"honourably" poems
The Guest House
This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.
A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.
Welcome and attend them all!
Even if they are a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
clean of all its furniture,
still, treat each guest honourably.
The dark thought, the shame, the malice.
greet them at the door laughing and invite them in.
Be grateful for whoever comes.
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.
-- Jelaluddin Rumi, translation by Coleman Barks
Feb 20, 2010
Feb 20, 2010 at 11:56 AM UTC
The calling to witness; the revelation
God igniting a match!
The genesis of time, the mioses of space
The birth of creation,
The vision of darkness shedding light;
An instant that temporarily blinded,
The single second that lasted an aeon.
The awe- inspiring presence that their father created,
The impact of his beauty,
The infinite wisdom of eternity, his glory beheld.
Only a glimpse they sighted,
The vision of a solar eclipse
A momentary lapse of reason.
His brilliance disturbed their divine grace
Yet his will was theirs, and theirs too he endowed
As it was from that moment that they started to turn
Honourably to turn, to turn
From the darkness of truth toward the light of justice,
The knowledge of eternal wisdom; supreme truth
They were able to see upon turning
Reflected unto them by the diffraction of his light,
A vast myriad of light; contained by darkness,
An equinox harmoniously co-joined
By the motion of the heavenly orbs,
Heaven created for them:
Yet things started to change
And heavens legions fought amongst one another
For inner sense, whilst others lost their innocence;
And so hell was born for the deistic
For God could not percieve the disbelief.
1997 ELEETE J MUIR
Jan 11, 2014
Jan 11, 2014 at 10:13 AM UTC
Love me for who I am.
But when the time comes
for me to end,
Let me be among the dead;
Leave me in the grave.
Keep me in your memory;
don't speak wealth
to my name.
Know that I'm gone forever
Forever, far away.
Love me for who I am;
Leave me for who
I will be.
But when I no longer am,
leave me be
within the grave.
If you love me for who I am,
Let praise be spoken
where praise is due;
Know this however:
I am no perfect man.
Don't try to bring life
to these dead bones.
Don't bring me back to life;
don't speak of my name.
I did not ask to seek fame.
If you love me,
keep this commandment
I give thee:
Don't worship me
nor pay tribute
merely in word or song.
But keep me in your memory
and if you want to honour me,
live honourably, not in vain.
Don't lie to yourself.
Don't think I dwell
in the heavenly heights
even though I may be.
Only God determines my fate;
He alone seals my destiny.
Don't weep for me
but for yourselves
and for your children.
And if you love me,
repent and live!
See the Glory
I've shown to you,
though not of my own.
If you love me,
love me for who I am,
and be thankful
when I am gone.
Sep 15, 2017
Sep 15, 2017 at 7:44 AM UTC
Was dating a bag of ****
whose first impression was a megahit.
This love story was diseased long before it began.
I recall his swayful love worship was far too pagan.
Could his heart get more colder than winter?
Could his laziness
be better than his deafness?
Ooh! Let me out
so i feel the winds
Let me blackout
so i wont feel the darkness he enwinds.
Its amazing what two persons can cause.
It is honourably
chiefly poetic
to put an end to our present cause.
Apr 5, 2014
Apr 5, 2014 at 12:36 PM UTC
The dispute came about quite simply,
Though of course, we couldn't say so then.
A clumsy stumble spilling beer, a harsh few words, toes trodden
And lazy, ***** glances towards 'his girl'.
The pub was warm, muggy, sweaty,
And I only noticed that when he'd thrown me out the door
Hands slick with sweat and cider clutching at my spas'ming throat
As I choke down cold night air and try to kick.
He hit very hard.
I did not.
He managed to keep the mud off his shirt.
I did not.
He stomped, and spat, and swore, and saw his rival broken before him.
I learnt that drink only makes you pain-free to a point.
But I contend, as I did then, as some kind soul dabbed at my blood
That I held the high ground, morally, honourably.
For you see, he simply got stuck in
While I demanded pistols at dawn.
Oct 9, 2016
Oct 9, 2016 at 6:35 PM UTC
I’m fed up with Prague, Paris and progress
It’s because I feel like a lonely boy.
I could sweep aside the art and crafts for the day,
pick up my manlier toys,
in an hour of need.
~
Years later I may grow up,
guns in hand.
Yesterday’s fissures show up honourably
on TV, and I may one day be called to fix small arms symphonies
in lands where tyrants trail newly won streets with
glistening gold-plated depleted uranium hypocrisy
~
If they should come close to hurting you, which I could never bear
With titles and a message, or anonymously
I’d stockpile shares everywhere
and raise forgotten silos, for you
in our hour of need,
What’s more, dear
this sniping threat …
I have learned we live more than exist
~
For brief respite we’ll hire those brave, gifted folks to close down this travisty
suspend the dream-merchants
so we can perfect our progeny
(permanence, is, after all something)
in this, a dark hour of need.
Oh my darling if you would understand just what it takes
to cling on to that last noiseless sigh of power,
to be devoted to all
which will revoke all the old failings
which will enable a better way of equipping
someone to watch for us, with both eyes wide,
as the lesser hand counts round, and again
and inevitably strikes
war
© Copyright David Bosworth March 2014
Mar 24, 2014
Mar 24, 2014 at 10:40 PM UTC
It was a dark and stormy night, or at least it was for our single-parent family. The rest of the neighbourhood was enjoying the kind of clear skies which meant a hard frost overnight and a slippery ride to school in the morning.
The barometer in our neat, wee house at the end of our short, ordinary street was falling rapidly, as it often did these days. My father, an Iraq War veteran - _’Honourably discharged for dishonourable reasons, and don’t you forget it. ****** fascists!’_ - was in charge of our weather. From blue skies with candy-cotton clouds in the morning to an eerie half-light of silent anticipation by late afternoon, we would end the day huddled around the kitchen table waiting for the maelstrom to hit.
We ate carefully trying not to scrape our plates with our knives and forks, and avoiding each other’s eyes. The cauliflower cheese was examined as closely as every other vegetable my aunt Kate - _‘I’ll not have my family eating slaughtered animals!’_ - served up to us. You’d think the food on our plates was the most interesting thing in our precarious little world. Peas were my favourite because you could count them over and over...until they were finished.
Wind and rain lashed our evenings regularly. Sometimes we were treated to the automatic-rifle fire of hail, but worst of all were the sandstorms which ****** all the air out of our home and stymied any hope of sleep. On those occasions we all huddled together in my sister’s bed - _’No, Alex! It’s Livvy’s turn to hold the torch. You can look after the phone in case we need to ring Dr Matt to help Auntie Kate.’_
We updated our worst-vegetarian-creation notebook and talked in close whispers about _the weather_. Mostly, we sat quietly and longed for blue skies and sunshine tomorrow, while the captain cowered in the cubby-hole beneath the stairs and screamed into my six-year-old brother’s plastic walkie-talkie. ‘Man down, man down, man down!’
Apr 28, 2019
Apr 28, 2019 at 8:18 PM UTC
the journey we've begun has no right end
or so we think since all our hopes are wild
for there are many motives we'll defend
though not all of our charges are defiled
by hatreds of the sort that you reviled
when speaking in plain justice of the fact
that none of us come through the world intact
each of the winners learns just how to bend
the moment that she stops being a child
while he who's wise knows best just to pretend
a temperament that's always calm and mild
just so the watching eye is safe beguiled
none of these matters is at all abstract
keep this in mind and you won't be attacked
not one of us can think now to depend
on those who might be honourably styled
our champions we can't call on one friend
whose name is not in the red record filed
to live full grown and not die as a child
that's all the purpose we will not be wracked
but others must be seen to live and act
Jan 27, 2012
Jan 27, 2012 at 5:37 PM UTC
Make space for those
fleeing social distress.
Be a link in a golden
unbreakable chain of
all-welcoming mercy.
Give gladly of yourself.
Receive in good grace.
Redistribute your gains.
Reinvest what you profit.
Care first for the weakest.
Assist in every way the
honourably intended.
Generate hope by
imitating doers: those
motivators of good.
Keep an open mind.
Confound cynic’s doubts.
Generate kindness.
Heal all wounds with love.
Let peace and friendliness
radiate dissolving darkness.
TOBIAS
Jan 8, 2019
Jan 8, 2019 at 4:44 AM UTC
Teaching...
“If you would have your son to walk honourably through the world, you must not attempt to clear the stones from his path, but teach him to walk firmly over them - not insist upon leading him by the hand, but let him learn to go alone.”
― Anne Bronte
Jan 17, 2015
Jan 17, 2015 at 8:29 AM UTC