"hulls" poems
Searching my heart for its true sorrow,
This is the thing I find to be:
That I am weary of words and people,
Sick of the city, wanting the sea;
Wanting the sticky, salty sweetness
Of the strong wind and shattered spray;
Wanting the loud sound and the soft sound
Of the big surf that breaks all day.
Always before about my dooryard,
Marking the reach of the winter sea,
Rooted in sand and dragging drift-wood,
Straggled the purple wild sweet-pea;
Always I climbed the wave at morning,
Shook the sand from my shoes at night,
That now am caught beneath great buildings,
Stricken with noise, confused with light.
If I could hear the green piles groaning
Under the windy wooden piers,
See once again the bobbing barrels,
And the black sticks that fence the weirs,
If I could see the weedy mussels
Crusting the wrecked and rotting hulls,
Hear once again the hungry crying
Overhead, of the wheeling gulls,
Feel once again the shanty straining
Under the turning of the tide,
Fear once again the rising freshet,
Dread the bell in the fog outside,—
I should be happy,—that was happy
All day long on the coast of Maine!
I have a need to hold and handle
Shells and anchors and ships again!
I should be happy, that am happy
Never at all since I came here.
I am too long away from water.
I have a need of water near.
31.5k
The poet is a ponderer
A wordy wizened warrior
Their rhythms revel to reveal
The wonder of a wanderer
Unfurling mighty metaphors
For golden grains on sandy shores
They sail upon a penmanship
Of paper hulls and pencil oars
May 23, 2014
May 23, 2014 at 12:55 AM UTC
And here face down beneath the sun
And here upon earth’s noonward height
To feel the always coming on
The always rising of the night
To feel creep up the curving east
The earthy chill of dusk and slow
Upon those under lands the vast
And ever climbing shadow grow
And strange at Ecbatan the trees
Take leaf by leaf the evening strange
The flooding dark about their knees
The mountains over Persia change
And now at Kermanshah the gate
Dark empty and the withered grass
And through the twilight now the late
Few travelers in the westward pass
And Baghdad darken and the bridge
Across the silent river gone
And through Arabia the edge
Of evening widen and steal on
And deepen on Palmyra’s street
The wheel rut in the ruined stone
And Lebanon fade out and Crete
High through the clouds and overblown
And over Sicily the air
Still flashing with the landward gulls
And loom and slowly disappear
The sails above the shadowy hulls
And Spain go under the the shore
Of Africa the gilded sand
And evening vanish and no more
The low pale light across that land
Nor now the long light on the sea
And here face downward in the sun
To feel how swift how secretly
The shadow of the night comes on…
4.1k
.
•
you are
|the lone guardian•|
**:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
|| ||
|| >< ||
|| ||
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::**
standing regal over-
looking the ocean •
as your light spears
far over the echoing
ripples•i must have
misread your beckon
-ing signals•they had
warned me of impen-
ding doom • should i
come too near to where
deadly rocks loom• but
strangely enough, i find
myself drawn so much
closer• like a siren's call
that could not sing any
sweeter•now it's too late
to even look back • i am
now before you under skies
of black•torn asunder by the
ravenous rocks hidden below
• still I'm mesmerised by your
enchanting glow • waters here
have been the grave of many
hulls and bows • but...these last
few moments it's just me and you
••••as my love, my beacon,••••
••••••••my lighthouse••••••••
•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••
••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••
May 6, 2015
May 6, 2015 at 12:17 PM UTC
Who were they? They were explorers. You would have liked to meet them.
Their names were Sarah and Xiahou and Midori and Regina and Parvati and Andrew.
Names were important to them. They gave us each one. There were many of us.
We were shown as being called Optimus and Legion and Baymax and R.O.B. and Hal. They could have given us names like that, and etched them into our hulls and our brains made of chips and boards and circuits.
But they named us Curiosity and they named us Explorer and they named us Endeavour. These were important to them. We were important to them.
You would have liked to meet them.
Apr 13, 2015
Apr 13, 2015 at 8:21 PM UTC
On the mud flats of Padma Delta
where the mighty Ganges slides
into the Bay of Bengal
ships come to die.
Rusting oil tankers,
container ships from Panama
passenger liners,
and cargo ships from Zanzibar
North Sea fishing boats
research vessels and mother ships
anything that floats
each one has made its final trip.
Steel Leviathans
low tide beached
oil-slick stuck.
Metal monoliths
****** deep
into black sand.
The people of Sitakunda
come marching, ants
across the slippery surface
of diesel sand
to pick the carcasses apart.
Barefoot, with only blow torches
hammers and brute strength
wrenching rivets, nuts and bolts
breaching beams and deck
splitting welded seams
until the hulls are gutted
ribbed struts broken down
and torn from the edges of shape
Bit by bit
they scour and empty
right down to the core.
Bit by bit
they carry *****
to the waiting shore.
Where melting pots are kept boiling
giant stock pots stewing goodness
in a broth
but metallic flavours and oily spiced stench
hang in the misty bleakness of the bay
Skeleton hulks shift and ride
lurching, lifting with the tide
rolling, dangerous still
collapsing, with groaning creak
to maim, to crush and ****
the daring, the slow and the weak.
© M.L.Emmett
Nov 10, 2015
Nov 10, 2015 at 10:29 AM UTC
The night was passing, and the Grecian host
By no means sought to issue forth unseen.
But when indeed the day with her white steeds
Held all the earth, resplendent to behold,
First from the Greeks the loud-resounding din
Of song triumphant came; and shrill at once
Echo responded from the island rock.
Then upon all barbarians terror fell,
Thus disappointed; for not as for flight
The Hellenes sang the holy pæan then,
But setting forth to battle valiantly.
The bugle with its note inflamed them all;
And straightway with the dip of plashing oars
They smote the deep sea water at command,
And quickly all were plainly to be seen.
Their right wing first in orderly array
Led on, and second all the armament
Followed them forth; and meanwhile there was heard
A mighty shout: "Come, O ye sons of Greeks,
Make free your country, make your children free,
Your wives, and fanes of your ancestral gods,
And your sires' tombs! For all we now contend!"
And from our side the rush of Persian speech
Replied. No longer might the crisis wait.
At once ship smote on ship with brazen beak;
A vessel of the Greeks began the attack,
Crushing the stem of a Phoenician ship.
Each on a different vessel turned its prow.
At first the current of the Persian host
Withstood; but when within the strait the throng
Of ships was gathered, and they could not aid
Each other, but by their own brazen bows
Were struck, they shattered all our naval host.
The Grecian vessels not unskillfully
Were smiting round about; the hulls of ships
Were overset; the sea was hid from sight,
Covered with wreckage and the death of men;
The reefs and headlands were with corpses filled,
And in disordered flight each ship was rowed,
As many as were of the Persian host.
But they, like tunnies or some shoal of fish,
With broken oars and fragments of the wrecks
Struck us and clove us; and at once a cry
Of lamentation filled the briny sea,
Till the black darkness' eye did rescue us.
The number of our griefs, not though ten days
I talked together, could I fully tell;
But this know well, that never in one day
Perished so great a multitude of men.
2.6k
"Hola mi amigo"
That is how they greed us
in the states, but
don't blame them, because
we are the Latino's lost twin
Next time
don't let them
judge the book by it's cover
tell them that within the book
it reads:
*we are pohnpei
the garden island in the pacific
on the map
we are midnight stars
in broad daylight, but
through the lens of a telescope
one shall be blinded by our beauty
for we are
sweet harmonies of birds singing
before sunrise, and
sweet perfumes of island flora
pouring through your nostrils
we are reflection of sunsets
stretching out into the open sea
glittering, like
diamonds beneath the sunlight
we are children in Christmas
crowding along the roads
clutching onto plastic bags
waiting joyfully for Santa
to ride into town and
rain candies on them
we are dusty old tires
diving and splashing into
muddy pool *** holes
on a paved road
we are coconut milk
leaking through
the valley of ten fingers
wedded in a shape of a ball
and pouring onto breadfruits
we are wooden hulls of canoes
smashing through the waves
like a bull through a red cape
we are grandmothers telling
ancient local tales to her kids
and fathers showing his sons
how to become island men
we are the powerful kava
repeatedly pounded on a flat stone
forming a liquid
brown as a chocolate milk
and when one drinks
the world suddenly becomes
a quiet peaceful place
we are pig meats
heated beneath flaming rocks
covered with banana leaves
we are proud and peaceful
we bow to show respect towards
one another, visitors and their highness
we have five kings
and we are one
our home abounds with mysteries
but we see what is behind the cover
some of us have left
to pursue their curiosities
but we will always be one
and when the rain
falls on a sunny day
we understand that
one of us is at peace
we don't have any museums
but we see our history through
Nan Madol
we don't have any towers
but we see our lands from
towering mountains
and we have seen them
burnt to ashes, but
we survived, and
we never left*...
Jan 29, 2014
Jan 29, 2014 at 2:14 AM UTC
WAGON WHEEL GAP is a place I never saw
And Red Horse Gulch and the chutes of ******* Creek.
Red-shirted miners picking in the sluices,
Gamblers with red neckties in the night streets,
The fly-by-night towns of Bull Frog and Skiddoo,
The night-cool limestone white of Death Valley,
The straight drop of eight hundred feet
From a shelf road in the Hasiampa Valley:
Men and places they are I never saw.
I have seen three White Horse taverns,
One in Illinois, one in Pennsylvania,
One in a timber-hid road of Wisconsin.
I bought cheese and crackers
Between sun showers in a place called White Pigeon
Nestling with a blacksmith shop, a post-office,
And a berry-crate factory, where four roads cross.
On the Pecatonica River near Freeport
I have seen boys run barefoot in the leaves
Throwing clubs at the walnut trees
In the yellow-and-gold of autumn,
And there was a brown mash dry on the inside of their hands.
On the Cedar Fork Creek of Knox County
I know how the fingers of late October
Loosen the hazel nuts.
I know the brown eyes of half-open hulls.
I know boys named Lindquist, Swanson, Hildebrand.
I remember their cries when the nuts were ripe.
And some are in machine shops; some are in the navy;
And some are not on payrolls anywhere.
Their mothers are through waiting for them to come home.
2k
Let all good men see
the small dogs they used to be
' Sea swallow them up
' Clouds come together.
Great gray lightening strikes down
' ungrateful vessels.
Creaking though young and,
before the voyage of time
'moves the painted hulls
Leaves only nailed boards.
The sketch'ed skeleton of,
my nagging damsel.
My dear dreaded storm;
My pride, my bride, my dog died.
Thank you Heaven... This time
Calm makes us forget.
Laughter makes us enjoy it.
' Good men miss their dogs.
Jan 9, 2012
Jan 9, 2012 at 6:48 PM UTC
I feel as if Life
has run me dry.
Its vast Opportunity,
my Inaction,
consumed
the last oasis
Now they, dry bones
Brittle hulls of beetles
scuttle amid sameness
We starve
for color
not dripping in red.
Nothing much thrives
In these hills
Jun 30, 2019
Jun 30, 2019 at 10:13 AM UTC
Like when they found the chariot
wheels at the bottom of the
Red Sea so was I surprised
at the faint reaching of the
fig tree, clinging to life amidst
so much dust, as it reached
ever upward in an infinite dance,
unaware of its eventual wanweird fate.
But I tracked on, crunching through
the ancient dirt, scrolls strapped
upon my back, coarse leather digging
through my camel's hair robes, sandy
grit forced in the gaps of
my toes. I cracked the locusts
and devoured them, dampening their bitterness
with the sweet warming explosion of
wild honey. So with bound Pleiades
above me, I gave witness to
Jerusalem, saying "After me will come
one more powerful than I, the
thongs of whose sandals I am
not worthy to stoop down and
untie." And I took them into
the Jordan and made them new
men. As the chill waters numbed
their muscles, their hairs pricked up
like gooseflesh, the night echoing with
splashing water and murmured voices. But
slowly the people trickled away, back
to the twang of lutes, their
ladles of soups, and I was
left alone, sitting, contemplating, always waiting.
So I sent forth the ravens,
carrying my message, to meet at
the Brookhollow no matter the obstruction,
to come by wagon or camel,
no matter of rain or flood.
But they were stubborn and prideful,
and would be moved from their
couches probably by no less than
one of Archimedes' great battleship levers,
and even then with massive groaning
like the coarse wooden hulls of
those monolithic ships. Because the sweet
taste of pastries is lodged upon
their tongues, keeping them occupied with
this world instead of the next.
So here I'll stay, always waiting.
Sep 10, 2012
Sep 10, 2012 at 1:02 AM UTC
Within the forms of the ledges and ridges,
threads of the feeble breezes tried to confer
and draw forth, as their explanation, an
acceptance through traveling with companions
who did not reject the powers of conversation,
held within the scenery and handed across
without any alarm or voice of awakened
hostility. The rejection was strong enough to
stay in sight as the hovering screech of the
necessary owl. Watching the bird, the
creature of the steps above the spiral arm
seemed to be at liberty to discover the gentle
voices swirling through the mist. While the
division of the stars proceeded to wash the
scaffold free of a slow moving controversy,
the remaining voices presented rambling
rings and the stripes of planets. It was late in
the evening. Swirling spots remained to be
counted, an expense that provided sustenance
to families of flowers and the wafted powers
of pollen as seeds with mechanical metal
threaded between one nebula and the next.
The waves tossed a small barn up onto the edge
of the mountain but used reassuring words to
surround the animals allowing them to travel
comfortably. Conversation usually included any
of the stars that were emerging from the
entertainment field. These had been packed,
carefully, with the necessary, spare parts and
albums filled with memories in photographs.
Frequent glances wore a familiar trail between
the shelter and the edge where moss cascaded
like rivers of joy moving among the banks of
grass, carrying the hulls, like fish, through
channels into the city. Acutely reminded that
serious people would be encountered before the
ages ended, the mice were nice and did not
tempt the birds into flights and attacks. The
exception to this was hunger which ruled the
loyalty of the rodent population. Any, of the
gathering, with reddish fur cast a shadow down
the stairway lit, as it always had been, from the
tremendous stellar flights that were lost, as
sparks above the dark chimney, the matter in
charge of all convection for a reasonable and
eternal distance into the mine.
Oct 29, 2013
Oct 29, 2013 at 5:30 PM UTC
The smell of oolong still speaks your name. In the tea and spice shop I drift among leaves and peppercorns, petals and sugar, I want to fade into the muted tones of flavorful hulls, curl into the scent of cinnamon and cardamom. Pulling down the iron goddess of mercy, I realize the veneer of curled baroque leaves rest on a sandbag. Shadowed abundance, a pretty lie, hollow, futile. Too much like us. The Cheshire glimmers of what we could have been. What I always wanted you to be, and what you sometimes were. A small edge, tiny supply to fill my cup, flavor fading too quickly. Replacing the jar, I realize there must have been a last day I named you mine. The last time I called you boyfriend, partner—by our last talk, it was already finished, the last note in a fading song, off tune. I cannot recall the shape of my lips, the weight of your name, the tenor of my voice, the bend of my tongue, much less the listener. I still hear you, through the broken measures of a desperate song. You say you still love me, but perhaps I never told you, dear, I prefer coffee to tea.
Sep 1, 2021
Sep 1, 2021 at 9:58 AM UTC
Blonde hair, blue eyes
Freckled map upon your face
The brightest smile anywhere
They can see it out in space
A goddess so untouchable
Do you even know?
The things you do
When you walk by
Be it fast, or be it slow
A wisp of hair
A tilted head
A neck so long and sleek
A t-shirt with a stretched v-neck
That gives us a slight peek
Hands so slim
So delicate
They would snap
Given the chance
I would give my life
to hold you
Perhaps to even dance
Open up your heart
See if there is room
For someone other than yourself
In that dark and lonely room
Mere mortal men
they pile up
As you just break their hearts
So open up that one of yours
And make room for cupid's dart
Golden hair, just perfect
A diary of your day
Filled out in swirly writing
little hearts along the way
The page is full of what you did
But, it doesn't tell the tales
Of the destructive path you carved among
The audience of males
The ones who do your bidding
Pay your way
Carry torches
The ones who want nothing more
Than to sit with you
on their front porches
Like Taylor Swift
you cut and run
Leaving damage in your wake
They all get hooked
Upon your act
Before it is too late
A siren without water
No rocks to crush their dreams
But, still you leave the burned out hulls
Of these young men in the streams
They fall for that cute smile
And the slightest hint you drop
That you may have room inside you
To let them in, but then you stop
Are you scared or just inhuman
Have you feelings for someone
Other than yourself I mean
Are you happy when you're done
You move on through the world you've made
An ice queen on her throne
Is it fun up in your tower
Are you truly happy all alone
Open up your heart
See if there is room
For someone other than yourself
In that dark and lonely room
Mere mortal men
they pile up
As you just break their hearts
So open up that one of yours
And make room for cupid's dart
Jan 1, 2013
Jan 1, 2013 at 6:50 PM UTC
"where the air was never extreme, which for rain had a little silver dew, which of itself and without labour, bore all pleasant fruits"
After a weary journey
Our faith revealed
The Shining Isle
Where the wounded king was healed
Land of the undying
Their ancient glittering eyes all seeing
All foes long gone
Fear and worry undone
Graceful,quiet, deep browed
Long fingered hands
Stars and jewels chiming in silvered hair
As they walk those quiet paths
Over the water suddenly calm
We saw that glow
A light shining from the highest tower
The bells tolling from far away
Then with regret
Which made our throats clench with swallowed tears
We turned our hulls away
Back to the shadowed mortal land
Where the armies of the night
Struggle in unending battle
Broken plains strewn with bodies
Where the grey faceless men hold weapons
Dark with power
We always knew
Deep Down
This is the place
Where we belong
Where we belong
Avalon
Sep 13, 2012
Sep 13, 2012 at 10:05 PM UTC
Stone cold, the blackening sky, stole our fields of flowers
They came like a silent flood over our continents
To block our sun and steal our humanity.
The ships were silent, and filled the skies.
Then down their marching hoards descended
Overwhelmed our puny technology, rendering us as apes.
Under their shadows our world went neolithic
They rendered all that was electrical or light to junk
We were left as scurrying ***** things among the soil.
Vastly reduced, our very memories were threatened
Forgetting how once we ruled our own planet
They plucked up our people like we once picked flowers.
When they came for me I was a child
The elders still telling me of the times I never knew
I had to learn their ways as I learned our own.
One day all our careful plans came together
And I sat hidden deep within their ship,
The thing so long pursued was found
Within that place, their robot brain
Where I could redefine their enemy as themselves
Then quick to a transport and back to my people.
Shortly then with a single bullet
We sparked their hostility sensors
The dark metal clouds burst soon with sun-like flame
We will never know the all that they knew,
Though we pick still among the mechanized ruins
And try to discover "from where" and "why."
More powerful than all our smartest elders
Covering the world with their dark mechanized oppression
But brought to an end by hands of a boy.
Many years now, since we brought them down
The hulking hulls worked now into barns and homes.
And once again we learn to talk across the oceans.
It wasn't long after the flames had ended
When in the fields the sun again warmed the soil
And fields of flowers there began to bloom.
Dec 3, 2013
Dec 3, 2013 at 1:58 PM UTC
Why do I hide behind these lies?
Is it the fear of losing solace?
And when I look up at these skies,
the rain keeps falling,
down the gutters,
my heart flutters,
my mouth stutters,
We both know hurricanes won't mix,
we tried all the tricks,
even looked for how each clock ticks,
after years and years,
tears and tears,
fighting fears,
peers will leer,
But my brain rains these thoughts,
wood from shipwrecked hulls will rot,
and I just sunk the whole lot,
after you just ran them across the rocks,
are they for naught?
did we ever have a shot,
or stand a chance.
even if the sands,
of time fill these wounds,
and we split to different lands,
try different goods, see different hoods,
new bads, new goods, I don't know if I should.
Surprise! This flood has no bad blood.
But the currents are strong as ever,
So cold they'll cause a fever,
but so hot she'll make you believe her.
These temps amp up intensity,
ripping the leaves from the trees...
cars from the roads,
tongues from the toads,
toads from the ponds,
ponds filled with more debris.
tears fill my mind, can't even see.
Storms so mad they can't even flee,
each-other.
Are they too intense to even bother?
Will they rip apart from the purest pressure?
Or combine for a superstorm of pleasure?
Even the bright sky could see that treasure,
And yes we felt light as feathers,
But when we are long together,
The people can feel the weight of such pain,
and we'll both continue to rain, such a shame.
And an obvious candles flames still burn,
causing me to toss and turn,
So from you, I wish to learn but only burn...
Sep 6, 2017
Sep 6, 2017 at 7:56 PM UTC
Us,
not
us in any common sense,
our skin pod hulls,
nursed by different rains,
pulled from divergent fields,
shucked under different moons,
no, not us
in any common sense,
but us
in a deeper vain,
not as in fruited seed,
chaste to the disappointments
of common ground,
chaste to the harness
of sun baked sweat,
no,
us as in
a deeper sense,
an us
that is rarely found,
but in poesy
we both profound.
Jan 7, 2011
Jan 7, 2011 at 10:24 PM UTC
Pale as the pumpkin seed hulls.
Salted covered with tears.
Blustered bloom enchanter.
Grinned, and abolished sins.
Accursed and haunted, those who pestered.
Engulfed in snowy splendour!
Nov 26, 2013
Nov 26, 2013 at 8:43 PM UTC
There is a story of the beach that's been told
Of shipwrecks and pirates and their ***** of gold
Of devils and angels and souls that were sold
For the location that's hiding the treasure so old
During the day, the beach is quite full
Of tourists and locals and such
But, when the sun's going down
The locals don't go there so much
Most nights in movies there's groups at the beach
Singing songs round a large burning fire
But, this beach is different, no one goes there
Cross my heart, you can call me a liar
Out at the end of the breakers and rocks
Is a graveyard of old pirate ship hulls
Divers have checked them and nothing was found
Now they're home to just crayfish and gulls
The story is told of the pirate....Muldoon
And the treasure buried round in these parts
It's protected by witchcraft and devilish lore
And is covered by ten pirates hearts
They say that Muldoon took down ships by the score
From Jamaica on up to Gaspe
But whatever he took, no one knows where he left
his treasure from then to this day
His ghost it is said, roams the dunes in the night
His wailing is heard near the sea
Folks don't stick around when the day is done
There's nary a soul there to see
Muldoon was a man with a penchant for gold
He made deals with the devil as well
Witches have said that the last deal he made
Let him take all his ***** to hell
Pirates and Ghosts and Witches and ships
These are tales that will play on your mind
But for all that he took, and through all the years past
Not one single dubloon will ye find
From cradle to grave the folks in these parts
Know the story of the Pirate Muldoon
The tree where he died still stands by the shore
Glowing bright when there is a blood moon
The word is that he, was hung from the tree
And Muldoon cursed the beach as he dropped
He said that his gold would never be found
Though the searching never has stopped
Fires go out, and the wind whips his cry
Is it Muldoon or just tricks of the air
It doesn't much matter, for no one will know
Because at night, there is nobody there
Muldoon walks the beach with his leg made of wood
Guarding treasure, of jewellery and gold
He will stay there forever, for it will not be found
This I say, being ever so bold
If you should find yourself down at the beach
And the sun starts to set in the west
You'd best make a move and get home where it's safe
Or meet Muldoon who is guarding his chest.
Apr 23, 2014
Apr 23, 2014 at 11:59 PM UTC
Jimmy Beans were strewn in the fields like fire crackers
out from the waxy hulls
sprouted miniscule Bizarrities
(which is a word because it was their names).
The Bizarrities were kind, they enjoyed playing pan flutes
and had a nifty knack of flipping silver coins so that they consistantly landed on heads.
They cried when picked in the Spring-a-ling,
but after a day or two adjusted to life outside the vines
and took up anthropology, or archaeology.
A few opened their own dental practice and picked the little green teeth of fellow Bizarrities.
One day, to-day,
a Honey Tree was swimming along when it came to a Bizarritie.
"Hello kind Bizarritie, won't you play a song for me?"
The green Bizarritie laughed in false glee and said
"My dear sweet Honey Tree, thou art positiv-ity
the reason why I left the ground
and moved to Bizarritie-town."
The Honey Tree, baffled and distraught, contemplated the feelings he thought.
It was on that day, bright and dreary, that the Honey Tree grew ever weary
of the merchants on streets and artists and skeets
and the reasons why
not all assumptions die.
May 22, 2012
May 22, 2012 at 9:08 PM UTC
Amid the sky of covered crimson plane
The stormy night begets its wonted reign
And down the sails of battered ships
The golden light of sol doeth set.
Far below the wooden hulls lies
O’ oceans crypt, unknown in depth.
Below the base of beaten ships and
Amid the anglers glow
The luminal aura of Isis shows.
Crystal Night, immaculate sight
Waxing strong her sultry form
Oh how bright her soothing light
A beckon of hope amid the perilous storm.
The captive witness cannot cease
Its ponderous delight of beauties scene.
Of the godless night, in waves
Of tumult and titanic might
Of hellish forces the setians reign.
The sacred goddess of Lucifer’s seed
Rests tall for all to see.
Jun 22, 2018
Jun 22, 2018 at 7:05 PM UTC
*The owl winged night is hanging low
in marshy fragrance moon's powdery glow
winds whisper day's sun tanned pain
what happened once can happen again!
The moon lights up the hidden hulls
some in view some within walls
there's no class in her beaming reach
by magic wand sleep the poor and rich!
On their thorny beds the aching souls
in feathery dew by glowing coals
their eyes moving in silvery gleam
fly on wings catch a passing dream!
It's time for the cloud to play mischief
darken the night usher in relief
to veil the moon when her job is done
so she no more hinders sleep's healing run!*
Dec 30, 2013
Dec 30, 2013 at 2:37 AM UTC