with the millions! Holy the
mysterious rivers of tears under the streets!
Holy the lone juggernaut! Holy the vast lamb of the
middle class! Holy the crazy shepherds of rebell-
ion! Who digs Los Angeles IS Los Angeles!
Holy New York Holy San Francisco Holy Peoria &
Seattle Holy Paris Holy Tangiers Holy Moscow
Holy Istanbul!
Holy time in eternity holy eternity in time holy the
clocks in space holy the fourth dimension holy
the fifth International holy the Angel in Moloch!
Holy the sea holy the desert holy the railroad holy the
locomotive holy the visions holy the hallucina-
tions holy the miracles holy the eyeball holy the
abyss!
Holy forgiveness! mercy! charity! faith! Holy! Ours!
bodies! suffering! magnanimity!
Holy the supernatural extra brilliant intelligent
kindness of the soul!
Berkeley 1955
4.3k
SELECTED FROM THE IRISH NOVELISTS
THERE was a green branch hung with many a bell
When her own people ruled this tragic Eire;
And from its murmuring greenness, calm of Faery,
A Druid kindness, on all hearers fell.
It charmed away the merchant from his guile,
And turned the farmer's memory from his cattle,
And hushed in sleep the roaring ranks of battle:
And all grew friendly for a little while.
Ah, Exiles wandering over lands and seas,
And planning, plotting always that some morrow
May set a stone upon ancestral Sorrow!
I also bear a bell-branch full of ease.
I tore it from green boughs winds tore and tossed
Until the sap of summer had grown weary!
I tore it from the barren boughs of Eire,
That country where a man can be so crossed;
Can be so battered, badgered and destroyed
That he's a loveless man: gay bells bring laughter
That shakes a mouldering cobweb from the rafter;
And yet the saddest chimes are best enjoyed.
Gay bells or sad, they bring you memories
Of half-forgotten innocent old places:
We and our bitterness have left no traces
On Munster grass and Connemara skies.
2.6k
There was a green branch hung with many a bell
When her own people ruled this tragic Eire;
And from its murmuring greenness, calm of Faery,
A Druid kindness, on all hearers fell.
It charmed away the merchant from his guile,
And turned the farmer's memory from his cattle,
And hushed in sleep the roaring ranks of battle:
And all grew friendly for a little while.
Ah, Exiles wandering over lands and seas,
And planning, plotting always that some morrow
May set a stone upon ancestral Sorrow!
I also bear a bell-branch full of ease.
I tore it from green boughs winds tore and tossed
Until the sap of summer had grown weary!
I tore it from the barren boughs of Eire,
That country where a man can be so crossed;
Can be so battered, badgered and destroyed
That he's a loveless man: gay bells bring laughter
That shakes a mouldering cobweb from the rafter;
And yet the saddest chimes are best enjoyed.
Gay bells or sad, they bring you memories
Of half-forgotten innocent old places:
We and our bitterness have left no traces
On Munster grass and Connemara skies.
2.2k
Heidi Williams
If I edit language, call me poet, a word-smith if I pro it.
But if I edit music, there's no such name, no tags of respect
just beats to collect, sometimes trash that collects.
I'm a trash collector, musical dumpster diver,
producers dump their trash
I turn their trash to treasure.
Treasure hunter, trash tuner.
There's beauty everywhere
to the eyes of see-ers, the the ears of hearers.
Seagulls see trash and turn obsessive, possessive.
And we feed the other birds, but shoo them away,
but once winter comes,
we hear seagull sounds, and we feel the beech.
We listen for summer in seagulls.
We listen for oceans in seashells,
but I can hear waves in my headphones,
and I can change the tide when the trash comes.
Nov 12, 2014
Nov 12, 2014 at 4:38 AM UTC
There was a green branch hung with many a bell
When her own people ruled this tragic Eire;
And from its murmuring greenness, calm of Faery,
A Druid kindness, on all hearers fell.
It charmed away the merchant from his guile,
And turned the farmer's memory from his cattle,
And hushed in sleep the roaring ranks of battle:
And all grew friendly for a little while.
Ah, Exiles wandering over lands and seas,
And planning, plotting always that some morrow
May set a stone upon ancestral Sorrow!
I also bear a bell-branch full of ease.
I tore it from green boughs winds tore and tossed
Until the sap of summer had grown weary!
I tore it from the barren boughs of Eire,
That country where a man can be so crossed;
Can be so battered, badgered and destroyed
That he's a loveless man: gay bells bring laughter
That shakes a mouldering cobweb from the rafter;
And yet the saddest chimes are best enjoyed.
Gay bells or sad, they bring you memories
Of half-forgotten innocent old places:
We and our bitterness have left no traces
On Munster grass and Connemara skies.
1.9k
THERE where the course is,
Delight makes all of the one mind,
The riders upon the galloping horses,
The crowd that closes in behind:
We, too, had good attendance once,
Hearers and hearteners of the work;
Aye, horsemen for companions,
Before the merchant and the clerk
Breathed on the world with timid breath.
Sing on: somewhere at some new moon,
We'll learn that sleeping is not death,
Hearing the whole earth change its tune,
Its flesh being wild, and it again
Crying aloud as the racecourse is,
And we find hearteners among men
That ride upon horses.
1.8k
The hearers and sayers are moving the truth around again.
Why are they always coming up with different reasons to die?
Especially when it is the world's hands at play;
Her gracious hands, wrapped in cellophane then thrown from the window with hate.
Oh and how we have shattered those precious porcelain fingernails.
All of that money gone to waste, burnt out on family funerals and stock exchange.
You should have spent more time outside in the shade,
Rather than lick the sweet taste of revenge off her switch blade.
To just spit back in the face of a once upon a time love.
It's the wanderers from the beginning that always come back for more.
Heaven has a special place reserved in hell for them.
It's only a matter of time before I'm trapped in between the two again.
So I'm back on the floor, with my face in the eye.
I have bitten off the last shadow.
They should be able to see the light soon enough:
But I let it slip again, out into the nighttime stardust.
Jan 8, 2014
Jan 8, 2014 at 11:35 AM UTC
O WOMEN, kneeling by your altar-rails long hence,
When songs I wove for my beloved hide the prayer,
And smoke from this dead heart drifts through the violet air
And covers away the smoke of myrrh and frankincense;
Bend down and pray for all that sin I wove in song,
Till the Attorney for Lost Souls cry her sweet cry,
And call to my beloved and me: "No longer fly
Amid the hovering, piteous, penitential throng.'
1.5k
partly cloudy,
partly sunny,
clearly an indecisively
partly day,
bored, the heavens organized
a garden party, sky above,
eclectic crowd,
minted mixed,
party of partly
clouds, wind, sun rays,
summer showers and somehow,
I got partly invited...
but not partly windy,
no, entirely gusty
a workingman's breeze,
all grown up, full strength
has driven the good folk inside,
tho sailboats are entouraging fully,
just me and them in
Red Sea parting, a full blow,
unmistakably encouraging partying,
while under the influence
of white line snorting poetry
what is this partly poem doing?
receiving or bringing,
like the swirly gusts,
empowered but direction unknown,
I am partly confused,
I am partly clarified
lacking the metaphor skill,
he says to himself,
and to the over-hearers,
part with me not!
for I am partly this and that,
looking for reconciliation
of my accounts in full,
and will rely on your guidance
to seal the beams, patch the cracks,
write the parts of me that
you shall connect and declare
in one voice, unified
Will you?
Jul 27, 2014
Jul 27, 2014 at 6:48 AM UTC
There is something so calming
About the spiders spinning web.
Something so comforting,
A song sung by the dead.
Hear it wallow in the distance
Like an unforgiven tune.
Sung by the rivers daughter,
The beauteous sunset muse.
Bask in the moonlit waters
Barely but blessed by shining sun.
Hold to your heavn'ly quarters,
The likes of which shall come undone.
For if you catch the spider spindle
You are likely to be safe.
In other wares, their finer fares
In absence, stay awake.
I speak not for the Titan,
Or God nor Goddess alike.
I speak not for the tongue
Of the mumbling friars might.
For Alas my hearers hear this plea,
Beware the nymph of sophistry
May 20, 2019
May 20, 2019 at 10:41 AM UTC
No spring nor summer Beauty hath such grace
As I have seen in one autumnall face.
Young beauties force our love, and that’s a ****
This doth but counsel, yet you cannot ’scape.
If ’twere a shame to love, here ’twere no shame,
Affection here takes Reverence’s name.
Were her first years the Golden Age; that’s true,
But now she’s gold oft tried, and ever new.
That was her torrid and inflaming time,
This is her tolerable Tropique clime.
Fair eyes, who asks more heat than comes from hence,
He in a fever wishes pestilence.
Call not these wrinkles, graves; if graves they were,
They were Love’s graves; for else he is no where.
Yet lies not Love dead here, but here doth sit
Vowed to this trench, like an Anachorit.
And here, till hers, which must be his death, come,
He doth not dig a grave, but build a tomb.
Here dwells he, though he sojourn ev’ry where,
In progress, yet his standing house is here.
Here, where still evening is; not noon, nor night;
Where no voluptuousness, yet all delight
In all her words, unto all hearers fit,
You may at revels, you at counsel, sit.
This is Love’s timber, youth his under-wood;
There he, as wine in June enrages blood,
Which then comes seasonabliest, when our taste
And appetite to other things is past.
Xerxes’ strange Lydian love, the Platane tree,
Was loved for age, none being so large as she,
Or else because, being young, nature did bless
Her youth with age’s glory, Barrenness.
If we love things long sought, Age is a thing
Which we are fifty years in compassing;
If transitory things, which soon decay,
Age must be loveliest at the latest day.
But name not winter-faces, whose skin’s slack;
Lank, as an unthrift’s purse; but a soul’s sack;
Whose eyes seek light within, for all here’s shade;
Whose mouths are holes, rather worn out than made;
Whose every tooth to a several place is gone,
To vex their souls at Resurrection;
Name not these living deaths-heads unto me,
For these, not ancient, but antique be.
I hate extremes; yet I had rather stay
With tombs than cradles, to wear out a day.
Since such love’s natural lation is, may still
My love descend, and journey down the hill,
Not panting after growing beauties so,
I shall ebb out with them, who homeward go.
1.5k
Here lieth one who did most truly prove,
That he could never die while he could move,
So hung his destiny never to rot
While he might still jogg on, and keep his trot,
Made of sphear-metal, never to decay
Untill his revolution was at stay.
Time numbers motion, yet (without a crime
‘Gainst old truth) motion number’d out his time:
And like an Engin mov’d with wheel and waight,
His principles being ceast, he ended strait.
Rest that gives all men life, gave him his death,
And too much breathing put him out of breath;
Nor were it contradiction to affirm
Too long vacation hastned on his term.
Meerly to drive the time away he sickn’d,
Fainted, and died, nor would with Ale be quickn’d;
Nay, quoth he, on his swooning bed out-stretch’d,
If I may not carry, sure Ile ne’re be fetch’d,
But vow though the cross Doctors all stood hearers,
For one Carrier put down to make six bearers.
Ease was his chief disease, and to judge right,
He di’d for heavines that his Cart went light,
His leasure told him that his time was com,
And lack of load, made his life burdensom
That even to his last breath (ther be that say’t)
As he were prest to death, he cry’d more waight;
But had his doings lasted as they were,
He had bin an immortall Carrier.
Obedient to the Moon he spent his date
In cours reciprocal, and had his fate
Linkt to the mutual flowing of the Seas,
Yet (strange to think) his wain was his increase:
His Letters are deliver’d all and gon,
Onely remains this superscription.
1.5k
All ears willing to hear,
let listen.
We must not only be
hearers of The Word,
but doers of The Word.
This is a call to action.
let this not be a simple
reaction of emotion.
It is time to set our lives in motion.
It is the day to live a new way.
A renewing of our minds.
Together we must say,
"It is time to live a new way!"
Speak loudly, persuade boldly
store up The Word in your hearts.
Salvation is your reason.
In Jesus Christ is our redemption.
Love like it's repetition.
God as my witness, this is my mission.
Sep 28, 2015
Sep 28, 2015 at 4:50 PM UTC
True Home
I was just passing on my way to heaven earthen paths stretch over the years and the lives of others
When they know not they are speaking the loudest when they enter dark paths the pain they feel floods
My soul they are then dearer than many sun sets of beauty because all of their heart is revealed
Nothing hidden all is purest truth all that they ever yearn to be is made clear through blessed tears
The weary sigh reaches over great distances it appeals because they are the product of heavenly dreams
That stream through earths wayward isles and contradict vanity and shallowness there is no place for
Ingenious ideas when all that is being sought is designs that is unfamiliar to the unkind and ******
That only walks for themselves but a rich life is not made by what you earn alone in the workplace
But it’s after effects what do you do to bless others make their lives a story that resounds in triumph
It takes getting yourself out of the way and considering the dreams and hopes of others more important
Than your own by self the accomplishments will be few but when you harness the great potential in
Others fan the flame by love and support that is so needed in a world that is negative charged tears will
Stop there flow smiles will glow untrimmed lights will rise from earths plane reaching heaven’s heights
Sparking delights not only will the evergreen in the window shine but trees of all kinds will be fired by
Light they will light many a pathway and in their burning life’s hidden yearning will be released you will
Be the generator and the benefactor too slow down and read the signs of the souls that are passing you
Every day from just a whisper thunder can be born the kind that gives comfort and deep joy to the
Hearers no bogus thoughts will live when you stir your heart with kindness give the best that dwells in
You I hear the sounds of much laughter born on the wind because you took to care and gave yourself
Away just like the father from a manger to a destiny never dreamed of before there are still big jobs and
dreams that are waiting just for your particular flame you alone can set the tender ablaze never say
you don’t amount to anything you have God’s breath in your body exhale and see and feel the wonder
it releases into a hurting world were only here for a little while then its time to fly away home bless you
at this holy time of year
Dec 6, 2011
Dec 6, 2011 at 6:01 PM UTC
Mark how, with alien glow--
an imposing form proclaims your
ecstasy, mark!
This monolith of first blushes.
Circuited by a spirit on leave...contours
of seeped salt lit by their sweet burrow.
Ground firmed, with every step the fall
of the world--whose rise only knows
successive steps.
Fast upon heels...keeled over--glistening
with anointment...mark how!
This overarching winter--of co conspirators
in the dead of...who bank and blow
blood till blue in the face.
Their skulls slated to sleep through, as white alms bowls--
yet they contrive...bite you upon both hands,
with the crumpled features of the face you empower.
You are the bell's curfew, a sound more
ancient than rite...where hearers come out
of their skin.
You leave peace to itself...to your quadrant
gape--lest to see what may, or may not configure.
Knowing what endeavors to stain--will belabor
to dissolve as that stain.
How like grape to wine--how like wine to oblivion...
to sodden a leavened sky.
With the care of a flower--never petulant in its exorbitant
youth, cut and set down...one for every step circuiting
this monolith.
These shocked straits of limbs, overrun with sourceless
current...flow onward, onward, onward--by command!
One miraculous, an continuous deference to that
command...seeking out what shall sate the need to do.
What is it to be content with what thou art...is it to forgo,
do what thou wilt?
Retain thy image...do not cast what thou were cast in the
image of...a voice says.
Who hears--as command is voiced, both command and
commanded hear, here.
Unmoved mover--Monolith...dispassionate salve to daily
death, circuited by spirit.
Till blindness, deafness fully informed of stone--alien with
glow...marked how!!!
Feb 5, 2017
Feb 5, 2017 at 12:50 AM UTC
آج کوئی حال پوچھے تو کہوں
بھر چکا ہے دل جوابوں سے مرا
ہے مزین سچ سرابوں سے مرا
اپنے اندر سے میں باہر دیکھتی ہوں
زاویہ مخفی حجابوں سے مرا
یوں بھی ہو خود سے نکل پاؤں کبھی
موم کے شیشے پگھل جائیں سبھی
نور ہے پر اس کے نیچے راکھ ہے
خاک سے کھرچی ہوئی یہ خاک ہے
گو طلاعی ہے چمک اس سوچ کی
کھوکھلی ہے، اس کے اندر لاکھ ہے
کیمیا گر کی ہتھیلی پر اُگی
پھونک کے زد میں یہ اپنی ساکھ ہے
کب تلک اپنے تقرب سے بچوں
کب تلک اپنے تعین سے جچوں
سننے والے ہوں اگر تو بول دوں
قفل ان سب طائروں کے کھول دوں
ورنہ یہ بھی عین ممکن ہی تو ہے
انکہی اک داستاں میں میں رہوں ۔۔۔۔۔
آج کوئی حال پوچھے تو کہوں
ع
۱۳۔۳۔۱۷
My heart is done with answers
My truth is with mirages, adorned
I look from within myself outside
A perspective, on obscurities formed
Maybe I can get out of myself
Maybe the walls of wax can melt
There is light but underneath are ashes
Dust that has been scraped off from dust
Though the shine of thought is like gold
They're hollow, and only filled with gust
Grown on the palm of the alchemist
My facade is in the target of a single breath
How long should I avoid facing the mirror
How long should I render embellishments
to my impressions
If there are hearers, I can speak
I can unleash the trail of what I seek
Or otherwise this is entirely possible
That it all remains hidden
in the epic never bared
But if one were to ask today,
I would have shared.
Apr 2, 2017
Apr 2, 2017 at 12:10 AM UTC
The speaker had said
“success is not money”
and for some strange reason
the hearers thought this was funny
Then his words went unheard
future sadness he could have rid
and they were missing this message
as ignore him they did
You'll find success in your joy
which money can't buy
it's found deep in your heart
like you were a boy
The days filled with fun
the games played with your friends
I know, I know
that's not a means to an end
Yes I know we must work
to provide for our needs
but there's no happiness in it
when it's to further our greed
When there's never enough
and we always want more
we're not satisfied
and behind in lifes score
Thing is life is for living
enjoying our days
however they come
in so many strange ways
Whether with family or friends
or at the job site
it's happiness that's important
you must know this to be right
Though the statements I made
may seem kind of funny
the truth is success is much more
than accumulated money
Jun 4, 2015
Jun 4, 2015 at 7:44 PM UTC
Homage To Sarasvati
Consort of
The One
Holding in his hand
A raised silver sword
Who helps
slice
A momentary
Middle way
Through your day
Woman of
The spoken word
And songs that are sung
Delighting the ears
Of all who hear
Gliding upon
The wings of a swan
Wearing a heavenly
Silken suit
With two arms holding
A lute
With the swish
Of his sword
Words of wisdom
And reverence
Words of aural
Eloquence
Igniting bliss
In hearers' hearts
Which through the channels
Slowly flows,
When wisdom words are heard
Sean Hunt
Windermere 2015
Dec 2, 2015
Dec 2, 2015 at 7:06 AM UTC
The tall, white building on M-80
fills with people each Sunday morning.
Cars line up in the parking lot
on the white striped asphalt.
The people file into the building
and seat themselves on red cushioned pews.
The ***** and piano play “Onward Christian Soldiers”
dimly from the front corners.
Women’s dresses tangle around their knees
and high heels blister their toes.
Men’s ties choke them
while they sing, but hymnals are held high.
When the children start to fall asleep
parents pinch them.
The highly-starched congregation stares straight ahead,
and the words of the minister
bounce off their heads.
“But be ye doers of the word, and not hearers only,
deceiving your own selves.”
Outside that building
the regal white steeple
reaches up to the sky.
And only the steeple
worships God.
May 1, 2017
May 1, 2017 at 8:57 PM UTC
If Only.
No tonic compares to dawn's
best rewarding
blackbird-sweet melodies spilling abroad.
Silence drips with his chords
as his daring
leaves shards piercing the crystal clear air.
If only my pen could capture
each little droplet of rapturous
sound I would bottle the liquidy
trilling of notes and unstopper his
solo and pour this potion on wounds
brought by neglect of listening to food
from the heavens suffused with freedom
by angelic singing that brings hearers ease.
Of all nature's symphonies
ever been heard
nothing out-betters the notes of this bird.
With tuneful soliloquist
stirring my sleep
I willingly rouse and mean to drink deep.
Sep 19, 2016
Sep 19, 2016 at 3:06 PM UTC
When it was the holy ghost, and fire,
keeping us alive,
believing was just what we did,
knowing one does not live
by bread, alone. As
we'as born free,
as free as we could be,
while knowing nothing needful,
truth wise, having no clues to start with,
how might one discover fire can be made
artificially, using wit wit' gumption,
to feel the heat,
live and learn to keep a secret
without ever asking why
why why, I wonder
did she run away,
why do some say life
is like an egg,
is that a hardboiled egg, eh
the games around egg finding, learning
where to look, what to look for, color,
blue, on green, jewel among jewels,
all the manifestations of gravitational
coherences causing such things as us
and causing us to be the first mortals,
contemplating long now laws on
conscience usage, with knowing never outlawed,
forgone conclusions forbade partaking,
for mere hearers of the songs,
learning early to enjoin the dance,
but never hearing music laugh.
I am Shiva, imagine me,
I rode the ox, imagine that,
death
merely threatened life,
life laughed and let its shadow pass.
us gaseous weform nodes in ancient hate.
Old bull minds baited good as bears...
After somebody did let the dogs out,
a we cheered to witness the killing,
made the ****** proof
a national pride,
freedom from the press, let us have,
teach the children backward thinking,
make them read Red Badge of Courage,
after the library lady recommended Plato,
as a follow up to Orwell, in 1962,
break my mind, feed me lost generations,
recollections, all we learned of war is lies,
all we learn from peace is past understanding.
May 30, 2024
May 30, 2024 at 2:55 PM UTC