"inscribes" poems - Hello Poetry

1691 The overtakelessness of those Who have accomplished Death Majestic is to me beyond The majesties of Earth. The soul her “Not at Home” Inscribes upon the flesh— And takes her fair aerial gait Beyond the hope of touch.

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2.9k

Emily Dickinson

The overtakelessness of those

1691 The overtakelessness of those Who have accomplished Death Majestic is to me beyond The majesties of Earth. The soul her “Not at Home” Inscribes upon the flesh— And takes her fair aerial gait Beyond the hope of touch.

9

Where's the man whose love is big enough To catch a waterfall? Whose rain slicker is sturdy enough to let things roll Who isn't afraid to stare down a stream Or look a storm right in the eye? This man doesn't run; The water-bearer-- On his shoulders he lifts the weight of love. Do you know how many times I've seen A man turn and run away from me Instead of rushing to the sea? He trickles away from feeling; He dries up. No, the man I'm speaking of Is more than an oasis in a desert of difficulty; He is a full-on river Gaining speed As he rolls down the mountainside Carving canyons as he goes Defeating the foes That try to make us hide from our emotions --In fact, this man feels oceans And never turns back On his decisions Doesn't reconsider the love he's given or what he lacks Because when he lacks, he makes more. This is the secret of persistence That keeps the sea kissing the shore Because at times the tide gets pulled back by the force of the moon But this man keeps sovereignty over the moment, knowing that soon He will come crashing back onto her shore And she will be waiting. Yes, the earth would wait Solid as a rock for his return- Her faith unshakable, Though she is moved by his caresses. She remains ever the same, But she is molded, changed By his loving form. Made even more beautiful By his presence. Where is a man like this? I've yet to find One with such ardent purpose of mind As to sweep his lady love Off her feet, in a great flood Of kisses and hugs and promises fulfilled The man who has an immutable will And an unalterable course Who dissolves the rock And inscribes his love into the very earth Not just by strength or force, but perseverance And resolve for all he's worth.

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Apr 15, 2014

Apr 15, 2014 at 11:55 PM UTC

paige9

Aquarius

Where's the man whose love is big enough To catch a waterfall? Whose rain slicker is sturdy enough to let things roll Who isn't afraid to stare down a stream Or look a storm right in the eye? This man doesn't run; The water-bearer-- On his shoulders he lifts the weight of love. Do you know how many times I've seen A man turn and run away from me Instead of rushing to the sea? He trickles away from feeling; He dries up. No, the man I'm speaking of Is more than an oasis in a desert of difficulty; He is a full-on river Gaining speed As he rolls down the mountainside Carving canyons as he goes Defeating the foes That try to make us hide from our emotions --In fact, this man feels oceans And never turns back On his decisions Doesn't reconsider the love he's given or what he lacks Because when he lacks, he makes more. This is the secret of persistence That keeps the sea kissing the shore Because at times the tide gets pulled back by the force of the moon But this man keeps sovereignty over the moment, knowing that soon He will come crashing back onto her shore And she will be waiting. Yes, the earth would wait Solid as a rock for his return- Her faith unshakable, Though she is moved by his caresses. She remains ever the same, But she is molded, changed By his loving form. Made even more beautiful By his presence. Where is a man like this? I've yet to find One with such ardent purpose of mind As to sweep his lady love Off her feet, in a great flood Of kisses and hugs and promises fulfilled The man who has an immutable will And an unalterable course Who dissolves the rock And inscribes his love into the very earth Not just by strength or force, but perseverance And resolve for all he's worth.

58

Waves speak to the shore in rippled verse scattered shell strands of kelp in the sand each visitor inscribes a story *sandpiper, wigeon, crow raccoon, otter, coyote* I read each one as I write my own

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Jan 6, 2017

Jan 6, 2017 at 9:04 AM UTC

denel-kessler

Morning Stories

Waves speak to the shore in rippled verse scattered shell strands of kelp in the sand each visitor inscribes a story *sandpiper, wigeon, crow raccoon, otter, coyote* I read each one as I write my own

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a guy sits here hair a twist no ordinary man but a case whatever prefix fits he knows no limitations seeks no thrill but fear holds no memory dear brains grasp simply too frail such a broken outside and gargoyles pier however he tranquilizes them anytime someone comes near yet the people abstain still no shame, no cheer they simply cannot see what purity he has in his crypt intimidated severe so let us move forward and glaze over the thick move towards the misery which anguishes him nonsense is sensical, whimsy at best rational is of logic and dreary detest ********* and thumbing he frantically does his best pulls his hair out pulls his hair out closed fist punches chest "where is she where is her name i cannot confess for it escapes me... not because but rather-" due to his distress he stopped and sighed violence cried broke down then bled red from his eyes i want her the sad one shy hurt inside abused, accursed diseased but undisguised she'll love me she will there's nothing there to hide she'll make me forget myself sing or dance or romanticize "i want her... a baby's friend the neighbor's newborn daughter the baby friend that came over as an infant, i saw her i kept the same heart but its been through a lot and now its done with slaughter i kept the same heart its growing apart i need the neighbor's daughter" it seems as though convinced he truly had the heart of a newborn ambivalent knowing no complexity purely hurt or comfort either way's a shoulder diamond or dirt seemed to be bipolar so he seeks the same not the opposite that would be a shame because no one else can relate to someone who feels the world has turned its back on fate he seeks out this girl overlooking all the beasts in his way with evil colors they mask their face appear to appeal, they may but he knows better their defenses fragile they attract a plethora to which they expose like a sinister rose the black rock in frame the black rock so hard shapely carved to which its "blacksmith" inscribes no name a black heart he sighs which holds no light might as well not exist

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Dec 30, 2011

Dec 30, 2011 at 3:39 AM UTC

samir

Lapidary.

a guy sits here hair a twist no ordinary man but a case whatever prefix fits he knows no limitations seeks no thrill but fear holds no memory dear brains grasp simply too frail such a broken outside and gargoyles pier however he tranquilizes them anytime someone comes near yet the people abstain still no shame, no cheer they simply cannot see what purity he has in his crypt intimidated severe so let us move forward and glaze over the thick move towards the misery which anguishes him nonsense is sensical, whimsy at best rational is of logic and dreary detest ********* and thumbing he frantically does his best pulls his hair out pulls his hair out closed fist punches chest "where is she where is her name i cannot confess for it escapes me... not because but rather-" due to his distress he stopped and sighed violence cried broke down then bled red from his eyes i want her the sad one shy hurt inside abused, accursed diseased but undisguised she'll love me she will there's nothing there to hide she'll make me forget myself sing or dance or romanticize "i want her... a baby's friend the neighbor's newborn daughter the baby friend that came over as an infant, i saw her i kept the same heart but its been through a lot and now its done with slaughter i kept the same heart its growing apart i need the neighbor's daughter" it seems as though convinced he truly had the heart of a newborn ambivalent knowing no complexity purely hurt or comfort either way's a shoulder diamond or dirt seemed to be bipolar so he seeks the same not the opposite that would be a shame because no one else can relate to someone who feels the world has turned its back on fate he seeks out this girl overlooking all the beasts in his way with evil colors they mask their face appear to appeal, they may but he knows better their defenses fragile they attract a plethora to which they expose like a sinister rose the black rock in frame the black rock so hard shapely carved to which its "blacksmith" inscribes no name a black heart he sighs which holds no light might as well not exist

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1023 It rises—passes—on our South Inscribes a simple Noon— Cajoles a Moment with the Spires And infinite is gone—

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1.7k

Emily Dickinson

It rises—passes—on our South

1023 It rises—passes—on our South Inscribes a simple Noon— Cajoles a Moment with the Spires And infinite is gone—

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The Muslim woman is perhaps the most enticing female on the planet with her hijab (head covering) her burqa (outer garment enveloping most of her body) her niqa (total veil) Such strict apparel floods our mind with curiosity and fantasies about what is so hidden Hence the covered Muslim woman is a reenactment of every woman's beauty, power and numinosity a veiled vision that inscribes itself across our mind and inescapably through our libido

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Mar 11, 2017

Mar 11, 2017 at 4:49 PM UTC

ronald-jones

One Man's Point of View on Muslim Women

The Muslim woman is perhaps the most enticing female on the planet with her hijab (head covering) her burqa (outer garment enveloping most of her body) her niqa (total veil) Such strict apparel floods our mind with curiosity and fantasies about what is so hidden Hence the covered Muslim woman is a reenactment of every woman's beauty, power and numinosity a veiled vision that inscribes itself across our mind and inescapably through our libido

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When an heart inflated by true love gets deflated by denials When opportunities seem absent for dreams And nursed love finds no bed to root down Failure inscribes its signet on wandering hopes Highflying balloons of love brought low by a puncture of "no" It scares the mind and drills scars in the heart. But new hopes keeps you going Some nos are better than yes after all

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Oct 26, 2015

Oct 26, 2015 at 8:16 PM UTC

SELORM

PIERCED HEART

When an heart inflated by true love gets deflated by denials When opportunities seem absent for dreams And nursed love finds no bed to root down Failure inscribes its signet on wandering hopes Highflying balloons of love brought low by a puncture of "no" It scares the mind and drills scars in the heart. But new hopes keeps you going Some nos are better than yes after all

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Regrets, I’ve had a few A crude red rose An unwanted tattoo Blood and ink, inscribes my flesh Permanent art A reminder of pain

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Mar 13, 2023

Mar 13, 2023 at 9:26 AM UTC

sen-2

Tattoo

Regrets, I’ve had a few A crude red rose An unwanted tattoo Blood and ink, inscribes my flesh Permanent art A reminder of pain

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Orange in spring, pinkish-brown, yellow into deep green through summer, and finally to crimson in autumn when they fall, these leaves of the acer griseum, the Chinese paperbark maple. On the tree its leaves are opposite, not alternate, two leafstalks arising from the same point on the twig. This is how it must be, she thought. She had waited for the first frost and, gathered in a fold of her cloak, let seven leaves fall to scatter on her desk. One leaf holds her gaze; her fingers touch, and turning it over she places it ready in the hand’s left palm, Picking up her finest brush, with sad and slight but heavy emphasis required, she inscribes the subtle downward strokes of the kanji characters for crimson - makka, the blood’s red, the true essence of life. *crimson leaves fallen now scattered one is chosen. my heart longs for love* So to the garden stream she goes, and kneeling beside its moving water launches this leaf from her cupped hand.

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Mar 23, 2014

Mar 23, 2014 at 8:24 AM UTC

nigel-morgan

The Language of Leaves 3:5

Orange in spring, pinkish-brown, yellow into deep green through summer, and finally to crimson in autumn when they fall, these leaves of the acer griseum, the Chinese paperbark maple. On the tree its leaves are opposite, not alternate, two leafstalks arising from the same point on the twig. This is how it must be, she thought. She had waited for the first frost and, gathered in a fold of her cloak, let seven leaves fall to scatter on her desk. One leaf holds her gaze; her fingers touch, and turning it over she places it ready in the hand’s left palm, Picking up her finest brush, with sad and slight but heavy emphasis required, she inscribes the subtle downward strokes of the kanji characters for crimson - makka, the blood’s red, the true essence of life. *crimson leaves fallen now scattered one is chosen. my heart longs for love* So to the garden stream she goes, and kneeling beside its moving water launches this leaf from her cupped hand.

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Swat the butterflies whose wings Decieve the poem and inscribes Its colored brilliance on gilded flights; There is no grace to his clunky Flying and brings repetitive hooplah To the natural poem and steals Its personable voice. Every language has a flow of poetry Whose inner soul derives of the Course of one's harmony and rhythm, And using a star of butterflies in every Poem brings about the very sameness We all suffer from daily. See the beauty in a vulture Whose glide is magnificent Spreading his wings in silent Flight above rolling hills. His beauty is not that of the Butterfly, but it's flight is undeniably Graceful and finding its natural Poetic flow is deeper still.

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Jan 9, 2016

Jan 9, 2016 at 11:42 AM UTC

dedpoet

Swat The Butterflies

Swat the butterflies whose wings Decieve the poem and inscribes Its colored brilliance on gilded flights; There is no grace to his clunky Flying and brings repetitive hooplah To the natural poem and steals Its personable voice. Every language has a flow of poetry Whose inner soul derives of the Course of one's harmony and rhythm, And using a star of butterflies in every Poem brings about the very sameness We all suffer from daily. See the beauty in a vulture Whose glide is magnificent Spreading his wings in silent Flight above rolling hills. His beauty is not that of the Butterfly, but it's flight is undeniably Graceful and finding its natural Poetic flow is deeper still.

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Oh Word, whose language can be lily or rose, rain, dewy cloud, scaly fish or feathered bird, whose music trumpets in morning and plays out night, orchestrates stars, speaks thunder and sunshine. Word, who composes lion, dolphin or lively stoat, inscribes wisdom in insect, gorilla and mountain goat, writes perfect signatures in each atomic thing, whose silent symphony mystifies with symmetry. Word, praise to thee who sang Self into humanity for looking we find in thy grammar superb diversity.

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Feb 3, 2017

Feb 3, 2017 at 6:43 AM UTC

fay-slimm

Oh Word.

Oh Word, whose language can be lily or rose, rain, dewy cloud, scaly fish or feathered bird, whose music trumpets in morning and plays out night, orchestrates stars, speaks thunder and sunshine. Word, who composes lion, dolphin or lively stoat, inscribes wisdom in insect, gorilla and mountain goat, writes perfect signatures in each atomic thing, whose silent symphony mystifies with symmetry. Word, praise to thee who sang Self into humanity for looking we find in thy grammar superb diversity.

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A bard always inscribes... A verse or two of innate sentiments, that convey substantive expressions. Like an ode that tells a story of love, or a melancholic sonnet about solitude. Quite an elegy of suspense depicting courage, better yet a limerick of an adventurous quest. And best couplet enthusing excitements of an epic account of human endeavors narrate explicit poetic phrases.

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Oct 24, 2014

Oct 24, 2014 at 12:33 AM UTC

marvin-m-brato

What Is A Poet

A bard always inscribes... A verse or two of innate sentiments, that convey substantive expressions. Like an ode that tells a story of love, or a melancholic sonnet about solitude. Quite an elegy of suspense depicting courage, better yet a limerick of an adventurous quest. And best couplet enthusing excitements of an epic account of human endeavors narrate explicit poetic phrases.

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If you fall in love with this poet, (and she with you), Remember, she will not tell you of the words she ascribed to your name unless you ask to hear them. (She likes her thoughts kept secret) If you fall in love with this poet (and she with you) Remember, she is not as solitary as she looks and she will let you hold her till your arms ache. (She’ll do the same with you) If you fall in love with this poet (and she with you) Remember her heart is paper, and on it she inscribes in blood the words her soul could no longer hold. (Your name will always be written there) If you fall in love with this poet (and she with you) Remember the things that made her smile, she’s serious, but needs a break from the things that go on behind her eyes, within her soul. (They’re darker than you think) Most importantly, If you fall in love with this poet (and she with you) Remember, you will never die. Her words will last longer than she does. (and as long as her heart beats, you are in it.)

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Jan 6, 2014

Jan 6, 2014 at 6:48 PM UTC

elaenor-aisling

If you fall in love with this poet

If you fall in love with this poet, (and she with you), Remember, she will not tell you of the words she ascribed to your name unless you ask to hear them. (She likes her thoughts kept secret) If you fall in love with this poet (and she with you) Remember, she is not as solitary as she looks and she will let you hold her till your arms ache. (She’ll do the same with you) If you fall in love with this poet (and she with you) Remember her heart is paper, and on it she inscribes in blood the words her soul could no longer hold. (Your name will always be written there) If you fall in love with this poet (and she with you) Remember the things that made her smile, she’s serious, but needs a break from the things that go on behind her eyes, within her soul. (They’re darker than you think) Most importantly, If you fall in love with this poet (and she with you) Remember, you will never die. Her words will last longer than she does. (and as long as her heart beats, you are in it.)

22

A rhymester inscribes his notions in rhyme, A versifier writes poetry in metered verses. Another one does a free verse to write at will, As a poet I do my own style which maybe bad. A poet for me is someone who does an art; He does rhyme, metered verse or free style. His subject can be any matter under the sun, It may portray about romance, myth or reality. A poem I believe does not have to be literal, It may state something superfluous or specious. But if delve closely may meant a thing of logic. And will instill a better understanding about life. Nobody really is a bad poet except me, Even commits mistake to write for poets. For expressing my own opinions about them, Is merely a token of myself as poet who shares.

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Jan 13, 2016

Jan 13, 2016 at 3:51 AM UTC

marvin-m-brato

Bad Poet, Am I?

A rhymester inscribes his notions in rhyme, A versifier writes poetry in metered verses. Another one does a free verse to write at will, As a poet I do my own style which maybe bad. A poet for me is someone who does an art; He does rhyme, metered verse or free style. His subject can be any matter under the sun, It may portray about romance, myth or reality. A poem I believe does not have to be literal, It may state something superfluous or specious. But if delve closely may meant a thing of logic. And will instill a better understanding about life. Nobody really is a bad poet except me, Even commits mistake to write for poets. For expressing my own opinions about them, Is merely a token of myself as poet who shares.

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1 On that night, pierced by the sound of rain, Everything is possible... When one is washed in cognac, Drenched in sorrow, Haunted by the unknown... And when one refuses to remain a stone. So why— Do you consult the coffee cups? Why— Do you ask the endless questions? And why— Did you come to the sea, If you fear the journey? 2 Between October and October, Like the warm sugar flowing from the heart of fruit... Leave your fate to God, and sleep. For your ******* come into this world by destiny, And by destiny, they fade away... 3 Love will come in its time... So wear your Egyptian caftan. I now recall the cotton fields of the Delta... Sit wherever you like, For the piano concerto Will erase time, Erase you, Erase me, And erase the burdens we have carried since birth. Love will come in its time... And passion will come in its time... For the piano concerto Washes all things in camphor and oil, Melts the ice off the faces of lakes, Summons strange butterflies, And brings forth fields anew. So let things be natural... effortless... For the piano concerto Finds its own solutions. Love will come in its time... And the piano... Will call us into its watery chamber, And I do not know what it will say... 4 Everything is possible... On that night, pierced by the sound of rain. Tchaikovsky— Now passes like a bird through Petersburg’s squares, Slipping like a green dream from Montparnasse, Drifting through the memory of roses, Gathering the yellow leaves of Europe's forests, Praying in Hagia Sophia, Weeping in the sacred halls of Najaf, Between mirrors and golden domes... 5 Everything is possible... On that night, pierced by the sound of rain. So wear your Kurdish caftan... I do not know why— But I recall Mosul in spring, The water reeds swaying in the marshes, The orchards of Al-Rasafa, And the writings God inscribes In roses and gold, Upon the palm fronds of Shatt Al-Arab At sunset... 6 Good morning, jasmine... are you well? The piano concerto Lit the fire for us... then vanished. Now, I recall the orchards of Al-Rasafa, The shanashil that line the banks of Al-A’zamiyah, And the writings God inscribes In roses and gold, Upon the palm fronds of Shatt Al-Arab At sunset... 7 Good morning, jasmine... are you well? The piano concerto Lit the fire for us... then vanished.

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Mar 8, 2025

Mar 8, 2025 at 12:08 AM UTC

Jesse

Concerto for Piano

1 On that night, pierced by the sound of rain, Everything is possible... When one is washed in cognac, Drenched in sorrow, Haunted by the unknown... And when one refuses to remain a stone. So why— Do you consult the coffee cups? Why— Do you ask the endless questions? And why— Did you come to the sea, If you fear the journey? 2 Between October and October, Like the warm sugar flowing from the heart of fruit... Leave your fate to God, and sleep. For your ******* come into this world by destiny, And by destiny, they fade away... 3 Love will come in its time... So wear your Egyptian caftan. I now recall the cotton fields of the Delta... Sit wherever you like, For the piano concerto Will erase time, Erase you, Erase me, And erase the burdens we have carried since birth. Love will come in its time... And passion will come in its time... For the piano concerto Washes all things in camphor and oil, Melts the ice off the faces of lakes, Summons strange butterflies, And brings forth fields anew. So let things be natural... effortless... For the piano concerto Finds its own solutions. Love will come in its time... And the piano... Will call us into its watery chamber, And I do not know what it will say... 4 Everything is possible... On that night, pierced by the sound of rain. Tchaikovsky— Now passes like a bird through Petersburg’s squares, Slipping like a green dream from Montparnasse, Drifting through the memory of roses, Gathering the yellow leaves of Europe's forests, Praying in Hagia Sophia, Weeping in the sacred halls of Najaf, Between mirrors and golden domes... 5 Everything is possible... On that night, pierced by the sound of rain. So wear your Kurdish caftan... I do not know why— But I recall Mosul in spring, The water reeds swaying in the marshes, The orchards of Al-Rasafa, And the writings God inscribes In roses and gold, Upon the palm fronds of Shatt Al-Arab At sunset... 6 Good morning, jasmine... are you well? The piano concerto Lit the fire for us... then vanished. Now, I recall the orchards of Al-Rasafa, The shanashil that line the banks of Al-A’zamiyah, And the writings God inscribes In roses and gold, Upon the palm fronds of Shatt Al-Arab At sunset... 7 Good morning, jasmine... are you well? The piano concerto Lit the fire for us... then vanished.

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I’ve ingested the bigot — imbibed his words in each step that falters, felt the cruel weight of lies in every doubt and deprecation, muted judgement of the system that I might prejudge myself in ****** images he inscribes. This fight will go down into the dark caverns of unreason until the morning of unknowing shall expel the burrowing villain that cannot live without destroying his only host.

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Dec 26, 2019

Dec 26, 2019 at 11:52 AM UTC

chipb

faith and treason

I’ve ingested the bigot — imbibed his words in each step that falters, felt the cruel weight of lies in every doubt and deprecation, muted judgement of the system that I might prejudge myself in ****** images he inscribes. This fight will go down into the dark caverns of unreason until the morning of unknowing shall expel the burrowing villain that cannot live without destroying his only host.

13