"hoar" poems
Roses, their sharp spines being gone,
Not royal in their smells alone,
But in their hue;
Maiden pinks, of odour faint,
Daisies smell-less, yet most quaint,
And sweet thyme true;
Primrose, firstborn child of Ver;
Merry springtime’s harbinger,
With her bells dim;
Oxlips in their cradles growing,
Marigolds on death-beds blowing,
Larks’-heels trim;
All dear Nature’s children sweet
Lie ‘fore bride and bridegroom’s feet,
Blessing their sense!
Not an angel of the air,
Bird melodious or bird fair,
Be absent hence!
The crow, the slanderous cuckoo, nor
The boding raven, nor chough ****
Nor chattering pye,
May on our bride-house perch or sing,
Or with them any discord bring,
But from it fly!
6.4k
These are the hard times,
the long stretch of coal-shed days,
the corrugated nights of the antinomian.
I retch at the old doubts and the panoply
of dustbins clattering bright,
their watchers simian in the morning ****
I dress as though dredging up greys,
monotone deep in the GB tradition:
now sandpit tea with oil stain floats
silt dreads the mass of a seven year clay.
Four weeks of shadows drown wind in a storm.
And dreams of my cottage
in days of such calm and late summer happiness
as brought cut corn and strawbs
and horse manure in hugs
until like Zulu tribesmen the birds appeared.
Hunched with expectation
Spears smiling like baddies they rushed me.
I woke pouring sweat like a workhorse
the weakest of defences laid up
my face pulling cellophane over French windows.
Feb 6, 2012
Feb 6, 2012 at 2:07 PM UTC
ROSES, their sharp spines being gone,
Not royal in their smells alone,
But in their hue;
Maiden pinks, of odour faint,
Daisies smell-less, yet most quaint,
And sweet thyme true;
Primrose, firstborn child of Ver;
Merry springtime's harbinger,
With her bells dim;
Oxlips in their cradles growing,
Marigolds on death-beds blowing,
Larks'-heels trim;
All dear Nature's children sweet
Lie 'fore bride and bridegroom's feet,
Blessing their sense!
Not an angel of the air,
Bird melodious or bird fair,
Be absent hence!
The crow, the slanderous cuckoo, nor
The boding raven, nor chough ****
Nor chattering pye,
May on our bride-house perch or sing,
Or with them any discord bring,
But from it fly!
Jan 31, 2014
Jan 31, 2014 at 5:25 AM UTC
the red
golden yellow
and amber leaves land soft
weaving a thick warm patched quilt for
mother
earth in anticipation of
the autumn chill
and the onset of
**** frost
Aug 21, 2014
Aug 21, 2014 at 10:30 PM UTC
Earth raised up her head.
From the darkness dread & drear,
Her light fled:
Stony dread!
And her locks cover’d with grey despair.
Prison’d on watery shore
Starry Jealousy does keep my den
Cold and ****
Weeping o’er
I hear the father of the ancient men
Selfish father of men
Cruel jealous selfish fear
Can delight
Chain’d in night
The virgins of youth and morning bear.
Does spring hide its joy
When buds and blossoms grow?
Does the sower?
Sow by night?
Or the ploughman in darkness plough?
Break this heavy chain.
That does freeze my bones around
Selfish! vain!
Eternal bane!
That free Love with ******* bound.
2.7k
525
I think the Hemlock likes to stand
Upon a Marge of Snow—
It suits his own Austerity—
And satisfies an awe
That men, must slake in Wilderness—
And in the Desert—cloy—
An instinct for the **** the Bald—
Lapland’s—necessity—
The Hemlock’s nature thrives—on cold—
The Gnash of Northern winds
Is sweetest nutriment—to him—
His best Norwegian Wines—
To satin Races—he is nought—
But Children on the Don,
Beneath his Tabernacles, play,
And Dnieper Wrestlers, run.
2.8k
O World! O Life! O Time!
On whose last steps I climb,
Trembling at that where I had stood before;
When will return the glory of your prime?
No more—Oh, never more!
Out of the day and night
A joy has taken flight:
Fresh spring, and summer, and winter ****
Move my faint heart with grief, but with delight
No more—Oh, never more!
2.6k
ever been a ***** or a ******
i have. and other names
mostly given.
ever been a scapegoat?
i have. been a toy
to the hatfields and the mccoys.
any ink of brain leakage
taken to the sawbone
stitches over stitches
on my lips sewn by my own hands
the sands of time have passed, slow
as they can fall --
blood from rips goes on the walls
smear memories on the old ****
to make a little sense of the prison
in which i was living
make a little bit of sense of my enemies
apparently, i choose to ride the prisms
of a prison to the coffin, as i'm better use dead
but what kind of exit is a bullet to the head?
tell you, it's a mess, what it is
Aug 7, 2019
Aug 7, 2019 at 5:37 PM UTC
the clouds storm and stir the horizon
and swoon like a sorrowful bird,
the sun sinks the same way once risen
and deafening the fires of his word,
a lover waits hopeless and dreary,
and hopeless and dreary departs
for love not returned leaves her weary
and breathful her heart.
a vision as clear as the ages,
that reach to the soul or the heart
the storm of the clouds broken cages
long gone those soft clouds that depart
and the sea strides to shore like a viking,
and rages eternal like cloud,
for the storm now is spent and surrenders,
that once stood so proud.
the sea she will wrap me in flowers
and drown me in ivies and wine,
as the sharp winter wind blows wild showers,
that bury the aches of the pines,
and the sea i found tender with rapture
blew me back where the ages relent,
and the sea gave me back all its flowers,
for the love never meant.
desire is no pastry or pudding,
it is death, it is life, it is naught,
in its rages it cries like a blossom
that bursts from the bough and is caught,
no lover could rule or control me,
but they begged and they begged
for my love,
and the love that i gave soon destroyed me,
a lion to the dove.
yet the sea dries my eyes from my weeping,
rejuvinates like vinaigrette,
and love never once won or departing
soon buries its soul in regret,
and the sea sings like a stereotyped lover,
too broody to throw out a rose
and the rose would be tearful my lover,
seas sea e'en froze.
for the sea is a viking of passion,
strange ghost of the wind and the wave,
and knows nothing of love or compassion,
but will leave you with the dark that can't save,
i see her in the **** frost, her blossom,
the waves that still billow like sails
the foam the blue foam near the flotsam,
her song a soft silvery scale.
Nov 5, 2018
Nov 5, 2018 at 4:35 PM UTC
SWEET daughter of a rough and stormy fire,
**** Winter's blooming child ; delightful Spring !
Whose unshorn locks with leaves
And swelling buds are crowned ;
From the green islands of eternal youth,
(Crown'd with fresh blooms, and ever springing shade,)
Turn, hither turn thy step,
O thou, whose powerful voice
More sweet than softest touch of Doric reed,
Or Lydian flute, can sooth the madding winds,
And thro' the stormy deep
Breathe thy own tender calm.
Thee, best belov'd ! the ****** train await
With songs and festal rites, and joy to rove
Thy blooming wilds among,
And vales and dewy lawns,
With untir'd feet ; and cull thy earliest sweets
To weave fresh garlands for the glowing brow
Of him, the favour'd youth
That prompts their whisper'd sigh.
Unlock thy copious stores ; those tender showers
That drop their sweetness on the infant buds,
And silent dews that swell
The milky ear's green stem.
And feed the slowering osier's early shoots ;
And call those winds which thro' the whispering boughs
With warm and pleasant breath
Salute the blowing flowers.
Now let me sit beneath the whitening thorn,
And mark thy spreading tints steal o'er the dale ;
And watch with patient eye
Thy fair unfolding charms.
O nymph approach ! while yet the temperate sun
With bashful forehead, thro' the cool moist air
Throws his young maiden beams,
And with chaste kisses woes
The earth's fair ***** ; while the streaming veil
Of lucid clouds with kind and frequent shade
Protect thy modest blooms
From his severer blaze.
Sweet is thy reign, but short ; The red dog-star
Shall scorch thy tresses, and the mower's scythe
Thy greens, thy flow'rets all,
Remorseless shall destroy.
Reluctant shall I bid thee then farewel ;
For O, not all the Autumn's lap contains,
Nor Summer's ruddiest fruits,
Can aught for thee atone
Fair Spring ! whose simplest promise more delights
Than all their largest wealth, and thro' the heart
Each joy and new-born hope
With softest influence breathes.
2.2k
1316
Winter is good—his **** Delights
Italic flavor yield
To Intellects inebriate
With Summer, or the World—
Generic as a Quarry
And hearty—as a Rose—
Invited with Asperity
But welcome when he goes.
1.9k
Summer is gone with all its roses,
Its sun and perfumes and sweet flowers,
Its warm air and refreshing showers:
And even Autumn closes.
Yea, Autumn's chilly self is going,
And winter comes which is yet colder;
Each day the hoar-frost waxes bolder
And the last buds cease blowing.
1.9k
Best and brightest, come away,
Fairer far than this fair day,
Which, like thee, to those in sorrow
Comes to bid a sweet good-morrow
To the rough year just awake
In its cradle on the brake.
The brightest hour of unborn Spring
Through the Winter wandering,
Found, it seems, the halcyon morn
To **** February born;
Bending from Heaven, in azure mirth,
It kissed the forehead of the earth,
And smiled upon the silent sea,
And bade the frozen streams be free,
And waked to music all their fountains,
And breathed upon the frozen mountains,
And like a prophetess of May
Strewed flowers upon the barren way,
Making the wintry world appear
Like one on whom thou smilest, dear.
Away, away, from men and towns,
To the wild wood and the downs -
To the silent wilderness
Where the soul need not repress
Its music, lest it should not find
An echo in another’s mind,
While the touch of Nature’s art
Harmonizes heart to heart.
Radiant Sister of the Day
Awake! arise! and come away!
To the wild woods and the plains,
To the pools where winter rains
Image all their roof of leaves,
Where the pine its garland weaves
Of sapless green, and ivy dun,
Round stems that never kiss the sun,
Where the lawns and pastures be
And the sandhills of the sea,
Where the melting hoar-frost wets
The daisy-star that never sets,
And wind-flowers and violets
Which yet join not scent to hue
Crown the pale year weak and new;
When the night is left behind
In the deep east, dim and blind,
And the blue noon is over us,
And the multitudinous
Billows murmur at our feet,
Where the earth and ocean meet,
And all things seem only one
In the universal Sun.
1.9k
***The autumn dawn
has fainted,
hoar-frost shines
through my eyes.
Ghostly mist
from pine to
pine is
beckoning,
like a silver
breeze to
hallow all.
Our burdened
breath, it haunts
us everywhere.
I feel the silence
tearing up
my lost soul.
Where nightingales
do not sing
and dream the
blue skies of
the North,
I drift through
that middle air,
magic
is blazing
in my auburn hair.
And in these lonely
hours-ancient spirits
reflect within me.
Faces carved in
dead wood
walking on
my strings.
A seashore
howling below
the mountain
dew glen.
But i do not fear
to run in woodland
memories,
Into this autumn day,
Far, far away...***
Oct 30, 2016
Oct 30, 2016 at 2:40 PM UTC
The sea is never still.
It pounds on the shore
Restless as a young heart,
Hunting.
The sea speaks
And only the stormy hearts
Know what it says:
It is the face
of a rough mother speaking.
The sea is young.
One storm cleans all the ****
And loosens the age of it.
I hear it laughing, reckless.
They love the sea,
Men who ride on it
And know they will die
Under the salt of it
Let only the young come,
Says the sea.
Let them kiss my face
And hear me.
I am the last word
And I tell
Where storms and stars come from.
1.6k
February a baleful month
dabbed with deep darkness,
the calendar's mortuary
nature's own Gulag.
Its window opens upon
possible impossibilities
none of which yield joy.
Crows plummet murderously
from the heavens
vainly trying to flee
into spring but merely splat.
Roads are crushed
beneath a carpet of ****
Frosted blimps soar naked.
Boots refuse to stay tied.
Your parent's nightmares
freeze your sweaty sleep.
Snow falls like dead swans.
Eclairs crystallize into
lumps too solid to enjoy.
A month of undeserved
solitary confinement
that trembles the soul.
A deep achromatic terror
keening coldness
in a huge white wail
penetrating the ears
until march stops
the madness and hope
blossoms as crocuses,
apricity achieved,
small phosphorescent
dots of desire.
~mce
Feb 4, 2016
Feb 4, 2016 at 10:13 AM UTC
i longed for you
but i couldn’t find you
for shadows,
the moon shone weakly in the
december cold,
my shirt washed out
like a blowsy cloud,
everything singing
of winter ghosts,
time just an illusion,
**** frost like
a sharp indigo blade,
bleached out at the seams
like a whale bone
the threadbare night
unwound,
layers of grey shadows,
lustreless,
my lips yearned
for your lips,
my legs for
your legs,
the roses of the
sweet night
a flowery mist,
but still i could not
find you and my
lonely heart
raged like a
raggedy storm.
Dec 2, 2017
Dec 2, 2017 at 8:30 AM UTC
1130
That odd old man is dead a year—
We miss his stated Hat.
’Twas such an evening bright and stiff
His faded lamp went out.
Who miss his antiquated Wick—
Are any **** for him?
Waits any indurated mate
His wrinkled coming Home?
Oh Life, begun in fluent Blood
And consummated dull!
Achievement contemplating thee—
Feels transitive and cool.
1.5k
Nightly, she mirrored his skin
with her hands pressed
to the places considered sin
when not properly dressed.
Connected dots with kisses
on his back, arms, lips;
the things she misses
are ghosts on **** ships.
Soft skin lotions her bones
soothing the stinging insults, raw
by his words in harsh tones,
like snapping the straps of her bra.
May 22, 2014
May 22, 2014 at 12:37 PM UTC
Two Christmases ago,
Morning cold hovers in electrons.
Frost covers the Chevrolet
Backed by whiteness
Under zero degree sunlight
The old farm place sees morning
Bright and calm....
The ancient barn,
**** frosted roof agleam,
Stands downhill to the north,
Below a curving tractor trail
Cut in the snow...
At the other end of those tracks,
Eighty-one and counting,
You are crawling down
the tractor steps,
Pulling battered buckets
from the ancient fodder shack,
Hobbling to the cattle troughs...
Doing what you love to do...
Have done for fifty years....
I am taking pictures at the house,
Amazed at the cold and frost;
An onlooker now,
Somehow aware that I can not
Follow you...or won't,
Wistful still for attentions
you always freely gave
To kine instead of kin.
Could I go back,
Would I go down
To trough the feed?
I tell myself I would,
Or I would not.
The image burns coldly,
Electrically before me,
And only vaguely I'm aware
That you have slipped away.
Apr 21, 2013
Apr 21, 2013 at 11:53 PM UTC
Out walking in the sub-zero cold
Nose hairs sticking together
**** frost visible on fences
Cheeks, feeling like untreated leather
Snow, crunching, underfoot
Eyes, watering as the wind whips
Ripping my tears from my eyes
And stealing feeling from my fingertips
Twenty minutes and I am numb
My thighs are tight and burning
Wind is howling like a banshee
Hitting full force, so I am learning
My ears are on fire beneath my toque
No snow though, too cold to form
Can't wait to get back home
And let the burning finish before I warm
Through it all, without a care
My dog is leading me around
I'm fully covered, and still I hurt
He's leaving gifts upon the ground
His pads must be frozen
His muzzle is a frozen mask
Finding the perfect spot for one last ***
Seems to be his only task
....all I can say is "I'm freezing, and this ****** owes me!!!"
Jan 26, 2013
Jan 26, 2013 at 8:26 PM UTC
_I rest my head on her shoulder,
The shoulder of the earth;
Cradled in her warmth,
Caught by shifting currents,
Cleansed by hoar-frost’s pervasive bite;
Tutored by seasons’ changes.
Musing to myself that she has faith in me,
That I have something to offer her;
Negotiating with my intellect,
Letting my imagination run wild,
Enough to entertain the idea that
I am capable of something more than this._
Aug 24, 2020
Aug 24, 2020 at 3:35 AM UTC
Furtive in this Winter air
We watch a pale life hover there
Suspended by some hope defined
By gossamers so unrefined,
A silky substance floating by
Like spider web in azure sky.
We watch a pale life hover there
In freezing air, in sad despair,
The **** frost down on frozen ground
Reflecting hopelessness profound,
Saw lost eyes in a careless world
...But turned away as day unfurled.
Marshalg
@theBach
Mangere Bridge
20 February 2010
Feb 20, 2010
Feb 20, 2010 at 2:59 AM UTC
In this deaf night, behind our street, in the dark
The winter storm calls us in the forest park
The moon is a pale copy of your eyes, that's a mark
You enter my song like summer, that's the spark
I dream of dancing with angels, shining like a star
About how you sang and eat grapes, you play on my guitar
My words sparkle the sky, they print a scar
In my voice, there is an increasing number of char
I run wild like a wild jaguar
I just want to be your doer
Somewhere behind the sidewalk, in a small bar
With some spirit, my thoughts are spar
You enter my words tonight, the moon is following us there.
My song, this night, give me strength more
I'm looking at midnight sky, open your door
Guess me like the stars of the drops, hit the core
Bend from the head strange gore
I dream angels and winter ****
It enters my skin like a warm shore.
Highly somewhere in the universe flying my word, Flying in the storm is getting harder
This is a long title and first, second, third
Where are you tonight eagle, my holy bird.
The winds hit me in the back, everything is cold, my song she is mine in my blood, it's gold
This night, in the dark night, with the angels wearing something, reading my words secretly, it shows me some mold
Lightning rod, this is our sign old
Under the deep clouds, a distant thunder is heard, this night I am wonder
What is my lucky time and number.
My song, this night, give me the strenght more
I'm looking at midnight sky, open your door
Guess me like the stars of the drops, hit the core
Bend from the head strange gore
I dream angels and winter ****
It enters my skin like a warm shore.
In our dream, our eyes meet anew, the path of emotion makes a real breakthrough
Me and you are the only crew
Various paths are written on the wall, she waves, sends a smile and a call
I no longer feel the pain, as if I were a doll, the shadows dragged me out of the storm, the act of the protocol.
She still laughs with angels, the music box awakens the memory of illusion
Find me in a song of warm fusion, my words make evolution, maybe a good solution
Thunder creates a huge consusion.
This night, long night, the moon is dark
I dream of dancing with angels and shining like a star.
Nov 13, 2018
Nov 13, 2018 at 8:01 AM UTC