"knelling" poems
I sat all morning in the college sick bay
Counting bells knelling classes to a close.
At two o'clock our neighbors drove me home.
In the porch I met my father crying--
He had always taken funerals in his stride--
And Big Jim Evans saying it was a hard blow.
The baby cooed and laughed and rocked the pram
When I came in, and I was embarrassed
By old men standing up to shake my hand
And tell me they were "sorry for my trouble,"
Whispers informed strangers I was the eldest,
Away at school, as my mother held my hand
In hers and coughed out angry tearless sighs.
At ten o'clock the ambulance arrived
With the corpse, stanched and bandaged by the nurses.
Next morning I went up into the room. Snowdrops
And candles soothed the bedside; I saw him
For the first time in six weeks. Paler now,
Wearing a poppy bruise on his left temple,
He lay in the four foot box as in his cot.
No gaudy scars, the bumper knocked him clear.
A four foot box, a foot for every year.
12k
~weary weighted~
flummoxed are the sea watchers;
the long rhythms of sea change reveal only minor modesties,
difficult discerned are the tidal subtleties
though repetitive thrashing extracts it toll,
only the weary-weighted see the true meaning of the beating,
knowing full well,
it beats for them
recalling their early day’d fascination with its endless chaining,
now knowing all are similar
detained-chained,
and the ******* churning but a cover up masque,
they need not longer conceal,
an unrevealed confess:
water is heavy-weighted, you cannot forever float,
constancy is of a thing to be wary,
its sadder longevity,
a chipping away erosion of wearing,
*‘tis is the knelling noise of sad respite,
an unlight lighthouse*
~for Victoria, a year later~
Jul 29, 2018
Jul 29, 2018 at 3:21 PM UTC
gentle rolling tones
with a knelling as of
old Westerns in ominous times.
when a hero rode up,
hat half-cocked,
ready for his life to be taken.
but we know that won't happen.
he'd slide off his horse
pistol readied at his waste
and holler,
Come on o'er 'ere now son.
then gunfire.
(the Villain always shoots first)
and life is taken and
happiness returns.
the mines are no longer dry.
the cattle are no longer starved.
and the blood feeds the Earth.
- - abrupt ending.
Nov 20, 2012
Nov 20, 2012 at 5:41 PM UTC
SleEp)?
you,'re are an pale sweeping pliant loosely club
bashing softness
upon my cobbled unsplendid
ink
and smashing
viscously the poppies
stubborn lungs
dusted
imperfectly
arrogance
a you lovely supple fire
the opened closeness
of cotton treasure
fluttering
existential
motes
and the you
smell like razors cluttering
silverly
the knelling
harbor
of
my
soft hardness
and
you are a majesty .wholly
unalone
Oct 19, 2010
Oct 19, 2010 at 10:02 AM UTC
The thing is a heart devoured mine but left
An integral piece clinging on by strings of
Stomach acid and stationary organs
Knelling inside there are several swallowed fragments
Of who's I am unaware
But I'm congested he said
Overflowing from the inside out with dismembered hearts
My incessant overindulgence caused fury among many
But yours Forever preserved
Jan 31, 2015
Jan 31, 2015 at 6:38 AM UTC
“Pages of my life sealed inside a book
like bookends at a fairground
holding steady until the rider mounts;
Still unwritten not yet ready to wear,
this garmented padded book of tales
isn't finished yet”
~~~
from
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/4871833/sewn-to-the-pages-of-my-life/
by
Vienna's Bombardieri
~~~~~
it is not a total rarity,
but not an impossiblty,
that one of yours
scripts feels
that it has been ripped
from mine eyes,
necessitating a gasping grasping of me as
if her Vienna words,
like stout hands,
squeeze my already
constricted throat to close in entirety
near ceasing my breathing
<>
for the writing comes easy,
add a page daily, sewing neat stitches,
smooth connecting linear designs
but the book
never finishes, and Wonder
if this unending is
a knelling death mark of Cain,
that my mythology resonates,
boasts of no resolution
this possibility previous unconsidered
now seen as a likely vision
and do not comprehend how to
feel
becoming
a page in a book,
to attic directed,
boxed for the
eventuality of removal by the
1-800-GOT-JUNK
a very busy institution
and put my shriveled fingertips down
in contemplation of
my erasure
Sep 18, 2024
Sep 18, 2024 at 12:38 PM UTC
The admiration lark is falling, the unasked skirt is crawling,
The writhes are swelling, the self-haunting is knelling
The unapparent showers are thrown, and the interventions each stiffened
Let your duskier perils play:
And make her polluted insufferable with tear on tear.
Jan 30, 2019
Jan 30, 2019 at 3:16 PM UTC