"laboring" poems
The quarrel of the sparrows in the eaves,
The full round moon and the star-laden sky,
And the loud song of the ever-singing leaves,
Had hid away earth's old and weary cry.
And then you came with those red mournful lips,
And with you came the whole of the world's tears,
And all the trouble of her laboring ships,
And all the trouble of her myriad years.
And now the sparrows warring in the eaves,
The curd-pale moon, the white stars in the sky,
And the loud chaunting of the unquiet leaves,
Are shaken with earth's old and weary cry.
28.7k
IS THERE A y.o.u!
Confidently waiting
Confidently hiding. comfortably chilling..
waiting On Nothing but Y.U.O to come along..
I'm relaxing in a tub filled with caressing roses.
Pampering..
Me soothingly preparing me!..
Enjoying me and this time getting to enjoy this new me and
who I've come to be.
Working with dedication, personally I'm sure your relating.
As your working On you too. And laboring hard day after day.
I'm not wasting this time till we are found.
Love waiting to unfold.
Its wanting to be released and be yours to keep and hold..
I'm here and sometimes I do feel that lonely.
Knowing your not holding..Me!
Yet I am enjoying this new Me!
I'm confidently enjoying.
I have my family and my friends and them I'm enjoying.
But can't wait to laugh and smile and be loved by Y.O.U.
Wondering thinking of what would it be like to touch on Y.O.U.
You..You.. You.. Feel the touch of you..
In my heart sometimes I have conversation with Y.O.U.
Thinking what If I never be found by you.
Then I'll be content to live imaginatively with you.
My perfected Y.O.U. Soul mate in you..Perfect for me kinda you.
Blessed to be tapping my fingers musically because of you.
Desiring.. confidently praying.. silently hoping there is this Y.O.U!
By SelinaSharday S.A.M. TM 2018
Feb 12, 2018
Feb 12, 2018 at 9:51 AM UTC
You endure the pain of laboring words from your insides
Like giving birth to a new life
Bare your whole soul and let them bleed into a piece of paper
And this process repeats over and over and over
But then your precious child was stolen
You're slowly eaten by anger, your teeth gritted
You're reminded of the emotions you put into creating that child, including the pain
You want to vent the anger, your hands shaking
But you cannot do anything but to punch in the wind
Though your patience is weighing thin
You felt molested, violated
You're just hoping they wouldn't forget about the rule that is golden
May 20, 2015
May 20, 2015 at 4:15 AM UTC
Living on borrowed time
Decision at drop of a hat
Down an empty vandalized street, I walk
through the horror of silence
and silence of serenity
perdurable pathway of life
The ghastly sights
and the rustling gates
scattered people with unknown tastes
emptiness in their eyes, anger in their words
void is profound
down the perdurable pathway of life
Bifurcated roads upfront
my perception, one to hell and one to heaven
the other end of roads, a mystery
I stood there comprehending, while
my mind harks back to before I came
down the perdurable pathway of life
Endurance of a toiler
Stoicism, a rare trait, out of gratitude to employer
pain and suffering he undergoes for common good
loyalty to his master, inspire of hardships
sincerity and humbleness of the bloke
will inspire me, down the perdurable pathway of life
Deprived of education
desolated on streets laboring
disparate from parental love, subject to father's fury
fractious relations but still ignores himself, for family and domicile
The kid's love and determination, will inspire me
down the perdurable pathway of life
Spurn love took her down
Her heart wrenched and pushed her beyond limits
killed herself, leaving her parents to sore reality
not a wise choice, but courageous
I ponder upon courage, rather than cowardly suicide
Death is not an option down the perdurable pathway of life
Happy faces around taunt me to do simplest
Reality speaks otherwise
Reckoning on past, the pathway is wrought
conscious and hard choices right ahead
The bifurcated roads to heaven and hell?
I've seen it all, down the perdurable pathway of life
Aug 2, 2012
Aug 2, 2012 at 4:52 AM UTC
i.
the Hibiscus is the paradisiacal
armistice of quagmire and wind:
leave it there anchored to Earth.
ii
when it rains, it bows to no one;
when it genuflects to no bird,
it trills on the red of the moseying hour—
nobody sees the Hibiscus.
only the children of the vandal.
iii.
last summer we had makeshift
bubble machines and in the high-rise
of the twilight's cradle, we ran
viciously against the humdrum town
blowing bushels of laughter at
the dreary populace — the brooms
to a sweeping rustle, unsettled dust
mounting the ether.
we hurtled across the
infantile roads like they owed us something finitely attributed
to our locomotives.
iv.
the Semana Santa had gone by
and the season, no matter how promisingly redolent with emollient brush
of wind and laboring silence, held
no reprise — the Hibiscus,
it is not alone in the quiet verdigris.
v.
somewhere amid the hubbub of city,
there is a pendulum of line biting
the shore of waiting repeatedly.
only steel scaffolds erected and no
flagrant scent aroused. peregrinating
in the haloed hour, the nascent furl of
belch from vociferous iron-clad beasts
in all of EDSA
and when i look at people around me
they look like gumamelas, finally,
yet i am
not coming home.
Nov 4, 2015
Nov 4, 2015 at 3:15 AM UTC
A calendar knows little of a day,
Of any day; its arbitrary squares
Mark seasons as they amble on their way
From holy Advent ‘til the harvest fairs
When summer’s crops, all red and gold and blue
Along with piglets, ducks, some well-fed hens
Are carted squeaking, squealing, creaking to
Saint Michael’s fields in the Anglian fens
Old Father William lifts a pint (no less!)
With farmers selling cows and chicks and corn
For he is merry too, and quick to bless
The laboring marsh-folk on this autumn morn
Earth, sky, and air mark seasons as they fall,
And soon comes Martinmas, joyfully, for all
Sep 22, 2018
Sep 22, 2018 at 2:20 PM UTC
*My thanks to the store clerk working the midnight shift
God bless the dishwashers at local restaurants laboring for minuscule pay
To the forklift operators moving freight for hours on end ,
to cleaning crews preparing offices for another day
For the plumber protecting health in the wee hours of
the morn
For sanitation workers hard at work well before dawn*
Apr 24, 2016
Apr 24, 2016 at 10:37 PM UTC
Stitched into this sac of skin at birth.
That fused to your bones
Fabricating a narcotic seamless facade
We pluck at the seams, with crude claws.
Laboring to unravel the lace seams
In vain
Whirling, flickering, suffocating nausea aimed at
Misuse of our pronouns of
Our echoing repulsive abnormal figure.
Funding a doctor to shed our skin.
Mutilating skin and bone to perfection.
For self-acceptance.
Sep 17, 2018
Sep 17, 2018 at 6:58 PM UTC
I once read a post that said
something along the lines of
“I do not trust people
who tell me ‘I love you’
and yet do not love themselves.”
And that hurt my heart, it really did.
Who are you to invalidate my love?
Do you not know
of the sleepless nights I have spent,
laboring over my sins of the day?
Knowing that sometimes
I may never repent?
With past regrets
and paranoid overthinking,
how do I rest?
Do you not know
of how I avoid looking in mirrors
throughout the day,
or how I hate looking
at myself in the shower?
Don't you know how
conflicted I feel when lying
naked and vulnerable with my lover?
Do you not know
what it feels like to apologize
for who you are?
Or to have all of
your efforts and ethics
invalidated and dismissed?
If you do not trust me then so be it,
but do not reject the idea that I can love.
I know what it means to have
neither hope nor acceptance,
I know what it means
to regret my existence.
I know what it feels like
at 4am with all the lights out
with the absolute conviction
that I am entirely worthless.
I know **** well
what it feels like to be unloved.
Does that not make my love
mean that much more?
Sep 5, 2015
Sep 5, 2015 at 1:57 AM UTC
Love me some more
pour your heart and i’ll pour in mine
you live near an airport
and i hear the low laboring growl
of some jets casting shadows over our heads
in bed with you in the afternoon
smearing the pink sunset
our low hanging blood keeping us
sleepy seedy and awaiting the frosty night
to come again
love me some more
let the gusts do their dance through
the windows
and let the towers of today fall
Apr 3, 2018
Apr 3, 2018 at 12:11 AM UTC
1733
No man saw awe, nor to his house
Admitted he a man
Though by his awful residence
Has human nature been.
Not deeming of his dread abode
Till laboring to flee
A grasp on comprehension laid
Detained vitality.
Returning is a different route
The Spirit could not show
For breathing is the only work
To be enacted now.
“Am not consumed,” old Moses wrote,
“Yet saw him face to face”—
That very physiognomy
I am convinced was this.
2.5k
Alight me Paddies! Today the world is Green;
I am in a mood, alas, to gnaw crubeen,
To kiss my Irish lass, and cuddle her awhile,
To hear the Irish Rovers sing their bonny Isle,
To wear a shamrock, laboring o'er a stout:
Murphy or Guinness, to me it matters naught.
Mar 17, 2015
Mar 17, 2015 at 5:50 PM UTC
See, as the carver carves a rose,
A wing, a toad, a serpent's eye,
In cruel granite, to disclose
The soft things that in hardness lie,
So this one, taking up his heart,
Which time and change had made a stone,
Carved out of it with dolorous art,
Laboring yearlong and alone,
The thing there hidden-rose, toad, wing?
A frog's hand on a lily pad?
Bees in a cobweb?-no such thing!
A girl's head was the thing he had,
Small, shapely, richly crowned with hair,
Drowsy, with eyes half closed, as they
Looked through you and beyond you, clear
To something farther than Cathay:
Saw you, yet counted you not worth
The seeing, thinking all the while
How, flower-like, beauty comes to birth;
And thinking this, began to smile.
Medusa! For she could not see
The world she turned to stone and ash.
Only herself she saw, a tree
That flowered beneath a lightning-flash.
Thus dreamed her face-a lovely thing
To worship, weep for, or to break . . .
Better to carve a claw, a wing,
Or, if the heart provide, a snake.
2.1k
Edgar Allen settled evenings in the room at the rear
at a desk by the window where he could hear
breeze-rustled sycamore leaves sleeping
behind the neighbor’s house next door
through night’s florescent blue moon light,
its mist through low leaden clouds
he imagined the phantom he named Lenore,
and remembered lost Annabelle Lee
amore he'd left laid alone aside a blackened sea
hers, the voice of a tree speaking, hushed,
like distant waves rushed upon shore,
faintly whispering heart-secrets
the ardent couldn’t keep evermore
was it she who sighed with love’s breathless lips
to flicker the flame of a tortured oil lamp’s light
the words born laboring children
with pen put in service to cover past rent,
refill an empty flask of verdant absinthe
for a nine-dollar-half-column poem -
fodder for fickle romantics to tear over
before a performance of Bellini’s new Norma
hardened, our modern hearts
fattened on diets of swollen bellies
that belie the dour misery of starving
they’ve grown sclerotic and cynical,
hungry for suffering flavored substantial -
a greasy disaster to stain the paper wrapper
enclosing depths of the human condition
sophisticates, we dismissed puerile appetite
for honeyed songs of longing,
the ornamented confections of jealous angels
old drunken poets sang
until dark full comes, alone, and we’re small again
then shadows still speak to starry skies
and fairy tales may come alive
to suspend belief with secret dreams
of the dear, lost Annabelle Lee
Mar 13, 2011
Mar 13, 2011 at 12:59 PM UTC
They call me and I go.
It is a frozen road
past midnight, a dust
of snow caught
in the rigid wheeltracks.
The door opens.
I smile, enter and
shake off the cold.
Here is a great woman
on her side in the bed.
She is sick,
perhaps vomiting,
perhaps laboring
to give birth to
a tenth child. Joy! Joy!
Night is a room
darkened for lovers,
through the jalousies the sun
has sent one golden needle!
I pick the hair from her eyes
and watch her misery
with compassion.
1.8k
Go, my friend, to Tbilisi, where the War of Roses was won. Run the mountainsides and fall into the canyons of lapsed eons. Sunk in the valley wide, past huddling of trees that open and yawn, sprinkles a misting of sunny, dewy rocks where a certain party of gypsies gather. You will only find them there after the picking of the cherry orchards, and if they welcome you, they will feed you their cherry soup. It will intoxicate, but no more than the captivating dance of cherry stained aprons you may be privileged to witness. Dark haired and dark eyed sultanas, ****** from healthy eating and laboring, do motion a curvilinear spell. Band with the men of that tribe, if they will have you. Let them choose for you, a server of cherry soup. Though cherry season is short, your life will lengthen.
Mar 12, 2016
Mar 12, 2016 at 1:44 PM UTC
*Alone, she collects pebbles
from the sands of seashore
only to throw back each
with all her might, as if
its her revenge;
all of a sudden she stops
throwing them
back on the flat waves,
just to see them leapfrog,
a few times and vanish.
A sandcastle, he was busy
building on damp sand,
laboring alone like a child,
as if it means a lot,
but the spires refuse to
stay up, collapse again and again
against his wish.
it has become a total mess,
irredeemable for him alone,
or even with some help.
Perturbed he looks,
at the very moment-
from somewhere close by,
wind brings the overpowering stench
of rotting sea weeds and dead fish,
that makes them both look up
at once, by chance
and gaze at each other's face
as if they don't
recognize each other,
for a long, long moment.*
Mar 6, 2014
Mar 6, 2014 at 11:33 AM UTC
For Young Artists, Musicians, Scientists, Poets, and Philosophers
Be strong in your Pixies, for some will say
That you are wasting your time on fantasy
When you should be laboring hard all day
As servant to some old master’s machinery
Be strong in your Pixies, yes, even when
You are all grown up, and have a great career
Dream still again each magic forest and glen
And keep your Pixie-knowledge close and clear
Be strong in your Pixies, and sometimes glance
Back to that moonlit realm, where Pixies dance
Feb 11, 2019
Feb 11, 2019 at 3:01 PM UTC
*God.
Creator of all things.
So Glorious and Beautiful that
not even the angels can look at Him.
The seraphim fly around His throne,
two of their six wings covering their faces.
They stir the Holy Waters into swirls and eddys of translucent rainbows. Then they sing and sing and sing of his Glory and Majesty. I believe not only because they were made to do so... but also because they glimpse His Shekinah Glory between their feathers!*
**Accolades to the Most High.
The river of life, The Fountain of truth,
where wisdom dwells and love is alive.
The true physician, salvifically laboring
to heal warped characters of
despondent creatures.
Will you drink from the eternal spring
and be revived?**
***There are many springs,
there are many wells,
from which to draw.
But they are empty holes
which cannot fill.
Broken cisterns...
which cannot hold water.
Will you come to Him?
To the True Well of all wells?
To the Fountain of Living Waters,
Who alone can quench your
soul's thirst?
All praise and glory be
to the One who alone is
The Water of Life.
All praise and glory and honour
to the One whose voice is like
the sound of many waters.
Will you come to Him?
That you might never thirst.
Again.***
SoulSurvivor.
Jamie King.
The Faithful Dreamer.
Sep 7, 2016
Sep 7, 2016 at 4:34 PM UTC
Morning melts and dribbles
through the blinds,
where it rests
in molten puddles on the floor.
If you are very still
you can hear the tap...tap
of its fingers as it
tries to seep under the door.
Afternoon is a
pyroclastic lava flow...
devouring each bit of flesh,
******* the breath
from laboring lungs...
melting flesh into tallow
for the candles of night,
to be lit upon
the sacrificial altar
of your tongue.
Hide wherever you want -
go ahead, find a place.
Count to one hundred,
hands over hidden eyes;
childish giggles bubble
from your lips,
but it will find you,
no matter your disguise.
Jul 19, 2015
Jul 19, 2015 at 8:57 AM UTC
scene I:
a squirrel
in the road,
cars whizzing by
left and right,
narrowly missing
the fearless traveler
by the shortest hair
of its bushy tail.
scene II:
a young bird
in a nest,
screeching loudly
as a human child does,
though not for fear
or hunger,
but anticipation;
then leaping into unknown vastness.
scene III:
a caterpillar
traversing a leaf,
the green ground
shifting, swaying,
as the teenage insect
searches for the place,
the perfect place,
for a coming of age.
scene IV:
an ant
building,
laboring feverishly,
driven by pure instinct,
innate obligation—
perhaps love?—
to create a world
it likely will not see.
scene V:
a mantis
praying,
a final worship
to an unseen,
unknown God,
preparing for the ultimate,
honorable sacrifice,
to be unremembered by his brood.
scene VI:
a grizzly
charging through the brush,
a mad fear in her eyes,
in her heart,
as she bull-rushes
the two barrels
that threaten her only child
and will surely take her.
scene VII:
a rebel flag
emblazoned on the
rear window of the truck,
the truck driven by a man
who cares little that
his 7/11 cup now lays by
the side of the road,
or for the journey he just ended.
Dec 17, 2018
Dec 17, 2018 at 2:47 PM UTC
Supper comes at five o’clock,
At six, the evening star,
My lover comes at eight o’clock —
But eight o’clock is far.
How could I bear my pain all day
Unless I watched to see
The clock-hands laboring to bring
Eight o’clock to me.
1.3k
The beauty of made beds?
Irony on the verge of beauty cope?
Settling bared for a beauty, in the name of sleep?
A question of simplicity, for beauty to requite a hope?
Soul, a passion has come, to ye...
Let with solemn have, and the actual
Powers that since, singing the soul of worth into view be
The rage of decency, to earn the better of a future who...
Pride is a laboring voice, with a moment to same notion
Needfulness with a bared truth, eats from the hand of beauty
Sound to solace, and the devil to see, is the world's sin
Comparing *** with a riddance's dance, is only lucre
How or the risks of hatred...
Know love like a challenge of sincerity, that hasn't
Adage and cares intoned with a house sulking, is terror's lead?
When avid is a searching heed, it is a voice that wasn't...
Save honor the time, and you will see...
A choice of significance to a wish, larger than life atoned
With the reasons of virtue, that began with a seeming victory
Of life in the grasp of love, that has sat a champion of a soul, one...
A chance meeting with something besides beauty...?
Sour and in deference to liberty, the question of earned kind
Is for the senses, of witnessing the grace it took, each
Idea of life continuing to be, the reality we made, for a heart and a mind...
Jul 8, 2024
Jul 8, 2024 at 3:01 AM UTC
Laboring under the strong delusion
That you hold some kind of authority
Only makes you into an amusement
For the rest of your fellow company.
You gladly boast about spending decades
Working a meager, lowly, thankless job.
It's no wonder your sanity seems frayed,
But still, you're acting like a pompous snob.
So what if you became a veteran
Of the local town's pizza syndicate,
You're merely an hourly employee
Who loves to particularly berate
Other workers you still think you're above;
You hold no more power than anyone!
You'll likely stay in this fantasy land,
And probably won't ever understand;
Instead, you'll persist to stubbornly shun
The truth of the matter, which is a fact:
You're just a wretch with a mind that was cracked.
Feb 29, 2016
Feb 29, 2016 at 2:56 AM UTC