"knells" poems
I.
Hear the sledges with the bells—
Silver bells!
What a world of merriment their melody foretells!
How they ****** ****** ******
In their icy air of night!
While the stars, that oversprinkle
All the heavens, seem to twinkle
With a crystalline delight;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells
From the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells—
From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.
II.
Hear the mellow wedding bells,
Golden bells!
What a world of happiness their harmony foretells!
Through the balmy air of night
How they ring out their delight!
From the molten golden-notes,
And all in tune,
What a liquid ditty floats
To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats
On the moon!
Oh, from out the sounding cells,
What a gush of euphony voluminously wells!
How it swells!
How it dwells
On the future! how it tells
Of the rapture that impels
To the swinging and the ringing
Of the bells, bells, bells,
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells—
To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells!
III.
Hear the loud alarum bells—
Brazen bells!
What a tale of terror now their turbulency tells!
In the startled ear of night
How they scream out their affright!
Too much horrified to speak,
They can only shriek, shriek,
Out of tune,
In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire,
In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire
Leaping higher, higher, higher,
With a desperate desire,
And a resolute endeavor
Now—now to sit or never,
By the side of the pale-faced moon.
Oh, the bells, bells, bells!
What a tale their terror tells
Of Despair!
How they clang, and clash, and roar!
What a horror they outpour
On the ***** of the palpitating air!
Yet the ear it fully knows,
By the twanging,
And the clanging,
How the danger ebbs and flows;
Yet the ear distinctly tells,
In the jangling,
And the wrangling,
How the danger sinks and swells,
By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells—
Of the bells—
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells—
In the clamor and the clangor of the bells!
IV.
Hear the tolling of the bells—
Iron bells!
What a world of solemn thought their monody compels!
In the silence of the night,
How we shiver with affright
At the melancholy menace of their tone!
For every sound that floats
From the rust within their throats
Is a groan.
And the people—ah, the people—
They that dwell up in the steeple.
All alone,
And who toiling, toiling, toiling,
In that muffled monotone,
Feel a glory in so rolling
On the human heart a stone—
They are neither man nor woman—
They are neither brute nor human—
They are Ghouls:
And their king it is who tolls;
And he rolls, rolls, rolls,
Rolls
A paean from the bells!
And his merry ***** swells
With the paean of the bells!
And he dances, and he yells;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the paean of the bells—
Of the bells:
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the throbbing of the bells—
Of the bells, bells, bells—
To the sobbing of the bells;
Keeping time, time, time,
As he knells, knells, knells,
In a happy Runic rhyme,
To the rolling of the bells—
Of the bells, bells, bells—
To the tolling of the bells,
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells—
To the moaning and the groaning of the bells.
10.5k
In a midwinter night’s dream
i found myself lost again,
or was it even this year ?
It may even go back farther
than yesterdays out of reach,
older than an ancient pyramid stone
Before the rebirth of past life deposits,
unborn orphaned motherless sediment,
flotsam of the ages adrift,
unknown for more than a thousand years
... waiting for so long to see beyond the bounds
High atop a slippery edge-cliff
i clung ―
Searching for a deeper understanding
of who i am;
Roosting like a starving bird of prey
with a broken wing
born alone ... holding on
With a fear in his eyes
that only i could comprehend
Staring way down deep in the pith,
into an internal pitch black abyss,
just begging to see beyond ―
Mindful it's so hard looking
into the eye of a storm
Intimately parsing the recurrent source
of reigning pain
Where the perpetual fog of isolation dwells;
an inversion, preventing dispersion
of the nimbus cold and dark
In the darkness, there bides a suffocating
emptiness,
A swelling silence what loudly knells,
leeching through a perennial ache
An abating voice within hollers unheard,
invisible as a bitter cold wind howling
relentlessly through the hollow pang;
Echoing the subsiding say
(squeezed out) ... of an orphaned soul
deep beneath the light
Awakening to realize ― once i was alive
and
i could feel me holding on to you
//////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
Dec 30, 2017
Dec 30, 2017 at 7:11 PM UTC
When stretch'd on one's bed
With a fierce-throbbing head,
Which preculdes alike thought or repose,
How little one cares
For the grandest affairs
That may busy the world as it goes!
How little one feels
For the waltzes and reels
Of our Dance-loving friends at a Ball!
How slight one's concern
To conjecture or learn
What their flounces or hearts may befall.
How little one minds
If a company dines
On the best that the Season affords!
How short is one's muse
O'er the Sauces and Stews,
Or the Guests, be they Beggars or Lords.
How little the Bells,
Ring they Peels, toll they Knells,
Can attract our attention or Ears!
The Bride may be married,
The Corse may be carried
And touch nor our hopes nor our fears.
Our own ****** pains
Ev'ry faculty chains;
We can feel on no subject besides.
Tis in health and in ease
We the power must seize
For our friends and our souls to provide.
3.6k
Sun of autumn, thin and shy
And fruit drops off the trees,
Blue silence fills the peace
Of a tardy afternoon’s sky.
Death knells forged of metal,
And a white beast hits the mire.
Brown lasses uncouth choir
Dies in leaves’ drifting prattle.
Brow of God dreams of hues,
Senses madness’ gentle wings.
Round the hill wield in rings
Black decay and shaded views.
Rest and wine in sunset’s gleam,
Sad guitars drizzle into night,
And to the mellow lamp inside
You turn in as in a dream.
2.7k
Labor Day still three weekends away,
Why play gravedigger so prematurely?
Do not the long legged teen girls yet parade,
In halter tops and shortest of jeans cutoff?
Bare shoulders, tans, caramel cream, short and
tight,
The dresses and the contents, and your chest too,
right?
True, but the thermometer barely brushes 75,
That evening coolness, not yet a chill, now ever-present.
Soon the acorns in August will appear, but for sure,
I know that summer's end knells loud and clear,
Because tonight, the ladies wore pantyhose.
Aug 15, 2013
Aug 15, 2013 at 11:43 PM UTC
The briny tears have dried
The sounding knells are stilled
The grieving crowd, dispersed
The parting pain, allayed
Benumbed lie the dead
Beneath the marble vaults
Bereft of power and prowess
Benighted and beaten.
The sun shall never cast its glorious rays
The stars shall never their brilliance shed
The breeze never shall bring tidings new
The showers shall no more drench them through
A thoughtful friend sometimes seen around
A fervent prayer at times chanted aloud
A plaited wreath, rarely laid over
A trite rite, randomly carried out
There’s none left to mourn or weep
Nor anyone to sing, sigh or sob
Leaving the dead to rot in the closure of graves
To life’s alluring charms, the dear depart.
Cold as clay the dead lie so still
To be feasted on by maggots and the worms
Life with all its glory – defunct
Its fever and fret too – extinct.
How in vain we run after wealth
The power and position we deem so great
Shall come to naught within Time’s gloomy vault
Yet we run and yet we straggle behind.
In vain ends our travail for might
Inglorious is our quest after fame
Transient turn the riches, we garner
Short lived is their gleam and glitter.
Oh Lord! Lead us not into illusory charms
Deliver us of our avarice to hoard
For all that is born and made
‘Must consign to death and come to dust.’
Feb 6, 2017
Feb 6, 2017 at 6:29 AM UTC
*Lavender rose, thy petals broken,
So hap'ly crushed beneath careless feet.
Damask perfume breathes melody sweet
From thy bruised heart a weeping token.
Upon thoughts so drear my spirit dwells,
Shaken with guilt and hopeless despair;
Mourning to know harsh words and grim cares
Break cherished ones to death's angry knells.
No more able to shout defiance
Of their wild laughter or moods forlorn
When once from our grasp the rose be torn,
Instead of clamour - empty silence.*
~Hilda~
Nov 30, 2012
Nov 30, 2012 at 7:29 PM UTC
Water in the ocean deep
pulled up from darkened depths
to the surface, out of sleep
warmed by sunlight once again
In the air into a cloud,
by wind blown to the eastern shore
not the first time it's allowed
to take to flight and steady soar
Back to the earth to furnish life
and slake its thirst for this day's rain
life's a stream of consciousness
that westward flows to the ocean
Setting suns each twilight brings
echo death knells, thunder rings
Mar 19, 2014
Mar 19, 2014 at 12:49 AM UTC
Dear porcelain, would I were perfect as you art,
Not in dull translucence do you shine,
Gleaming brilliance cloaked yet unmarred,
Mirror mirror of conscious dreams of mine.
The distant chime, chime of deathly knells,
Of shattered pebbles down scented lunar peaks,
Of soft crystal frost into the veil they fell,
Let my masks abscond, leaving eyelids weak.
Such sweet ache plagues my nightly mares,
Loveless lone splendor beneath blacken skies,
Nap 'tween the orchards ripe with pears,
Awakenings torn asunder the happy lies.
Sail-less ketch off candle-lit cavern shores,
Colossal etched symbols of Hecate's spells,
Till desire and woe to oblivion they soar,
Will gladly blunder through all seven Hells.
Absent from day's eye are the auric beams,
Silent be the hymn from above, off-tune flutes,
In motion I stand in fear of reluctant dreams,
Wounded peregrine looking at the open blues.
Oct 10, 2010
Oct 10, 2010 at 3:01 PM UTC
While whispers shush on sheltered shores, as soon the cockcrow quakes,
the seas descry a skittish sky, sense summer zephyrs wake –
roused passions neath the sunrise pulse, the whitecaps throb and ache.
Along the crests crawl shallow shades the soaring sun effaces,
and rain in streams belies the dreams that fantasy embraces –
the ocean sprays of yesterdays conceal forsaken faces.
The midday sun has slowed its run, a shrinking puddle steams,
between the knells for shattered shells drift wounded seagulls’ screams –
affection blends but sometimes ends, or so it sadly seems.
At dusk a ruddy disk descends, the skyline's furnace burns
and neath the swells where Neptune dwells, an undercurrent churns –
a seahorse hides and seaweed bides until the tempest turns.
While twilight hosts the winds with ghosts of barbed electric spangles,
a mermaid braves the crashing waves adorned with starfish bangles –
the spirit yearns in twists and turns entwined in rockweed tangles.
As seven stranded ****** scan the dimple-dappled moon,
eleven sultry sirens serenade a lonely loon –
the breakers pound and sometimes sound a melancholy tune.
Soon gales ignite the briny night and rip the skies askew
with zigzag teeth flashed deep beneath a blazing bolt tattoo –
storms, spent, subside with ebbing tides, then all begins anew.While whispers shush on sheltered shores, as soon the cockcrow quakes,
the seas descry a skittish sky, sense summer zephyrs wake –
roused passions neath the sunrise pulse, the whitecaps throb and ache.
Along the crests crawl shallow shades the soaring sun effaces
and rains in streams enhance the dreams that fantasy embraces
while ocean sprays of yesterdays reveal forsaken faces.
The midday sun has slowed its run, a shrinking puddle steams,
between the knells of shattered shells drift soaring seagulls’ screams –
the beauty wends but never ends, or so it surely seems.
At dusk a ruddy disk descends, the skyline's furnace burns
and neath the swells where Neptune dwells, an undercurrent churns –
a seahorse hides and seaweed bides until the tempest turns.
While twilight hosts the winds with ghosts of barbed electric spangles,
a mermaid braves the crashing waves adorned with starfish bangles –
her spirit yearns in twists and turns entwined in rockweed tangles.
As seven stranded ****** scan the dimple-dappled moon,
a brace of surly Sirens serenade a lonely loon –
the breakers pound and sometimes sound a melancholy tune.
Soon gales ignite the briny night and rip the skies askew
with zigzag teeth flashed deep beneath a blazing bolt tattoo –
storms, spent, subside in ebbing tides, then all begins anew.
Feb 3, 2017
Feb 3, 2017 at 4:21 AM UTC
Dear is the old deserted church so dear
Grave is the old churchyard abandoned grave
Hear the wind whistles through the churchyard hear
Fade as a withered flower, sunset, fade
Dead are the people sleeping in graves dead
Cold is the ground where they're buried in cold
Tread please do not upon their gravestones tread
Bold is the pretty sunset fading bold
Sad is the church where monks used to go sad
Sadly the tombs are overgrown sadly
Clad in such ghostly white robes they were clad
Creepily the knells rung out creepily
Dear is that familiar churchyard so dear
Hear the knells ring through the ghostly wind hear
~Marian~
Sep 14, 2013
Sep 14, 2013 at 10:29 PM UTC
Begin with my skin,
White, hairy and thin;
But for my brothers,
I'm much like all others.
Dig deeper to bone,
Europe's our home.
Trowel down to my marrow
You'll uncover our Congo.
We travailed
Down our paths,
We share the same cells,
Have the same origins,
Hear the same knells.
The one difference lies in
My white, hairy, thin skin.
Apr 23, 2015
Apr 23, 2015 at 11:30 AM UTC
The sundial shadow falls on garden lawn
Stabbing my broken heart with renewed pain
Reminds me of dancing yesterdays gone;
Golden years never to return again.
O! to purchase one day forever past
And yet clutch in my shaken hands once more;
As sands in the hourglass refuse to last
So to our lives vain hopes can ne'er restore.
If we could foresee silent days to come
And only know our dearest loved one's fate,
How tenderly we'd cherish our sweet home
Before harsh knells proclaim the hour too late.
~Hilda~
Jan 19, 2013
Jan 19, 2013 at 9:34 PM UTC
Why art thou so sad, dear Daddy?
I makes me sad to see you this way, little laddie,
He writes about sad and gloom,
It makes me want to escape to my room.
It may not be so bad,
But still to see him writing about death makes me sad,
I write about light, sunshine, and sunrays;
While he writes about funreals, knells and lays.
Cheer up, dear Daddy,
There is still sunshine, little laddie,
There is sunshine for you;
Under skies of royal blue!
~Marian~
Nov 19, 2012
Nov 19, 2012 at 9:07 AM UTC
Brother moons chalky,
saturnine crescent
could barely penetrate
the giant’s
match-stick forest:
its burnished copper foliage
would remain latent,
for now.
This night antagonized
our souls,
darker when I stared into its
vacuous depths
than when glanced
from my minds periphery.
Pervasive,
it exploited the valleys repose.
Crystal.
Morning’s volition was heralded
with a transient
thaw.
December’s waking drafts
spoke ardently
of a daughter lost:
for centuries
a solitary bloom,
sustained by unseen conduits,
grew
upon the surface
of a fallow field.
Now it lay,
defiled by my hand.
Her blood-stained spray seeped
into the earths russet tunic.
Dawn’s sentries:
two soot black crows,
stalked a field’s beaded
hawthorn seam as a
church knells cadence
punctuated
the airs discourse from its holy precipice;
death, death, death
sonorous
on my ear.
©Thomas Gabriel
Dec 4, 2011
Dec 4, 2011 at 6:40 PM UTC