"lamentable" poems
"From a very young age, I've thought
some videogames can be a little too reminiscent of 'Enders Game.'"
"Yeah, it could easily be a real war and you'd possibly never even know it."
"Especially when the games are basically an interactive recruitment tool. Call of Duty and the later Halo games leap to mind."
"Actually, my cousin-in-law just signed up for the army."
"Hah, did he cite Call of Duty as his reasoning?"
"Pretty much."
"Hah. I ******* knew it.
It's lamentable that it works.
The sad fact that it isn't a joke
make the jokes that much worse,
but, yet, the jokes aren't as bad
as the atrocity, itself,
yet it's the jokes that incur social wrath!
This adequately exemplifies Society's priorities, methinks."
Dec 4, 2014
Dec 4, 2014 at 1:35 AM UTC
My sun has set, I dwell
In darkness as a dead man out of sight;
And none remains, not one, that I should tell
To him mine evil plight
This bitter night.
I will make fast my door
That hollow friends may trouble me no more.
"Friend, open to Me."--Who is this that calls?
Nay, I am deaf as are my walls:
Cease crying, for I will not hear
Thy cry of hope or fear.
Others were dear,
Others forsook me: what art thou indeed
That I should heed
Thy lamentable need?
Hungry should feed,
Or stranger lodge thee here?
"Friend, My Feet bleed.
Open thy door to Me and comfort Me."
I will not open, trouble me no more.
Go on thy way footsore,
I will not rise and open unto thee.
"Then is it nothing to thee? Open, see
Who stands to plead with thee.
Open, lest I should pass thee by, and thou
One day entreat My Face
And howl for grace,
And I be deaf as thou art now.
Open to Me."
Then I cried out upon him: Cease,
Leave me in peace:
Fear not that I should crave
Aught thou mayst have.
Leave me in peace, yea trouble me no more,
Lest I arise and chase thee from my door.
What, shall I not be let
Alone, that thou dost vex me yet?
But all night long that voice spake urgently:
"Open to Me."
Still harping in mine ears:
"Rise, let Me in."
Pleading with tears:
"Open to Me that I may come to thee."
While the dew dropped, while the dark hours were cold:
"My Feet bleed, see My Face,
See My Hands bleed that bring thee grace,
My Heart doth bleed for thee,
Open to Me."
So till the break of day:
Then died away
That voice, in silence as of sorrow;
Then footsteps echoing like a sigh
Passed me by,
Lingering footsteps slow to pass.
On the morrow
I saw upon the grass
Each footprint marked in blood, and on my door
The mark of blood forevermore.
7k
We have our dreams,
My perfect stranger,
Though we never really met,
Perhaps; never shall meet.
Still, we amble along together,
Navigating the lamentable brook,
Unfulfilled promises, foaming,
Swirling around our bare feet,
The cold of reality numbing our toes,
Skipping over rocks of broken ideals,
Once cherished, but not here, no,
They are fractious and discarded.
Trickles of tormented sighs, tease,
While avoiding guiding ropes of life,
Which would snag our thoughts,
Straining against friction burns,
As they attempt to bind us tightly,
Holding us prisoner, when in truth,
We are capable of incarcerating ourselves.
Although, our minds are free, yes,
Living beneath the same impassive moon,
Bathing within its stolen light,
Stealing our own, moments of peace,
As in sleep, we slip away unnoticed,
To hold each other, so loving,
Above the clouds, sharing caresses,
Smooching around, and round,
Oblivious of telltale tears on our cheeks.
A shooting star arcs across the sky,
‘Shall we wish?’ You ask,
‘Nah,’ I reply; wishing is for fools,
Be content; acceptance is the key,
My perfect stranger,
We have our dreams.
© Paul M Chafer 2014
Jul 16, 2014
Jul 16, 2014 at 7:43 AM UTC
Come prisoned moon in steep cloud-fastnesses,—
Throned queen and thralled; some dying sun whose pyre
Blazed with momentous memorable fire;—
Who hath not yearned and fed his heart with these?
Who, sleepless, hath not anguished to appease
Tragical shadow’s realm of sound and sight
Conjectured in the lamentable night?…
Lo! the soul’s sphere of infinite images!
What sense shall count them? Whether it forecast
The rose-winged hours that flutter in the van
Of Love’s unquestioning unreveale’d span,—
Visions of golden futures: or that last
Wild pageant of the accumulated past
That clangs and flashes for a drowning man.
2.7k
you are venomous
I said
she smirked
and gave a little hiss
we are washed up
on snake island
a one bed flat
where a monstrous building
has been converted
into lamentable
living spaces
for lonesome souls à deux
neighbours plague us
through paper thin walls
but we have found our own
strange happiness
in our serpent coils
Jun 27, 2023
Jun 27, 2023 at 6:44 PM UTC
He toils all day and all year.
He takes each misgiving
and gives them momentary life,
through one lamentable tear...
Before he carries on digging.
He gets his hands *****
as he digs through soil, earth and sweat.
No end in sight,
or he'd rather not see.
No solace he'd find,
no peace he'd let.
He only sees this expanse of land...
Of which he diligently keeps.
Tales told by dishevelled sand,
covering secrets
which he has been burying deep.
He has made this
his past, present and future.
He'd make sure that each would fit.
Tied to this grounds,
he is the worn-out keeper.
He never tells but he buries hatchets.
Feb 20, 2017
Feb 20, 2017 at 6:52 AM UTC
... a lamentable natural disaster ―
no one really ever understood
the uncomfortable loneliness they read,
left unsaid, in the silence between the lines
Gathered words often revealed
an awkward vulnerability
a life tethering by a frayed thread
unable to shed the skin that enfolds
the dauntingly misunderstood laments
Suspended at friendless crossroads
melancholy days of malignant indifference
stifle the whispered thoughts,
"accepting an unfinished life"
evanescent as the faltering light,
musing many a sleepless night
It’s as if there was always some wordless reason
to never feel "good enough" to just be,
unworthy to discover elusive love,
cleave a labyrinth out of the darkness,
okay to just let go
It’s not a weakness to be human
"Tears are the heart’s traces" … he once wrote
"only eyes cleansed by teardrops see clearly"
heaven's rain unconditionally enlightened
by love and light.
Someone said a poet died
trying to make sense
out of all he thought he'd given
a word at a time was left behind
only abandoned words remain
orphaned in the drowning silence
harlon rivers ©
Jun 29, 2017
Jun 29, 2017 at 12:17 PM UTC
With delicate, mad hands, behind his sordid bars,
Surely he hath his posies, which they tear and twine;
Those scentless wisps of straw, that miserably line
His strait, caged universe, whereat the dull world stares,
Pedant and pitiful. O, how his rapt gaze wars
With their stupidity! Know they what dreams divine
Lift his long, laughing reveries like enchanted wine,
And make his melancholy germane to the stars'?
O lamentable brother! if those pity thee,
Am I not fain of all thy lone eyes promise me;
Half a fool's kingdom, far from men who sow and reap,
All their days, vanity? Better than mortal flowers,
Thy moon-kissed roses seem: better than love or sleep,
The star-crowned solitude of thine oblivious hours!
2.1k
What happened to the dandies
Those gentlemen of the grandest Culture
Destroyers of dreaded boundaries
Mockers of meaningless morality
Inquisitors of a profound lack of imagination
Guardians of good taste
Messengers of modernity
What happened to those 19th century hipsters
Who so gracefully dissected Society
And whose wit and wisdom
Shook the foundations
Of mainstream hypocrisy
Of inept intellectualism
And lamentable lies
We are in dire need of retrieving
The lost art of being a dandy
To shake the foundations once more
And to revoke the righteous rage
Of the cultural creed
To set society aflame
With wit and wisdom
Oct 13, 2015
Oct 13, 2015 at 10:01 AM UTC
The passion thy self does give for phenomenal proportion and hue.
The riddle of life does leap apart and the colours of temper askew.
Thou majestic brilliance is worthy of the utmost of praises.
Indestructible violet, unfathomable reds, and when lamentable blue; the celestial bodies sum up thou radiance
Thou light brings sight to the blind.
Thou brightness is a key to creative minds.
Thou purpose is to give us ours, thy structure is to give us beauty.
Sky so vast, sky so eternal, you canst leave the world in darken state.
The gray skies of storm, thundering loud, lit up with fires of lightning.
We canst describe how fortunate we are to learn of the sky.
The mov’ment of Earth is thy survival.
Do not leave the Earth, do not leaveth us.
The sky is eternal and we praise thyself for remaining.
The blue sunny skies with discerning truth, we see the sunlight.
No longer the brilliance is cloud-covered.
We deserve less but the sky is much.
Much to be anticipated, much to be received.
O valued sky, the World does not see you as so.
I see the World climb higher just to be ye.
That is why I write thyself an ode.
I write exalting thyself in humble abode.
Nov 2, 2012
Nov 2, 2012 at 10:38 AM UTC
And he handed me the carnage of so many wasted and poverty stricken corpses.
And I scrubbed.
And as I scrubbed, I watched the water
turn into tea
and then into coffee
and then into a rainbow-shimmering sheen of crude oil.
I scraped the burnt-on remains-off
so the worn, rusted,
yet impregnable metal pieces
could be a bit more
presentable: lamentable.
In preparation of the first-world ones
who take a bite at pleasure, and then discard.
Who borrow by bond their treasure
and waste the world with all their lard.
Oct 25, 2014
Oct 25, 2014 at 12:40 PM UTC
Cent mille hommes, criblés d'obus et de mitraille,
Cent mille hommes, couchés sur un champ de bataille,
Tombés pour leur pays par leur mort agrandi,
Comme on tombe à Fleurus, comme on tombe à Lodi,
Cent mille ardents soldats, héros et non victimes,
Morts dans un tourbillon d'événements sublimes,
D'où prend son vol la fière et blanche liberté,
Sont un malheur moins grand pour la société,
Sont pour l'humanité, qui sur le vrai se fonde,
Une calamité moins haute et moins profonde,
Un coup moins lamentable et moins infortuné
Qu'un innocent, - Un seul innocent condamné, -
Dont le sang, ruisselant sous un infâme glaive,
Fume entre les pavés de la place de Grève,
Qu'un juste assassiné dans la forêt des lois,
Et dont l'âme a le droit d'aller dire à Dieu : Vois !
Le 24 mars 1870.
1.4k
We've crafted such elegant tools
Words which baffle the tongue
and weapons which tear tongues out.
We have so many words
as if tools in a box
But, if we fail to realize that the tool is the means and not the end,
as a map is the means to finding a destination,
we assume we've arrived at the destination by looking at our mass-produced maps
and by saying our mass-produced words
instead of by traversing the terrain and climbing the mountain
to look around for ourselves and craft our own maps.
Our maps must be
Unique to each one of us. Unique to our experiences.
No one can know your dogma;
sometimes not even you.
No one can find your way but you,
sometimes not even then.
No one can guide you on the inward journey but your mind,
sometimes not even that.
All we can do is give each other maps which have proven useful to us.
It takes the individual to take the steps of the journey.
Is it lamentable when the individual doesn't even realize there is a journey:
Life is the classroom in which the lesson is taught.
The lesson defies words: It is more subtle and elegant than we have tools to denote;
The territory is far too complex and constantly shifting to draw a definite, permanent map.
We must learn to draw our own map
to realize the limitations of our tools
to come to terms with the boundaries of our perceptions
Otherwise the maps are useless.
Otherwise our tools are useless.
Otherwise the lesson is useless.
Otherwise the beauty of reality is lost on us.
Jul 19, 2012
Jul 19, 2012 at 12:35 PM UTC
there is no color for regret
this fist of hindsight clenched in my stomach
sitting heavy, firm and uneasy
i can't paint over this lingering, wholesome sorrow
splashed in my lamentable eyes
the agony is blind and cannot feel its way out of this dark corridor
the uneasiness is more real than the feeler
repentance is stuck in my teeth and gnaws at my tongue
discomfort catches its fingernails on the chalkboard recesses of the past
regret
regret
the neon open sign flickers and its fumes are toxic
May 30, 2015
May 30, 2015 at 4:38 AM UTC
L'heure verte
The mountains. The heaps of their bountiful gravels, and earth, and soil, large oversized masses of half-frozen water teetering on the precipice of subzero masculine ******* Francophilic cleavage jetting out of this deserted white pastoral dressing. The inaugural bawl, wanton fixations of putting the imperialist foot on every spot of tree, each and every shrub, until the limbs' cast reaches each dimple that foliage braves, where that blue eagle of patriotism dredges its claws to form every river, rill, estuary, creek, channel, flume, littoral, and waterway where the iron-rich gullies once brimmed in the interamnian basins, rich crimsony waters riffling through fruitful and extravagant aquifers. Beyond that, where an inexplicably feral wind rips vines from their dendritic housings, where barely an eye can see, this place of exsanguination and abysmal phytocide.
At the end of this lamentable torture, only a desert of human interest remains. There is no reason to laugh, or smile, or cheer, or put a leg up, to call on a friend, or to have ice cream. There will be no more ice cream. There is only the loathsome incredulousness and avarice in the semblances and familiarity of those with whom we thought we once knew. Little can ever be known, for there is much to gain in the absence of knowledge, and even greater that can be acquired in the alms of wisdom through patient examination and thorough silence. Here on the buttes and cornices, the thwacking gavels of evil power deities throw down their lust for more and soon become adjoined to these grand discrepancies greed mistakenly loses to a lack of awareness and to self-aggrandizement.
Power is the weapon of inexperienced wielders. Passion is the immortal frequency that is worn by artisans and artists, poets and painters, it is the business of quietness to learnedly evolve to protect our tomorrows from personal needs, but to instead preserve the integral parts of society. The words of languages, artifacts, and cultures, rather than the skeletons of ****** and the deeds of possession. Each who sleeps knows their bedfellows to equally be at peace. For no wealth can exceed that of comfortable pillows, soft quilts, and sheets. We are all the same while we sleep.
Jan 9, 2017
Jan 9, 2017 at 6:52 AM UTC
¿Quién lo salva, quien lo protege?
¿Quién lo carga, quien lo quiere?
¡Está en peligro de extinción!!!!!
¿Señor Benedetti, del amor que le digo?
Esta parco de sentimiento, ya ni los cristianos los profesan.
Están en extinción los versos;
Los que hablan de amor.
Los que conquistan con ilusión.
Los que imploran un milagro.
Los que rezan por su amor
…aun nunca lo hayan confesado.
Amigo Don Darío,
los poetas también están en extinción,
ya los poetas no se enamoran,
ya no escriben para el pueblo,
escriben para alimentar su ego.
Ya su “musa no es de hueso”.
Ya no denuncian a los putrefactos…
ahora se acuestan con ellos.
Están en extinción las guitarras,
Oh Dios mío….ahora las rompen en tarima!!!
Ya sus cuerdas no anuncian armonía.
Esas cuerdas ya no se oyen en la esquinas de cualquier barrio,
ya no retumban las piedras en alguna ventana de la casa de una fulana,
con la esperanza que despierte su amada,
a escuchar una lamentada-esperanzada serenata.
No se ven las cortinas abriéndose lentamente hacia al lado,
revelando la sonrisa gloriosa que achina los ojitos
de aquella niña que se siente sorprendida
por el atrevimiento de aquel niño,
que parece inebriado con esa canción desafinada,
confesándole su amor,
exponiéndose a que su padre lo saque a pedradas.
Ya están en extinción los enamorados,
Los que se escapan -- sea de noche o de madrugada.
Ya no hay citas.
No hay cortejo.
No hay rosas.
Se acabaron las serenatas.
No hay amor.
Quien lo salva, quien lo protege?
Quien lo carga, quien lo quiere?
Es muy lamentable esta situación,
el pobre AMOR esta tan solo,
como lo estaba Adán antes de que Eva llegara!
LeydisProse
5/25/2017
Jun 1, 2017
Jun 1, 2017 at 10:47 AM UTC
O vraie et lamentable image de la vie !
La joie entre par où la douleur est sortie !
Le bonheur prend le lit d'où fuit le désespoir !
À ce qui naît le jour Dieu fait place le soir ;
La coupe de la vie a toujours même dose,
Mais une main la prend quand l'autre la dépose,
Hélas ! et si notre œil pouvait parfois sonder
Ces coupes de bonheur qui semblent déborder,
Ne trouverions-nous pas que chaque joie humaine
Des cendres et des pleurs d'un autre est toujours pleine ?
Du village de sa naissance, le 20 juillet 1800.
1.2k
Suenan campanas difíciles de oír, dentro de ti,
son tus metáforas y mi poca cordura en colisión,
formando notas que no podemos decir,
Surcas la nobleza de decir sin decir, naturalmente
quieres que yo diga lo que no puedes contar,
pero ante el andar de la duda y tus acertijos
prefiero volar inconsciente
y darle cabida a un nuevo presente.
Quiero decirte que eres vital para mí
que con tus besos y tus misterios me haces sonreír,
tus recuerdos dibujan conciertos dentro de mí,
es lamentable que me tenga que ir.
Jan 20, 2016
Jan 20, 2016 at 5:58 PM UTC
Perched high upon burl wood roost
dangling feet swing upon
mossy girthed heritage
maple tree
Her majestic gnarled scaffold
flinches not from my nebulous gravity,
nor the weight of her unraveling
golden autumn gown
Her lamentable achings
felt in the voice
of the ripening chill
within the campfire
scented breeze
For I have climbed so blindly high,
the clinging brilliant yellow leaves
metamorphosing like these fragile paper wings,
opening palms born to soar wild as the wind,
to just let go and fly free
Waiting here patiently,
wistfully as destiny,
for the final edifying moment
of fate’s unshacklement - - -;
the surrendering to,
the moment of love set free,
stolen by the wanton
gypsy breeze
wild is the wind
Oct 23, 2016
Oct 23, 2016 at 12:28 PM UTC
Upside down in the void.
Annoyed by priests and
politicians who feast at
the trough of the ignorance
of mankind, blind to the
devastation their righteous
proclamations heap upon
Eden’s polluted shore.
Babylon’s ***** holds firm
their fate in her celestial grasp.
Standing before perdition’s
impartial flame, the liar,
the killer, and salvation's thief...
Dante’s imagination could not
conceive a suitable torment for
your lamentable offenses.
Jun 25, 2011
Jun 25, 2011 at 9:07 PM UTC
I carry a vial of ashes
As a pendant over my heart
Sometimes, the glass breaks
And it smears all over my art
Thus, I force myself to remember
The hatred turned into a lamentable ember
The palms of my hands ache
And I kneel in fragments of glass
Of my own creation
I fumble with the ashes scattered
I grab at it and the soil
Which all slips through my fingertips
I am a damnable, hateful person
And I carry a requiem note
Fraught with envy in my voice
I cannot see where I shall go
I have no light upon my path
But I can see from whence I came
A placid path
That has kept me safe
From the thorns and bramble of life
But alas, now I know grief
And pity is my closest companion
In the discrete absence of those
Whom I could call a true friend
However, though I know
This path, yellow brick,
I do not know where it leads
But I cannot move on
There is glass and ash on my path
And it all comes into darkness,
Like thread comes through a needle
I cry out
Again and again
My hands bleed
As I scrabble at the ground
And I know it punishment
For keeping the ashes of hatred
Rather than the petals of love
Or, perhaps, the tears of sorrow
There are a good many things
I could have chosen to keep
In the vile vial
I wear as a pendant to distort
My dear and precious heart,
So foolish and jealous
But, unfortunately,
It is ash in my heart
Ash in my head
And, finally, ash on my path
Sullying the joyful, sunshine yellow path
That leads me, the thread, the through the needle
Should I finally rise to my feet and the occasion
And choose to tread on broken glass
And search my surroundings
For something else to keep in my tender vile
Aug 21, 2018
Aug 21, 2018 at 8:17 AM UTC
Not far from home, not far
Small difference here, one there
Though miles and mountains have roped us away
Not much separates us at all
The same asphalt earth at our feet
And petroleum smog, only stronger
The rest is an outsized cartoon of our home
The same symbols drawn broader and bright
The twang of these voices may vibrate
Familiar strings of my soul
But this lamentable facet,
Like the barren mountainside,
Obliterated by thoughtless greed
Makes me ache in those very familial chords
Sep 18, 2012
Sep 18, 2012 at 1:40 PM UTC
Desde este mismo instante seremos dos extraños
por estos pocos días, quién sabe cuántos
años...
Yo seré en tu recuerdo como un libro prohibido,
uno de esos que nadie confiesa haber leído.
Y así mañana, al vernos en la calle, al ocaso,
tu bajarás los ojos y apretarás el paso,
y yo, discretamente, me cambiaré de acera,
o encenderé un cigarro, como si no te viera...
Seremos dos extraños desde este mismo instante
y pasarán los meses, y tendrás otro amante:
Y como eres bonita, sentimental y fiel,
quizás, andando el tiempo, te casarás con él.
Y ya, más que un esposo será como un amigo,
aunque nunca le cuentes que has soñado conmigo,
y aunque, tras tu sonrisa, de mujer satisfecha,
se te empañen los ojos, al llegar una fecha.
Acaso, cuando llueva, recordarás un día
en que estuvimos juntos y en que también llovía.
Y quizás no te pongas nunca más aquel traje
de terciopelo verde, con adornos de encaje.
O harás un gesto mío, tal vez sin darte cuenta,
cuando dobles la almohada con mano soñolienta.
Y domingo a domingo, cuando vayas a Misa,
de tu casa a la Iglesia, perderás tu sonrisa.
¿Qué más puedo decirte? Serás la esposa honesta
que abanica al marido cuando ronca su siesta:
Tras fregar los platos y de tender las camas,
te pasarás las noches sacando crucigramas...
Y así, años y años, hasta que, finalmente,
te morirás un día, como toda la gente.
Y voces que aún no existen sollozarán tu nombre,
y cerrarán tus ojos los hijos de otro hombre.
Y no me importa quién pase después por un sendero,
si me queda el orgullo de haber sido el primero.
Y el vaso que embriagara mi ilusión y mi hastío,
aunque esté en otra mano seguirá siendo mío.
Por eso puedes irte mi pobre soñadora,
pues si el reloj se para no detiene la hora,
y tú serás la misma de las noches aquellas
aunque cierres los ojos por no ver las estrellas.
1k
unfortunately for him,
he was everything
i could ever want.
Aug 2, 2016
Aug 2, 2016 at 11:28 PM UTC