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"hedge" poems
Some say love's a little boy, And some say it's a bird, Some say it makes the world go around, Some say that's absurd, And when I asked the man next-door, Who looked as if he knew, His wife got very cross indeed, And said it wouldn't do. Does it look like a pair of pyjamas, Or the ham in a temperance hotel? Does its odour remind one of llamas, Or has it a comforting smell? Is it prickly to touch as a hedge is, Or soft as eiderdown fluff? Is it sharp or quite smooth at the edges? O tell me the truth about love. Our history books refer to it In cryptic little notes, It's quite a common topic on The Transatlantic boats; I've found the subject mentioned in Accounts of suicides, And even seen it scribbled on The backs of railway guides. Does it howl like a hungry Alsatian, Or boom like a military band? Could one give a first-rate imitation On a saw or a Steinway Grand? Is its singing at parties a riot? Does it only like Classical stuff? Will it stop when one wants to be quiet? O tell me the truth about love. I looked inside the summer-house; It wasn't over there; I tried the Thames at Maidenhead, And Brighton's bracing air. I don't know what the blackbird sang, Or what the tulip said; But it wasn't in the chicken-run, Or underneath the bed. Can it pull extraordinary faces? Is it usually sick on a swing? Does it spend all its time at the races, or fiddling with pieces of string? Has it views of its own about money? Does it think Patriotism enough? Are its stories ****** but funny? O tell me the truth about love. When it comes, will it come without warning Just as I'm picking my nose? Will it knock on my door in the morning, Or tread in the bus on my toes? Will it come like a change in the weather? Will its greeting be courteous or rough? Will it alter my life altogether? O tell me the truth about love.
0
43.4k
W. H. Auden
O Tell Me The Truth About Love
Some say love's a little boy, And some say it's a bird, Some say it makes the world go around, Some say that's absurd, And when I asked the man next-door, Who looked as if he knew, His wife got very cross indeed, And said it wouldn't do. Does it look like a pair of pyjamas, Or the ham in a temperance hotel? Does its odour remind one of llamas, Or has it a comforting smell? Is it prickly to touch as a hedge is, Or soft as eiderdown fluff? Is it sharp or quite smooth at the edges? O tell me the truth about love. Our history books refer to it In cryptic little notes, It's quite a common topic on The Transatlantic boats; I've found the subject mentioned in Accounts of suicides, And even seen it scribbled on The backs of railway guides. Does it howl like a hungry Alsatian, Or boom like a military band? Could one give a first-rate imitation On a saw or a Steinway Grand? Is its singing at parties a riot? Does it only like Classical stuff? Will it stop when one wants to be quiet? O tell me the truth about love. I looked inside the summer-house; It wasn't over there; I tried the Thames at Maidenhead, And Brighton's bracing air. I don't know what the blackbird sang, Or what the tulip said; But it wasn't in the chicken-run, Or underneath the bed. Can it pull extraordinary faces? Is it usually sick on a swing? Does it spend all its time at the races, or fiddling with pieces of string? Has it views of its own about money? Does it think Patriotism enough? Are its stories ****** but funny? O tell me the truth about love. When it comes, will it come without warning Just as I'm picking my nose? Will it knock on my door in the morning, Or tread in the bus on my toes? Will it come like a change in the weather? Will its greeting be courteous or rough? Will it alter my life altogether? O tell me the truth about love.
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56
Summer days and heatwaves Sweat pouring down our skin Working hard no time to rest From the time the day begins. Bailing hay without a shade Not a single cloud insight Gathering all the barely corn We work until the night. we have a little hideaway A place down in the vale Its where we drink some scrumpy Along with beer and ale. We while away  an hour or more Depending on how we feel We rest and take it easy No sound from the tractors wheel. Now tomorrow is another day Our work load it will keep We may be striming hedge grows Or we may be shearing sheep. But we really are not bothered We've been farmers far too long We carry out our dutys And sometimes with a song. Our lives are hard but simple We are living the country life Away from the city and the fumes From cars and such alike. You see we have this hideaway A little place down in the vale So come along and join us At the end of a farmers day
0
Jul 29, 2018
Jul 29, 2018 at 9:13 AM UTC
christopher-victor-russon
A farmers day.
Summer days and heatwaves Sweat pouring down our skin Working hard no time to rest From the time the day begins. Bailing hay without a shade Not a single cloud insight Gathering all the barely corn We work until the night. we have a little hideaway A place down in the vale Its where we drink some scrumpy Along with beer and ale. We while away  an hour or more Depending on how we feel We rest and take it easy No sound from the tractors wheel. Now tomorrow is another day Our work load it will keep We may be striming hedge grows Or we may be shearing sheep. But we really are not bothered We've been farmers far too long We carry out our dutys And sometimes with a song. Our lives are hard but simple We are living the country life Away from the city and the fumes From cars and such alike. You see we have this hideaway A little place down in the vale So come along and join us At the end of a farmers day
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32
I never sleep, and never will, I hold my breath, quiet, still. The slightest sound puts me on edge, a snapping twig, a rustling hedge. It matters not how far I go, how fast I run, how high, how low, There’s a monster after me… Huge and hungry, filled with hate, this creature would not hesitate, to slice me up, this is my fate, a pile of parts upon his plate… Yuck! Fear is the price that I must pay, For fear is what keeps him away, I tremble softly as I lay, or when I rise throughout the day, I’m terrified, I have to say… My future frozen by my fear, yet, I know the monsters near! And if I were to persevere, and let my terror disappear, the monster then  would find me here, and chop me up! That much is clear… Though some would say that I’m a slave, deep... Alone within this cave, How can they say that this is slavery, actively avoiding bravery? Don’t they know courage is savory, like some tasty monster gravy?! And, you may say that I am blind, to think that fear is something kind, that fear keeps monsters far behind, well, it’s worked this far, so I don’t mind…
0
Aug 12, 2018
Aug 12, 2018 at 10:34 AM UTC
josiah-cleath
Fear Keeps The Monster Back!
I never sleep, and never will, I hold my breath, quiet, still. The slightest sound puts me on edge, a snapping twig, a rustling hedge. It matters not how far I go, how fast I run, how high, how low, There’s a monster after me… Huge and hungry, filled with hate, this creature would not hesitate, to slice me up, this is my fate, a pile of parts upon his plate… Yuck! Fear is the price that I must pay, For fear is what keeps him away, I tremble softly as I lay, or when I rise throughout the day, I’m terrified, I have to say… My future frozen by my fear, yet, I know the monsters near! And if I were to persevere, and let my terror disappear, the monster then  would find me here, and chop me up! That much is clear… Though some would say that I’m a slave, deep... Alone within this cave, How can they say that this is slavery, actively avoiding bravery? Don’t they know courage is savory, like some tasty monster gravy?! And, you may say that I am blind, to think that fear is something kind, that fear keeps monsters far behind, well, it’s worked this far, so I don’t mind…
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12
I took the left path where hydrangeas grew and sleepy primroses under woods, edged shady trees. The empty stream ran quietly dry With grass cuttings piling high. If one peeped, one would find tiny creatures To cast a sparkle here and there, a delight. So on tip-toe, with sandels bent Up high I reached to take The plastic fairy as she twirled a pirouette In a theatre made by chance. Reflected in a silver mirror intwinned with ivy branch A mottled foal tends his dreams and Chrismas robin chirps. My brother took the right hand path where the trees grew fruit Ripe berries from the gooseberry bush bulged their prickles. Dangling from hawthorn now a cowboy with a hat Looking for his fellow Indian with the yellow back sack. Sheep gather in a hollow, dark, protected from the sun And Mr toad, now lost of paint, has turned a bit glum. And so we leave our woodland friends and travel up the slope Winding round the rose bed and goldfish where they float. Then up we climb, the middle route, to jump the pruned clipped Hedge. The lawn divided in two halves, a contemporary taste. Now we're nearly at that place where if one was to turn Could see down across the land To the sea and sand. Of all the beauties that I've known Nothing beats this Island home. Love Mary x My grandfather’s retirement bungalow was in Totland Isle of Wight. It was named Innisfail meaning ‘Isle of Ireland’. Behind, the garden led down to magical and delightful to children who came as visitors. My grandfather would prepare this woodland with some suitable surprises. The garden and woodland deserved its own name and in retrospect Is now named ‘Innislandia’ to suggest a separate, mysterious land. Beyond the real world. In the poem A Country Lane on page 8 the latched gate is the back gate to my grandparent’s garden and bungalow in Totland as above.
0
Jun 23, 2018
Jun 23, 2018 at 7:57 AM UTC
mary-gay-kearns
‘NOPO@HEPO’.My Grandfather’s Garden: Innislandia, The imaginary world of my grandfather.
I took the left path where hydrangeas grew and sleepy primroses under woods, edged shady trees. The empty stream ran quietly dry With grass cuttings piling high. If one peeped, one would find tiny creatures To cast a sparkle here and there, a delight. So on tip-toe, with sandels bent Up high I reached to take The plastic fairy as she twirled a pirouette In a theatre made by chance. Reflected in a silver mirror intwinned with ivy branch A mottled foal tends his dreams and Chrismas robin chirps. My brother took the right hand path where the trees grew fruit Ripe berries from the gooseberry bush bulged their prickles. Dangling from hawthorn now a cowboy with a hat Looking for his fellow Indian with the yellow back sack. Sheep gather in a hollow, dark, protected from the sun And Mr toad, now lost of paint, has turned a bit glum. And so we leave our woodland friends and travel up the slope Winding round the rose bed and goldfish where they float. Then up we climb, the middle route, to jump the pruned clipped Hedge. The lawn divided in two halves, a contemporary taste. Now we're nearly at that place where if one was to turn Could see down across the land To the sea and sand. Of all the beauties that I've known Nothing beats this Island home. Love Mary x My grandfather’s retirement bungalow was in Totland Isle of Wight. It was named Innisfail meaning ‘Isle of Ireland’. Behind, the garden led down to magical and delightful to children who came as visitors. My grandfather would prepare this woodland with some suitable surprises. The garden and woodland deserved its own name and in retrospect Is now named ‘Innislandia’ to suggest a separate, mysterious land. Beyond the real world. In the poem A Country Lane on page 8 the latched gate is the back gate to my grandparent’s garden and bungalow in Totland as above.
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35
There's an ancient, ancient garden that I see sometimes in dreams, Where the very Maytime sunlight plays and glows with spectral gleams; Where the gaudy-tinted blossoms seem to wither into grey, And the crumbling walls and pillars waken thoughts of yesterday. There are vines in nooks and crannies, and there's moss about the pool, And the tangled weedy thicket chokes the arbour dark and cool: In the silent sunken pathways springs a herbage sparse and spare, Where the musty scent of dead things dulls the fragrance of the air. There is not a living creature in the lonely space arouna, And the hedge~encompass'd d quiet never echoes to a sound. As I walk, and wait, and listen, I will often seek to find When it was I knew that garden in an age long left behind; I will oft conjure a vision of a day that is no more, As I gaze upon the grey, grey scenes I feel I knew before. Then a sadness settles o'er me, and a tremor seems to start - For I know the flow'rs are shrivell'd hopes - the garden is my heart.
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14.5k
H.P. Lovecraft
The Garden
There's an ancient, ancient garden that I see sometimes in dreams, Where the very Maytime sunlight plays and glows with spectral gleams; Where the gaudy-tinted blossoms seem to wither into grey, And the crumbling walls and pillars waken thoughts of yesterday. There are vines in nooks and crannies, and there's moss about the pool, And the tangled weedy thicket chokes the arbour dark and cool: In the silent sunken pathways springs a herbage sparse and spare, Where the musty scent of dead things dulls the fragrance of the air. There is not a living creature in the lonely space arouna, And the hedge~encompass'd d quiet never echoes to a sound. As I walk, and wait, and listen, I will often seek to find When it was I knew that garden in an age long left behind; I will oft conjure a vision of a day that is no more, As I gaze upon the grey, grey scenes I feel I knew before. Then a sadness settles o'er me, and a tremor seems to start - For I know the flow'rs are shrivell'd hopes - the garden is my heart.
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16
Oh to wander down country lanes Where ‘shank’s pony’ is the mode By which one travels from end to end Beating off the open road. Willow-herb and cow parsley Grow tall against the hedge Where dandelions behave like kings Growing wild among the sedge. A toad pops out and then pops back To long grass where he’s hidden Where birds will sing a merry song And ducklings scurry when bidden. For these few hours you forget the world And you feel at peace with yourself But the lure back to your reality Gets this dream returned to the shelf. ©JRW2014
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Mar 29, 2014
Mar 29, 2014 at 4:53 PM UTC
joe-wilson
A COUNTRY LANE
Oh to wander down country lanes Where ‘shank’s pony’ is the mode By which one travels from end to end Beating off the open road. Willow-herb and cow parsley Grow tall against the hedge Where dandelions behave like kings Growing wild among the sedge. A toad pops out and then pops back To long grass where he’s hidden Where birds will sing a merry song And ducklings scurry when bidden. For these few hours you forget the world And you feel at peace with yourself But the lure back to your reality Gets this dream returned to the shelf. ©JRW2014
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17
74 A Lady red—amid the Hill Her annual secret keeps! A Lady white, within the Field In placid Lily sleeps! The tidy Breezes, with their Brooms— Sweep vale—and hill—and tree! Prithee, My pretty Housewives! Who may expected be? The Neighbors do not yet suspect! The Woods exchange a smile! Orchard, and Buttercup, and Bird— In such a little while! And yet, how still the Landscape stands! How nonchalant the Hedge! As if the “Resurrection” Were nothing very strange!
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10.3k
Emily Dickinson
A Lady red—amid the Hill
74 A Lady red—amid the Hill Her annual secret keeps! A Lady white, within the Field In placid Lily sleeps! The tidy Breezes, with their Brooms— Sweep vale—and hill—and tree! Prithee, My pretty Housewives! Who may expected be? The Neighbors do not yet suspect! The Woods exchange a smile! Orchard, and Buttercup, and Bird— In such a little while! And yet, how still the Landscape stands! How nonchalant the Hedge! As if the “Resurrection” Were nothing very strange!
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17
You and I A song that started clumsily, mid-stumble, then fell into a beautiful flurry of violins playing lithe. It’s a Shakespearean epic draped in a cheap suit of modern conjectures that caught my eye. You and I It’s climbing up a mountain-side, daring & tempestuous -cherishing every moment, not just the peak, but the hike. Even as you’re pushing so hard its hurts to breathe, the air so thin your gasps are overlapping fighting for air– you’ll die if you quit, having the time of your life. You and I Seeing sheet-music for your favorite tune, as an illiterate fool, but somehow feeling the rhythm and time. It’s enticing & startling, it’s the smell of privet-hedge and pine –familiar, refreshing, & divine. It’s you and I.
0
Aug 21, 2014
Aug 21, 2014 at 1:58 PM UTC
helen-burns
You and I
You and I A song that started clumsily, mid-stumble, then fell into a beautiful flurry of violins playing lithe. It’s a Shakespearean epic draped in a cheap suit of modern conjectures that caught my eye. You and I It’s climbing up a mountain-side, daring & tempestuous -cherishing every moment, not just the peak, but the hike. Even as you’re pushing so hard its hurts to breathe, the air so thin your gasps are overlapping fighting for air– you’ll die if you quit, having the time of your life. You and I Seeing sheet-music for your favorite tune, as an illiterate fool, but somehow feeling the rhythm and time. It’s enticing & startling, it’s the smell of privet-hedge and pine –familiar, refreshing, & divine. It’s you and I.
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10
Religion is like wrestling when it was kayfabed The kind of immersive storytelling that is A grade We became trapped In the Walls of Jericho Separated on the map From the fields of marigolds Shinier things catch our eye Like Goldust in the ring Not of Mankind But McMahon's kind We start to see behind the Big Show Until they introduce the Boogeyman Manipulating until progress is slowed All according to plan Jake the Snake offers the apple to Eve And into calamity we are cleaved This was something I never agreed But Christian pushes me to Edge No room in discourse to hedge Swanton bombs fall in cities The Million Dollar Man cracks a smile Unable to feel pity The billions of bodies start to pile And I haven't seen the Hart Foundation in a while These ideas pin us down And we can't kick out We end up indifferently submitting To the Big Boss Man A legacy we're cementing Like the Ku Klux **** I'm from Kentucky Where biology is taught in the context Of where it fits in with Christianity's teachings I wonder how many people this knowledge is reaching When we're trapped in Wrestlemania We cheer for the Undertaker's victory Because we're constantly wrestling with demons Transcendence is only something we can dream of
0
Aug 25, 2017
Aug 25, 2017 at 6:17 AM UTC
andrew-rueter
Wrestling
Religion is like wrestling when it was kayfabed The kind of immersive storytelling that is A grade We became trapped In the Walls of Jericho Separated on the map From the fields of marigolds Shinier things catch our eye Like Goldust in the ring Not of Mankind But McMahon's kind We start to see behind the Big Show Until they introduce the Boogeyman Manipulating until progress is slowed All according to plan Jake the Snake offers the apple to Eve And into calamity we are cleaved This was something I never agreed But Christian pushes me to Edge No room in discourse to hedge Swanton bombs fall in cities The Million Dollar Man cracks a smile Unable to feel pity The billions of bodies start to pile And I haven't seen the Hart Foundation in a while These ideas pin us down And we can't kick out We end up indifferently submitting To the Big Boss Man A legacy we're cementing Like the Ku Klux **** I'm from Kentucky Where biology is taught in the context Of where it fits in with Christianity's teachings I wonder how many people this knowledge is reaching When we're trapped in Wrestlemania We cheer for the Undertaker's victory Because we're constantly wrestling with demons Transcendence is only something we can dream of
Continue reading...
38
I saw my world again through your eyes As I would see it again through your children's eyes. Through your eyes it was foreign. Plain hedge hawthorns were peculiar aliens, A mystery of peculiar lore and doings. Anything wild, on legs, in your eyes Emerged at a point of exclamation As if it had appeared to dinner guests In the middle of the table. Common mallards Were artefacts of some unearthliness, Their wooings were a hypnagogic film Unreeled by the river. Impossible To comprehend the comfort of their feet In the freezing water. You were a camera Recording reflections you could not fathom. I made my world perform its utmost for you. You took it all in with an incredulous joy Like a mother handed her new baby By the midwife. Your frenzy made me giddy. It woke up my dumb, ecstatic boyhood Of fifteen years before. My masterpiece Came that black night on the Grantchester road. I ****** the throaty thin woe of a rabbit Out of my wetted knuckle, by a copse Where a tawny owl was enquiring. Suddenly it swooped up, splaying its pinions Into my face, taking me for a post.
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7.9k
Ted Hughes
The Owl
I saw my world again through your eyes As I would see it again through your children's eyes. Through your eyes it was foreign. Plain hedge hawthorns were peculiar aliens, A mystery of peculiar lore and doings. Anything wild, on legs, in your eyes Emerged at a point of exclamation As if it had appeared to dinner guests In the middle of the table. Common mallards Were artefacts of some unearthliness, Their wooings were a hypnagogic film Unreeled by the river. Impossible To comprehend the comfort of their feet In the freezing water. You were a camera Recording reflections you could not fathom. I made my world perform its utmost for you. You took it all in with an incredulous joy Like a mother handed her new baby By the midwife. Your frenzy made me giddy. It woke up my dumb, ecstatic boyhood Of fifteen years before. My masterpiece Came that black night on the Grantchester road. I ****** the throaty thin woe of a rabbit Out of my wetted knuckle, by a copse Where a tawny owl was enquiring. Suddenly it swooped up, splaying its pinions Into my face, taking me for a post.
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27
I help you through hard times, as you do I But you really don’t know how much I hide Even though we are the best of friends I really don’t think you can understand I can’t bear the hurt, I can’t stand the pain A feeling of numbness I can’t explain. This is a life in which I walk alone Full of hope shattered and broken Always angry for no reason at all Constantly wanting to end this brawl Fighting with myself again, and again, Sometimes I want this life to end Mom’s depressed but chooses to hide Takes out her anger on those by her side Doesn’t understand I try to help She shuns me out, and hates instead Grandma’s enduring an unstoppable fate sickness has gotten her on the plate Its sad to see such an innocent person Become another cancer victim Too many friends are hurt as well Thinking that their life is hell Too many friends wanting to stop Thinking suicide is the only option But inside me is the worst of all I don’t know how long I can stand tall Memories of happiness are shooed away But horrible twisted thoughts to stay Nothing I do can make her proud There’s no silver lining on her clouds I’m a rainstorm filled with dark black skies And a haunting rainfall full of lies I only wish I could make her see I’m trying hard so I can be Someone she that can trust and love Instead she tells me I’m not good enough Everything I do is a wrong decision She constantly tells me I’m not living The path that she truly wishes I’d take But I’m only one big mistake If I could I’d erase myself from here I wouldn’t have to live this fear I also wish I could be skinny And always happy, fun, and pretty Instead I look at myself in the mirror Disappointed in the reflection that appears It’s hard to live when you don’t love who you are Wishing that you could change it all Every day I make a mental note How much would I miss, if I decide to go And how much hurt makes me lean towards the edge Is slowly creeping up the hedge How much longer can I last? Before my life becomes one of the past
0
Dec 29, 2013
Dec 29, 2013 at 2:52 AM UTC
bridgette-scotch
not good enough
I help you through hard times, as you do I But you really don’t know how much I hide Even though we are the best of friends I really don’t think you can understand I can’t bear the hurt, I can’t stand the pain A feeling of numbness I can’t explain. This is a life in which I walk alone Full of hope shattered and broken Always angry for no reason at all Constantly wanting to end this brawl Fighting with myself again, and again, Sometimes I want this life to end Mom’s depressed but chooses to hide Takes out her anger on those by her side Doesn’t understand I try to help She shuns me out, and hates instead Grandma’s enduring an unstoppable fate sickness has gotten her on the plate Its sad to see such an innocent person Become another cancer victim Too many friends are hurt as well Thinking that their life is hell Too many friends wanting to stop Thinking suicide is the only option But inside me is the worst of all I don’t know how long I can stand tall Memories of happiness are shooed away But horrible twisted thoughts to stay Nothing I do can make her proud There’s no silver lining on her clouds I’m a rainstorm filled with dark black skies And a haunting rainfall full of lies I only wish I could make her see I’m trying hard so I can be Someone she that can trust and love Instead she tells me I’m not good enough Everything I do is a wrong decision She constantly tells me I’m not living The path that she truly wishes I’d take But I’m only one big mistake If I could I’d erase myself from here I wouldn’t have to live this fear I also wish I could be skinny And always happy, fun, and pretty Instead I look at myself in the mirror Disappointed in the reflection that appears It’s hard to live when you don’t love who you are Wishing that you could change it all Every day I make a mental note How much would I miss, if I decide to go And how much hurt makes me lean towards the edge Is slowly creeping up the hedge How much longer can I last? Before my life becomes one of the past
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54
You see me as the bacteria And yourself as the antibiotic I see you across the cafeteria Acting psychotic Because of what I find ****** You treat me like I'm toxic But you're seen as normal So I hide beneath the coral To avoid your aggression That will teach me a lesson About correctly guessing Where your fists will go next You tell me I want it like *** This is your way to flex To show you have an edge You single out the marginalized There's no way you'll hedge When you have harm in your eyes And then use charm as a disguise To make me cry over spilt milk Because I am not of your ilk For I am as soft as silk Like the sheets I want to roll in with you Instead you shoved my face into poo As my ***** grew I think of killing myself With my gun When I think of filling myself With your *** While pretending I'm your son And swallowing you like gum Those are my ideas of fun Yours is to tell me to run From your intensely penetrating fists That make me regret my penetrating wish As you brandish the weapon From the movie Inception That launches you into my dreams Giving my thoughts a singular theme As my mouth continually screams I was born on the wrong team You wanted to exhibit your power In this seemingly arbitrary hour So you broke my nose To show off for your hoes An off the cuff Attempt to be tough But I found it deeply affecting When I could feel your hatred injecting Making me wonder if I'd ever be free After I saw the only ending I could see You move to strike me again This time I have my mac 10 That I brought to school For a one sided duel You changed the trajectory of my life By changing the trajectory of my bullets You taught me about strife You taught me how power is the coolest You taught me to move on to your friends Their lives I must remember to end This is the message I'm choosing to send When they sat back and watched the hate Like it was 1938 I lost my sympathy After being treated differently And gained a ruthless anger That turned me into a stranger So I let the automatic gun spray Faster than they could pray For their hoots and hollers I shoot their collars Creating shade in the halls That I make when they fall The feeling goes to my ***** I become strangely intoxicated By the death of those who hated So I go back to your dead body And do what you felt was so naughty And now there is no one even around for you to tell That I ****** your corpse while you watched from Hell
0
Jan 3, 2018
Jan 3, 2018 at 12:18 AM UTC
andrew-rueter
Psychotic
You see me as the bacteria And yourself as the antibiotic I see you across the cafeteria Acting psychotic Because of what I find ****** You treat me like I'm toxic But you're seen as normal So I hide beneath the coral To avoid your aggression That will teach me a lesson About correctly guessing Where your fists will go next You tell me I want it like *** This is your way to flex To show you have an edge You single out the marginalized There's no way you'll hedge When you have harm in your eyes And then use charm as a disguise To make me cry over spilt milk Because I am not of your ilk For I am as soft as silk Like the sheets I want to roll in with you Instead you shoved my face into poo As my ***** grew I think of killing myself With my gun When I think of filling myself With your *** While pretending I'm your son And swallowing you like gum Those are my ideas of fun Yours is to tell me to run From your intensely penetrating fists That make me regret my penetrating wish As you brandish the weapon From the movie Inception That launches you into my dreams Giving my thoughts a singular theme As my mouth continually screams I was born on the wrong team You wanted to exhibit your power In this seemingly arbitrary hour So you broke my nose To show off for your hoes An off the cuff Attempt to be tough But I found it deeply affecting When I could feel your hatred injecting Making me wonder if I'd ever be free After I saw the only ending I could see You move to strike me again This time I have my mac 10 That I brought to school For a one sided duel You changed the trajectory of my life By changing the trajectory of my bullets You taught me about strife You taught me how power is the coolest You taught me to move on to your friends Their lives I must remember to end This is the message I'm choosing to send When they sat back and watched the hate Like it was 1938 I lost my sympathy After being treated differently And gained a ruthless anger That turned me into a stranger So I let the automatic gun spray Faster than they could pray For their hoots and hollers I shoot their collars Creating shade in the halls That I make when they fall The feeling goes to my ***** I become strangely intoxicated By the death of those who hated So I go back to your dead body And do what you felt was so naughty And now there is no one even around for you to tell That I ****** your corpse while you watched from Hell
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81
there was once a goat he had a coat of white he had a funny beard such a funny sight he liked to roam around all along the coast travelling all around was what he liked the most one day on his travels while walking down the road sat there in the hedge he saw a little toad the little toad was sad and had teardrop in his eye the goat he said whats wrong. what has made you cry. the toad said he was lonley thats why he was sad i have lost my friend he said the only one i had goat he said dont cry i know just what to do we will look together and find your friend for you then suddenly they heard another little toad croaking in the hedge further down the road it was his little friend that he was searching for now they were toether and they were friends once more goat he said goodbye im glad you found your friend the story was complete and has a happy end
0
Apr 21, 2010
Apr 21, 2010 at 6:54 AM UTC
william-worthless
goat and toad
there was once a goat he had a coat of white he had a funny beard such a funny sight he liked to roam around all along the coast travelling all around was what he liked the most one day on his travels while walking down the road sat there in the hedge he saw a little toad the little toad was sad and had teardrop in his eye the goat he said whats wrong. what has made you cry. the toad said he was lonley thats why he was sad i have lost my friend he said the only one i had goat he said dont cry i know just what to do we will look together and find your friend for you then suddenly they heard another little toad croaking in the hedge further down the road it was his little friend that he was searching for now they were toether and they were friends once more goat he said goodbye im glad you found your friend the story was complete and has a happy end
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18
Day of mist: day of tarnish with hands unserviceable, I wait for the milk van the one-eared cat laps its gray paw and the coal fire burns outside, the little hedge leaves are become quite yellow a milk-film blurs the empty bottles on the windowsill no glory descends two water drops poise on the arched green stem of my neighbor's rose bush o bent bow of thorns the cat unsheathes its claws the world turns today today I will not disenchant my twelve black-gowned examiners or bunch my fist in the wind's sneer.
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5.4k
Sylvia Plath
Resolve
Day of mist: day of tarnish with hands unserviceable, I wait for the milk van the one-eared cat laps its gray paw and the coal fire burns outside, the little hedge leaves are become quite yellow a milk-film blurs the empty bottles on the windowsill no glory descends two water drops poise on the arched green stem of my neighbor's rose bush o bent bow of thorns the cat unsheathes its claws the world turns today today I will not disenchant my twelve black-gowned examiners or bunch my fist in the wind's sneer.
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23
little eddie hedgehog wanders round at at night especially when hungry and has an appetite. he wanders through the hedge to see what he can find to see if there is food of the hedgehog kind. he has a coat of spikes that stick up in the air so the others know whenever he is there. then when he gets tired in to the hedge will crawl then goes fast asleep rolled up into a ball
0
Feb 5, 2015
Feb 5, 2015 at 9:16 AM UTC
william-worthless-1
eddie hedgehog
little eddie hedgehog wanders round at at night especially when hungry and has an appetite. he wanders through the hedge to see what he can find to see if there is food of the hedgehog kind. he has a coat of spikes that stick up in the air so the others know whenever he is there. then when he gets tired in to the hedge will crawl then goes fast asleep rolled up into a ball
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8
Here late into September I can sit with the windows of the stone room swung open to the plum branches still green above the two fields bare now fresh-plowed under the walnuts and watch the screen of ash trees and the river below them and listen to the hawk's cry over the misted valley beyond the shoulder of woods and to lambs in a pasture on the slope and a chaffinch somewhere down in the sloe hedge and silence from the village behind me and from the years and can hear the light rain come the note of each drop playing into the stone by the sill I come slowly to hearing then all at once too quickly for surprise I hear something and think I remember it and will know it afterward in a few days I will be a year older one more year a year farther and nearer and with no sound from there on mute as the native country that was never there again now I hear walnuts falling in the country I came to
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5k
W. S. Merwin
A Morning In Autumn
Here late into September I can sit with the windows of the stone room swung open to the plum branches still green above the two fields bare now fresh-plowed under the walnuts and watch the screen of ash trees and the river below them and listen to the hawk's cry over the misted valley beyond the shoulder of woods and to lambs in a pasture on the slope and a chaffinch somewhere down in the sloe hedge and silence from the village behind me and from the years and can hear the light rain come the note of each drop playing into the stone by the sill I come slowly to hearing then all at once too quickly for surprise I hear something and think I remember it and will know it afterward in a few days I will be a year older one more year a year farther and nearer and with no sound from there on mute as the native country that was never there again now I hear walnuts falling in the country I came to
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32
There is a wildness still in England that will not feed In cages; it shrinks away from the touch of the trainer's hand, Easy to **** not easy to tame. It will never breed In a zoo for the public pleasure. It will not be planned. Do not blame us too much if we that are hedgerow folk Cannot swell the rejoicings at this new world you make - We, hedge-hogged as Johnson or Borrow, strange to the yoke As Landor, surly as Cobbett (that badger), birdlike as Blake. A new scent troubles the air -- to you, friendly perhaps But we with animal wisdom have understood that smell. To all our kind its message is Guns, Ferrets, and Traps, And a Ministry gassing the little holes in which we dwell.
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4.8k
C. S. Lewis
The Condemned
There is a wildness still in England that will not feed In cages; it shrinks away from the touch of the trainer's hand, Easy to **** not easy to tame. It will never breed In a zoo for the public pleasure. It will not be planned. Do not blame us too much if we that are hedgerow folk Cannot swell the rejoicings at this new world you make - We, hedge-hogged as Johnson or Borrow, strange to the yoke As Landor, surly as Cobbett (that badger), birdlike as Blake. A new scent troubles the air -- to you, friendly perhaps But we with animal wisdom have understood that smell. To all our kind its message is Guns, Ferrets, and Traps, And a Ministry gassing the little holes in which we dwell.
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12
Lingering in the dark side, She just blew my mind, My brain waves all fried, Sanity lost, too far to find. I dream of busting chains, Throwing my life down the cliffs, to the ocean rocks. My soul now in your reigns, Bound,Buried & Chained in a box. My visions wild, Fantasising a life away, Heartbreak not so mild, I end up all alone and stray. In my Mind, my Initials chained around her neck, Tighter than the grasp of love and dread, Blinded in a hedge maze, reality unchecked, We’ve already done it in my head. Fiction and reality merge, I keep recalling you in vivid dreams, A messy little kiss it’s all that I urge, Lust flows in wicked streams. The river of lust, Sourced from fatal fantasies, As I drown deep in you, Giving into all the fancies. Bedsheets all ablaze, Screaming, hiding my face, Rising up like waves, Crashing over, leaving no trace. At last, a wishful yearn, Giving way to laboured breath, Will the tables turn, Our fate all set.
0
Feb 23, 2025
Feb 23, 2025 at 10:31 AM UTC
Ilovechocolatemilk13
Fictional Fantasies
Lingering in the dark side, She just blew my mind, My brain waves all fried, Sanity lost, too far to find. I dream of busting chains, Throwing my life down the cliffs, to the ocean rocks. My soul now in your reigns, Bound,Buried & Chained in a box. My visions wild, Fantasising a life away, Heartbreak not so mild, I end up all alone and stray. In my Mind, my Initials chained around her neck, Tighter than the grasp of love and dread, Blinded in a hedge maze, reality unchecked, We’ve already done it in my head. Fiction and reality merge, I keep recalling you in vivid dreams, A messy little kiss it’s all that I urge, Lust flows in wicked streams. The river of lust, Sourced from fatal fantasies, As I drown deep in you, Giving into all the fancies. Bedsheets all ablaze, Screaming, hiding my face, Rising up like waves, Crashing over, leaving no trace. At last, a wishful yearn, Giving way to laboured breath, Will the tables turn, Our fate all set.
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32
1. Sunlight There was a sunlit absence. The helmeted pump in the yard heated its iron, water honeyed in the slung bucket and the sun stood like a griddle cooling against the wall of each long afternoon. So, her hands scuffled over the bakeboard, the reddening stove sent its plaque of heat against her where she stood in a floury apron by the window. Now she dusts the board with a goose's wing, now sits, broad-lapped, with whitened nails and measling shins: here is a space again, the scone rising to the tick of two clocks. And here is love like a tinsmith's scoop sunk past its gleam in the meal-bin. 2. The Seed Cutters They seem hundreds of years away. Brueghel, You'll know them if I can get them true. They kneel under the hedge in a half-circle Behind a windbreak wind is breaking through. They are the seed cutters. The tuck and frill Of leaf-sprout is on the seed potates Buried under that straw. With time to **** They are taking their time. Each sharp knife goes Lazily halving each root that falls apart In the palm of the hand: a milky gleam, And, at the centre, a dark watermark. Oh, calendar customs! Under the broom Yellowing over them, compose the frieze With all of us there, our anonymities.
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4.9k
Seamus Heaney
Mossbawn: Two Poems in Dedication
1. Sunlight There was a sunlit absence. The helmeted pump in the yard heated its iron, water honeyed in the slung bucket and the sun stood like a griddle cooling against the wall of each long afternoon. So, her hands scuffled over the bakeboard, the reddening stove sent its plaque of heat against her where she stood in a floury apron by the window. Now she dusts the board with a goose's wing, now sits, broad-lapped, with whitened nails and measling shins: here is a space again, the scone rising to the tick of two clocks. And here is love like a tinsmith's scoop sunk past its gleam in the meal-bin. 2. The Seed Cutters They seem hundreds of years away. Brueghel, You'll know them if I can get them true. They kneel under the hedge in a half-circle Behind a windbreak wind is breaking through. They are the seed cutters. The tuck and frill Of leaf-sprout is on the seed potates Buried under that straw. With time to **** They are taking their time. Each sharp knife goes Lazily halving each root that falls apart In the palm of the hand: a milky gleam, And, at the centre, a dark watermark. Oh, calendar customs! Under the broom Yellowing over them, compose the frieze With all of us there, our anonymities.
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44
We’re reeling, thundering, flying. We’re racing down the hill. We’re sweeping along the pavement. I will carry you; I’ll take you where ever you want. We’re wobbling, swaying, tilting. We’re blown and knocked; uneasy. We’re pushing into the wind. I’ll try to be steady; try my hardest to never let you fall. We’re bumping, pounding, jolting. We’re kicking up leaves. We’re skidding along the track. I’ll weave between every tree, don’t worry, my love. We’re gliding, sprinting, whizzing. We’re brushing by the hedge. We’re crunching along the stones. I shall trundle with you, gently down the towpath. We’re moseying, wandering, meandering. We’re stopping, choosing some lunch. We’re pacing through the lanes. I’ll wait when you’re gone, wait to take you home.
0
Mar 7, 2012
Mar 7, 2012 at 9:42 AM UTC
jessica-fowler
Bike
We’re reeling, thundering, flying. We’re racing down the hill. We’re sweeping along the pavement. I will carry you; I’ll take you where ever you want. We’re wobbling, swaying, tilting. We’re blown and knocked; uneasy. We’re pushing into the wind. I’ll try to be steady; try my hardest to never let you fall. We’re bumping, pounding, jolting. We’re kicking up leaves. We’re skidding along the track. I’ll weave between every tree, don’t worry, my love. We’re gliding, sprinting, whizzing. We’re brushing by the hedge. We’re crunching along the stones. I shall trundle with you, gently down the towpath. We’re moseying, wandering, meandering. We’re stopping, choosing some lunch. We’re pacing through the lanes. I’ll wait when you’re gone, wait to take you home.
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20
a bottle of scotch had bad dreams. bullets twitch, junk sick in 3 inch thick mustard **** toe nails clipped from yeti lay strewn about the **** stained corpse of a motel six dixie cup - root canal trophy, next to a black fez with scab tassel upended. down in it. belching apnea propaganda and belladonna waiting for curious george to find a shotgun and a yellow hat and a brick banana. blowflies inhale the rank damp of a fresh **** the odd dog whines like a clown in - a blender. [ the ] house wins with a marked card; jabbing fat fingers into acned rosacea bloated with sleep lack and mortgage back stab chasing twenty ****** with a hollow point pull from an acid flask while hailing a black cab. tinsel sutures stitch eyelids as a mercy shattered bone knit hand-grenade cozies old glory, at half mast half wasted fifty stars, no light dragging on the grounds of immunity to do a line of coke stock with a basset hounds' finesse. your taxes at work in columbia, hiding from a lost farm in Idaho your american dream turning tricks in shanghai for a counterfeit egga roll your meme, devoid like an ice cube tombstone your freedom, parking cars for italian escorts smoking skin flutes for ferraris and white teeth. your integrity, sold to a hedge fund for astroglide and a pez dispenser packed with prozac pressed by ' Jose the butcher' s abuela in a narco slum that ain't seen radio since cinder blocks had wings.
0
Dec 26, 2012
Dec 26, 2012 at 2:40 PM UTC
third-eye-candy
Black Cab Charybdis
a bottle of scotch had bad dreams. bullets twitch, junk sick in 3 inch thick mustard **** toe nails clipped from yeti lay strewn about the **** stained corpse of a motel six dixie cup - root canal trophy, next to a black fez with scab tassel upended. down in it. belching apnea propaganda and belladonna waiting for curious george to find a shotgun and a yellow hat and a brick banana. blowflies inhale the rank damp of a fresh **** the odd dog whines like a clown in - a blender. [ the ] house wins with a marked card; jabbing fat fingers into acned rosacea bloated with sleep lack and mortgage back stab chasing twenty ****** with a hollow point pull from an acid flask while hailing a black cab. tinsel sutures stitch eyelids as a mercy shattered bone knit hand-grenade cozies old glory, at half mast half wasted fifty stars, no light dragging on the grounds of immunity to do a line of coke stock with a basset hounds' finesse. your taxes at work in columbia, hiding from a lost farm in Idaho your american dream turning tricks in shanghai for a counterfeit egga roll your meme, devoid like an ice cube tombstone your freedom, parking cars for italian escorts smoking skin flutes for ferraris and white teeth. your integrity, sold to a hedge fund for astroglide and a pez dispenser packed with prozac pressed by ' Jose the butcher' s abuela in a narco slum that ain't seen radio since cinder blocks had wings.
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75
A dancing Bear grotesque and funny Earned for his master heaps of money, Gruff yet good-natured, fond of honey, And cheerful if the day was sunny. Past hedge and ditch, past pond and wood He tramped, and on some common stood; There, cottage children circling gaily, He in their midmost footed daily. Pandean pipes and drum and muzzle Were quite enough his brain to puzzle: But like a philosophic bear He let alone extraneous care And danced contented anywhere. Still, year on year, and wear and tear, Age even the gruffest, bluffest bear. A day came when he scarce could prance, And when his master looked askance On dancing Bear who would not dance. To looks succeeded blows; hard blows Battered his ears and poor old nose. From bluff and gruff he waxed curmudgeon; He danced indeed, but danced in dudgeon, Capered in fury fast and faster. Ah, could he once but hug his master And perish in one joint disaster! But deafness, blindness, weakness growing, Not fury's self could keep him going. One dark day when the snow was snowing His cup was brimmed to overflowing: He tottered, toppled on one side, Growled once, and shook his head, and died. The master kicked and struck in vain, The weary drudge had distanced pain And never now would wince again. The master growled; he might have howled Or coaxed,--that slave's last growl was growled. So gnawed by rancor and chagrin One thing remained: he sold the skin. What next the man did is not worth Your notice or my setting forth, But hearken what befell at last. His idle working days gone past, And not one friend and not one penny Stored up (if ever he had any Friends; but his coppers had been many), All doors stood shut against him but The workhouse door, which cannot shut. There he droned on,--a grim old sinner, Toothless, and grumbling for his dinner, Unpitied quite, uncared for much (The rate-payers not favoring such), Hungry and gaunt, with time to spare; Perhaps the hungry, gaunt old Bear Danced back, a haunting memory. Indeed, I hope so, for you see If once the hard old heart relented, The hard old man may have repented.
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4.6k
Christina Rossetti
Brother Bruin
A dancing Bear grotesque and funny Earned for his master heaps of money, Gruff yet good-natured, fond of honey, And cheerful if the day was sunny. Past hedge and ditch, past pond and wood He tramped, and on some common stood; There, cottage children circling gaily, He in their midmost footed daily. Pandean pipes and drum and muzzle Were quite enough his brain to puzzle: But like a philosophic bear He let alone extraneous care And danced contented anywhere. Still, year on year, and wear and tear, Age even the gruffest, bluffest bear. A day came when he scarce could prance, And when his master looked askance On dancing Bear who would not dance. To looks succeeded blows; hard blows Battered his ears and poor old nose. From bluff and gruff he waxed curmudgeon; He danced indeed, but danced in dudgeon, Capered in fury fast and faster. Ah, could he once but hug his master And perish in one joint disaster! But deafness, blindness, weakness growing, Not fury's self could keep him going. One dark day when the snow was snowing His cup was brimmed to overflowing: He tottered, toppled on one side, Growled once, and shook his head, and died. The master kicked and struck in vain, The weary drudge had distanced pain And never now would wince again. The master growled; he might have howled Or coaxed,--that slave's last growl was growled. So gnawed by rancor and chagrin One thing remained: he sold the skin. What next the man did is not worth Your notice or my setting forth, But hearken what befell at last. His idle working days gone past, And not one friend and not one penny Stored up (if ever he had any Friends; but his coppers had been many), All doors stood shut against him but The workhouse door, which cannot shut. There he droned on,--a grim old sinner, Toothless, and grumbling for his dinner, Unpitied quite, uncared for much (The rate-payers not favoring such), Hungry and gaunt, with time to spare; Perhaps the hungry, gaunt old Bear Danced back, a haunting memory. Indeed, I hope so, for you see If once the hard old heart relented, The hard old man may have repented.
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57
The Sun at noon to higher air, Unharnessing the silver Pair That late before his chariot swam, Rides on the gold wool of the Ram. So braver notes the storm-cock sings To start the rusted wheel of things, And brutes in field and brutes in pen Leap that the world goes round again. The boys are up the woods with day To fetch the daffodils away, And home at noonday from the hills They bring no dearth of daffodils. Afield for palms the girls repair, And sure enough the palms are there, And each will find by hedge or pond Her waving silver-tufted wand. In farm and field through all the shire The eye beholds the heart's desire; Ah, let not only mine be vain, For lovers should be loved again.
0
4.2k
A. E. Housman
March
The Sun at noon to higher air, Unharnessing the silver Pair That late before his chariot swam, Rides on the gold wool of the Ram. So braver notes the storm-cock sings To start the rusted wheel of things, And brutes in field and brutes in pen Leap that the world goes round again. The boys are up the woods with day To fetch the daffodils away, And home at noonday from the hills They bring no dearth of daffodils. Afield for palms the girls repair, And sure enough the palms are there, And each will find by hedge or pond Her waving silver-tufted wand. In farm and field through all the shire The eye beholds the heart's desire; Ah, let not only mine be vain, For lovers should be loved again.
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20
DRIVING A FERRARI INTO THE FUTURE the house floated out of the darkness as if it had been flying about in the fog before perching on the mountain's side the house was embarrassed to be seen in its ruin this was the somewhere she had come from it now no longer existed she felt that she too no longer existed an equation erased on a blackboard she became naked wearing only the lake and moonlight water flowed over her like a silken garment she the empress of this nowhere only when she stood dripping on the edge of this nothingness did she feel the cold and shiver the stars were like an atlas of themselves...the Milky Way reaching over a hedge...lapping the lake time fell all about her like a sudden rain the seen and un-seen together she drove her Ferrari into the future leaving behind forever the girl she once had been
0
Sep 7, 2018
Sep 7, 2018 at 10:53 PM UTC
donall-dempsey
DRIVING A FERRARI INTO THE FUTURE
DRIVING A FERRARI INTO THE FUTURE the house floated out of the darkness as if it had been flying about in the fog before perching on the mountain's side the house was embarrassed to be seen in its ruin this was the somewhere she had come from it now no longer existed she felt that she too no longer existed an equation erased on a blackboard she became naked wearing only the lake and moonlight water flowed over her like a silken garment she the empress of this nowhere only when she stood dripping on the edge of this nothingness did she feel the cold and shiver the stars were like an atlas of themselves...the Milky Way reaching over a hedge...lapping the lake time fell all about her like a sudden rain the seen and un-seen together she drove her Ferrari into the future leaving behind forever the girl she once had been
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31
14 One Sister have I in our house, And one, a hedge away. There’s only one recorded, But both belong to me. One came the road that I came— And wore my last year’s gown— The other, as a bird her nest, Builded our hearts among. She did not sing as we did— It was a different tune— Herself to her a music As Bumble bee of June. Today is far from Childhood— But up and down the hills I held her hand the tighter— Which shortened all the miles— And still her hum The years among, Deceives the Butterfly; Still in her Eye The Violets lie Mouldered this many May. I spilt the dew— But took the morn— I chose this single star From out the wide night’s numbers— Sue—forevermore!
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4.1k
Emily Dickinson
One Sister have I in our house
14 One Sister have I in our house, And one, a hedge away. There’s only one recorded, But both belong to me. One came the road that I came— And wore my last year’s gown— The other, as a bird her nest, Builded our hearts among. She did not sing as we did— It was a different tune— Herself to her a music As Bumble bee of June. Today is far from Childhood— But up and down the hills I held her hand the tighter— Which shortened all the miles— And still her hum The years among, Deceives the Butterfly; Still in her Eye The Violets lie Mouldered this many May. I spilt the dew— But took the morn— I chose this single star From out the wide night’s numbers— Sue—forevermore!
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28