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Under the arc of days, he set her free in time,
He gave her up to the whimsy of wind,
The ghostly waves of the Sun's heated ethers.
The hours of their togetherness came unraveled,
Came apart at the seams, at the mended parts first,
Though he never sought to repair the tear
Or to comfort the newly opened hole's emptiness-
It was all too hopeless.

And why take you thought for raiment?
Consider the lillies of the field,
How they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin:

But instead, he wound it around himself,
Purposely made plans to remove himself, like a spot rubbed out,
Like a runner in a pair of hose, allowed to consume an entire leg,
Until the wearer must certainly abandon it, or else gather up the tatters
Knowing not what to do with them, or how to reweave the mess,
Or worse, continue wearing it, to the obvious surprise of all encountered,
Either pretending not to know, or pretending to wait for a private moment to remove the defective stockings. So, in this fashion,
He would remove her from his life; in effigy, he would cut her from all its pictures,
All the memories he had made with her, he  was now determined to forget.

And why take you thought for raiment?
Consider the lillies of the field,
How they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin:

Nobody could put the news back in the can, repair the injury.
And it was a public game, this necessary total forgetting and giving up.
Maybe others couldn’t understand, but it didn't matter
He stared at the headstone flanked by Lillies for a couple more minutes, and then turned,
Walking slowly down the flagstone sidewalk to the parking lot.
There weren’t a lot of mourners; they had only been living here for a few months;
No time to acquire new friends and even less the casual acquaintances,
The ones who always seem to manage to make it to funerals
For whatever reasons they might have.
They had taken the banks of Lillies surrounding the casket and arranged them,
Quite artfully, around the stone and opened grave.

And why take you thought for raiment?
Consider the lillies of the field,
How they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin:

The baking car seemed more silent than ever, as it quietly came alive, purring softly.
He pulled out of the cemetery parking area, deliberately not glancing behind him again.
He rounded a few roads, curving sedately around the low mountains,
Marveling at how clear it had become, though earlier it looked angry and unsettled.
He rolled the car windows down, as if to banish, remove the scent left behind.
Though once you have smelled death, been touched personally by it,
Everything else becomes a farce, a denial of what you have already seen
With your own eyes, and felt breathing too close by to ever forget it.
Every day becomes another refusal to continue dying, even if it's the only game left in town.
He laughed a nasty, rumbly sort of laugh, resolved to seek out that little bar,
The one at the edge of town, where he had met her, so many ages ago-
Perhaps luck would favor him twice there, it could happen..
The sun meanwhile filled the windows with tiny prisms and reflections;
All the bright objects going by flashed a microscopic brilliance into the car
That he had never noticed before, as if they wished to touch him even in a minute fashion.
And as he was desperate, desperate for any kind of omen,
He decided these sudden, unexpected illuminations would have to be it.
He could pretend to go on living for a while, till everyone had forgotten about it.
His mother had always told him to keep his business private,
Not become a joke, not lose the respect of others;
Familiarity breeds contempt, and all that.
And when people ask how you are doing, they don't really want or need to know the details.
He thought of the small pale and solemn face, ringed by dark hair, with dirt beginning to pile up above it, the hidden form broken and camouflaged
Above the creamy blue satin lining and the strange high gloss wood.
And only a single tiny muscle twitched, just below his lower lip.
In time, he would learn to control even that.

And why take you thought for raiment?
Consider the lillies of the field,
How they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin:

He had always suspected god merely created man
So that he would have some entertainment, something lower than god
A pathetic thing needed for laughing at,
When even being god got to be too much of a bore.
Ah, if the real heaven-and-earth creating god had only to drink from man's cup once,
Things must surely change. The religions really had it all backward.
He fired up the radio and firmly blanked his mind.
He needed to hold on to that ability to forget everything and stop all thinking;
After all, he could still live a useful life.
There were people who still needed him, even if she no longer did.
A sob escaped and made it's way to the top of his throat, but he swallowed it down quickly,
As if thwarting a hiccup. Death is only a hiccup that comes at the wrong time,
He repeated to himself, realizing his mind-clearing trick had failed him.
Memory was only a crutch used to keep the living in the past, and thought was it’s transportation.
This too shall pass, he whispered. The aphorisms piled up, began to tilt sideways,
Threatening to fall over, to obscure all the light left in the stiff, unwieldy light-dying world.
Never again, as long as he lived, would he have another white Lily anywhere near,
Or in any house or room or yard he ever spent any time in.
That was the only sacrifice he dared to make for this day.
If you give up, if you give in, they've got you by the ***** then.
He had seen people who were slave to their emotions, and they were cripples.
As if this idea bothered him particularly,
He glanced into his own eyes in the rearview mirror,
And for the first time, he saw something unrecognizable there,
Saw a person he felt he had nothing in common with any longer.
He didn't want to put words to the things now being etched onto that face.
It was going to take a lot of years to erase that pain; a lot of drinking alone,
A lot of being cold and unfeeling and relentlessly alive.
And at the end of it, if he was lucky, he would live;
Not just become another animated corpse, himself,
Though it was still, he decided, much too early to believe in a future just yet.

And why take you thought for raiment?
Consider the lillies of the field,
How they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin:
And yet I say unto you,
That even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these.

-Matthew 6:28,29  American King James Version
At certain fragile times of our lives, we sometimes feel that our very thoughts may betray us
brandon nagley Mar 2016
Consider the lillies of the field
Mine love, they do not toil
Nor spin;

Consider God's love for
Both of us love;
Heaven we shalt get in.

Consider the lillies of the field
Mine love, they do not worry
Of the morrow;

Consider ourn blessing's mine
Love, for we art preordained,
Predestined, exladranes-
Some calleth us mad,
Crazed insane.

Consider the lillies of the field
Mine love, O' how ourn Lord
Taketh care of them all.
As he taketh care of us
Fairest Jane of them all.


©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Earl Jane Nagley dedicated ( Filipino rose)
exladrane- a word I made up meaning ( extrasolar travelers on a path to a destination most men and women can't go)
Morrow- means tommorrow..
Lillie's of field I got from this-

Matthew chapter 6:25-34 king  James bible.

25 Therefore I say unto you, Take no thought for your life, what ye shall eat, or what ye shall drink; nor yet for your body, what ye shall put on. Is not the life more than meat, and the body than raiment?
26 Behold the fowls of the air: for they sow not, neither do they reap, nor gather into barns; yet your heavenly Father feedeth them. Are ye not much better than they?
27 Which of you by taking thought can add one cubit unto his stature?
28 And why take ye thought for raiment? Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin:
29 And yet I say unto you, That even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these.
30 Wherefore, if God so clothe the grass of the field, which to day is, and to morrow is cast into the oven, shall he not much more clothe you, O ye of little faith?
31 Therefore take no thought, saying, What shall we eat? or, What shall we drink? or, Wherewithal shall we be clothed?
32 (For after all these things do the Gentiles seek:) for your heavenly Father knoweth that ye have need of all these things.
33 But seek ye first the kingdom of God, and his righteousness; and all these things shall be added unto you.
34 Take therefore no thought for the morrow: for the morrow shall take thought for the things of itself. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.

This is telling gods children as Christ is one speaking...
Tells us why worry of tommorrow? Arent the lillies of the field clothed? Don't the birds have homes and nests... Arent gods creatures taken care of? So he tells us not to worry. But instead seek God's kingdom first and his righteousness and all other things will be added onto us. Though we must seek first gods kingdom. Christs father Gods kingdom....this is telling mine Jane don't worry of tommorrow or the next day. But just think about today for the morrow worries of itself.. And truth! I have problem with worrying so this message does go for me to. Lol I seem to forget alot God is in control and is in charge ...not Me. Him!!!

Toil- means overworking in short terms...
Meghan O'Neill Apr 2014
I was young
Sticky hands
Wide eyes
Wandering through the garden
My wide eyes
Fell upon
People
New people digging up
The flower beds
The tiger lillies
And putting them in my red wagon
And taking them away.
My mother sold our tiger lillies
Because they reminded her
Of my father
And so she hated them
Both of them
And we no longer have tiger lillies
In the garden.
Bobbie McCord Dec 2014
Blooming lillies the shade of bubblegum
dance on top an emerald mirror
like little pink fingers
reaching towards the sun from the depths below
they flourish happily in serenity

Streams giggle like children in the distance
and lilly pads coat the surface like blankets
concealing the aquatic world beneath
The lillies climb above the water
and lounge as sentries do

For who else is going to protect
and cherish the luscious beauty of the pond
but the lillies themselves?
Ivan Brooks Sr Aug 2018
African woman
Mother of civilization.
Oh beautiful woman,
Thou are beyond description.

African woman
Queen of the people of Mamba.
Jambo to all those in heaven
Bless you too my dear mama.

African woman
Royal Nubian Queen.
The backbone of her man
You'll do anything to help him win.

Single Black woman
Made of broken pieces
You're the breadwinner,Superwoman.
You're the symbol of strength in all places.

African woman
Daughter of Eve's.
Thou are God's true specimen,
And the apple of his eyes.

Black woman
Daughter of Africa.
Blueprint of a **** woman,
Dark hue of coffee arabica.

African woman
Mother of humanity
Chieftess of ancient Nyngoman,
Mama Africa's bounty.

African woman
My Mandingo bride.
First woman of Africa's Eden
Center of God's black tribe.

Nigerian woman
My Yoruba Queen.
Envied by the women of Oman,
Cafe ou lair, cream of Africa's cream!

Warrior woman,
Queen of Wakanda.
Come and flip your wand,
Find the soul of Sarafina.

Curvy woman
In your womb lies Africa's future.
My Lormah woman
Oyobuays marvels at your structure.

Beautiful woman,
Perpetual envy of the silicon woman.
Pride of the Black man,
The essence of a real woman.

Indigo Woman
Lillies of the African plains.
Thou are Eve of the African Eden,
Best of the portraits that nature paints.

Voluptous woman,
Full, thick natural lips.
Real assert of the Black woman,
Nature gets aroused by your hips.

Ellen Sirleaf, today's woman,
Africa's first female president.
A Liberian woman,
Loved and revered wherever she went.

Smile ,Gambian woman,
You're daughter of Sarakunda.
Roots of the Black American woman,
Captives of the kanda Bolinga.

South African woman
Mariam Makeba
Sang for freedom and fought like a man
You were truly Soweto's finest Deva.

Dark ebony woman,
You are red, yellow and green.
Hanmatan wind stops at your command,
Born to slay and be seen.

African woman
Thou are the only reason
God put Adam in a coma.
Your perpetual beauty transcends time and Season.

African woman,
Under your cleavage, the Nile flows
And between your fingers, golden threads are woven,
You are the reason Beyonce glows.

Harriet Tubman, brave woman
Smuggled slaves underground.
She was a freed Black slave woman,
Who avowed to leave no soul behind.

Creative woman
Maya Angelou, gifted poetess.
Famous writer and a Black woman
Will be remembered for her poetic prowess.

Native African woman,
Africa's limestone and cement.
A mother, a wife, virtuous woman,
Lioness and the spine of the continent.

Liberian woman
Roots of my poetry, you gave me life
You are every woman.
Your edges are sharper than the Sumarais knife.



#IvanBrookspoetry©
13/8/2018
For mama and all the black Queens.
mark john junor Apr 2014
the second time i found her
it was in the midst of the grand staircase
she sat at the far edge overlooking the ballroom below
where many a face spun in wild dance
where many hearts fluttered on the verge of dreams

she cupped a single rose in her painted hand
its petals were cracked and dusty
and its scent had hints of rain
but she clutched it to her warm heart like adoration
saying softly that if she held it for long enough she could
give it life once again
i knew this to be true
but i feared the cost to her visionary soul
would it blind her to the tigers among the lillies in the ballroom
are we all not blind to the tragedy of happenstance

so i swept her up and rode into the night
to the shallow waters of the coast
where the salt of the sea could wash away the rose
cleanse the mortal wound that is such loves
but it was made of thicker smoke than that
and still you could smell a taste of rain on its dusty blue petals

i built a forest house that fall
and there i sat her to recuperate
but she only wanted to once again dance in the ballroom
with the faces of grandeur and the voices of naughty leasuire
'only a friend can debate you this tale'
is how i defended keeping her from that fate
once again we strove to gather words from the skies
as they fell like leaves abandoning their trees

once again she left in the spring
promising this time to take great cares with her pen and heart
i gave her a tender friends smile of my own as she had once done for me
and after she had faded down the summer road
i made my own way to the ballroom
because in secret i too longed to be lost in the swirling joys
the abandon of faces and names
of tigers dancing in the field of lillies
in a ballroom of trees
Ye learnèd sisters, which have oftentimes
Beene to me ayding, others to adorne,
Whom ye thought worthy of your gracefull rymes,
That even the greatest did not greatly scorne
To heare theyr names sung in your simple layes,
But joyèd in theyr praise;
And when ye list your owne mishaps to mourne,
Which death, or love, or fortunes wreck did rayse,
Your string could soone to sadder tenor turne,
And teach the woods and waters to lament
Your dolefull dreriment:
Now lay those sorrowfull complaints aside;
And, having all your heads with girlands crownd,
Helpe me mine owne loves prayses to resound;
Ne let the same of any be envide:
So Orpheus did for his owne bride!
So I unto my selfe alone will sing;
The woods shall to me answer, and my Eccho ring.

Early, before the worlds light-giving lampe
His golden beame upon the hils doth spred,
Having disperst the nights unchearefull dampe,
Doe ye awake; and, with fresh *****-hed,
Go to the bowre of my belovèd love,
My truest turtle dove;
Bid her awake; for ***** is awake,
And long since ready forth his maske to move,
With his bright Tead that flames with many a flake,
And many a bachelor to waite on him,
In theyr fresh garments trim.
Bid her awake therefore, and soone her dight,
For lo! the wishèd day is come at last,
That shall, for all the paynes and sorrowes past,
Pay to her usury of long delight:
And, whylest she doth her dight,
Doe ye to her of joy and solace sing,
That all the woods may answer, and your eccho ring.

Bring with you all the Nymphes that you can heare
Both of the rivers and the forrests greene,
And of the sea that neighbours to her neare:
Al with gay girlands goodly wel beseene.
And let them also with them bring in hand
Another gay girland
For my fayre love, of lillyes and of roses,
Bound truelove wize, with a blew silke riband.
And let them make great store of bridale poses,
And let them eeke bring store of other flowers,
To deck the bridale bowers.
And let the ground whereas her foot shall tread,
For feare the stones her tender foot should wrong,
Be strewed with fragrant flowers all along,
And diapred lyke the discolored mead.
Which done, doe at her chamber dore awayt,
For she will waken strayt;
The whiles doe ye this song unto her sing,
The woods shall to you answer, and your Eccho ring.

Ye Nymphes of Mulla, which with carefull heed
The silver scaly trouts doe tend full well,
And greedy pikes which use therein to feed;
(Those trouts and pikes all others doo excell;)
And ye likewise, which keepe the rushy lake,
Where none doo fishes take;
Bynd up the locks the which hang scatterd light,
And in his waters, which your mirror make,
Behold your faces as the christall bright,
That when you come whereas my love doth lie,
No blemish she may spie.
And eke, ye lightfoot mayds, which keepe the deere,
That on the hoary mountayne used to towre;
And the wylde wolves, which seeke them to devoure,
With your steele darts doo chace from comming neer;
Be also present heere,
To helpe to decke her, and to help to sing,
That all the woods may answer, and your eccho ring.

Wake now, my love, awake! for it is time;
The Rosy Morne long since left Tithones bed,
All ready to her silver coche to clyme;
And Phoebus gins to shew his glorious hed.
Hark! how the cheerefull birds do chaunt theyr laies
And carroll of Loves praise.
The merry Larke hir mattins sings aloft;
The Thrush replyes; the Mavis descant playes;
The Ouzell shrills; the Ruddock warbles soft;
So goodly all agree, with sweet consent,
To this dayes merriment.
Ah! my deere love, why doe ye sleepe thus long?
When meeter were that ye should now awake,
T’ awayt the comming of your joyous make,
And hearken to the birds love-learnèd song,
The deawy leaves among!
Nor they of joy and pleasance to you sing,
That all the woods them answer, and theyr eccho ring.

My love is now awake out of her dreames,
And her fayre eyes, like stars that dimmèd were
With darksome cloud, now shew theyr goodly beams
More bright then Hesperus his head doth rere.
Come now, ye damzels, daughters of delight,
Helpe quickly her to dight:
But first come ye fayre houres, which were begot
In Joves sweet paradice of Day and Night;
Which doe the seasons of the yeare allot,
And al, that ever in this world is fayre,
Doe make and still repayre:
And ye three handmayds of the Cyprian Queene,
The which doe still adorne her beauties pride,
Helpe to addorne my beautifullest bride:
And, as ye her array, still throw betweene
Some graces to be seene;
And, as ye use to Venus, to her sing,
The whiles the woods shal answer, and your eccho ring.

Now is my love all ready forth to come:
Let all the virgins therefore well awayt:
And ye fresh boyes, that tend upon her groome,
Prepare your selves; for he is comming strayt.
Set all your things in seemely good aray,
Fit for so joyfull day:
The joyfulst day that ever sunne did see.
Faire Sun! shew forth thy favourable ray,
And let thy lifull heat not fervent be,
For feare of burning her sunshyny face,
Her beauty to disgrace.
O fayrest Phoebus! father of the Muse!
If ever I did honour thee aright,
Or sing the thing that mote thy mind delight,
Doe not thy servants simple boone refuse;
But let this day, let this one day, be myne;
Let all the rest be thine.
Then I thy soverayne prayses loud wil sing,
That all the woods shal answer, and theyr eccho ring.

Harke! how the Minstrils gin to shrill aloud
Their merry Musick that resounds from far,
The pipe, the tabor, and the trembling Croud,
That well agree withouten breach or jar.
But, most of all, the Damzels doe delite
When they their tymbrels smyte,
And thereunto doe daunce and carrol sweet,
That all the sences they doe ravish quite;
The whyles the boyes run up and downe the street,
Crying aloud with strong confusèd noyce,
As if it were one voyce,
*****, iö *****, *****, they do shout;
That even to the heavens theyr shouting shrill
Doth reach, and all the firmament doth fill;
To which the people standing all about,
As in approvance, doe thereto applaud,
And loud advaunce her laud;
And evermore they *****, ***** sing,
That al the woods them answer, and theyr eccho ring.

Loe! where she comes along with portly pace,
Lyke Phoebe, from her chamber of the East,
Arysing forth to run her mighty race,
Clad all in white, that seemes a ****** best.
So well it her beseemes, that ye would weene
Some angell she had beene.
Her long loose yellow locks lyke golden wyre,
Sprinckled with perle, and perling flowres atweene,
Doe lyke a golden mantle her attyre;
And, being crownèd with a girland greene,
Seeme lyke some mayden Queene.
Her modest eyes, abashèd to behold
So many gazers as on her do stare,
Upon the lowly ground affixèd are;
Ne dare lift up her countenance too bold,
But blush to heare her prayses sung so loud,
So farre from being proud.
Nathlesse doe ye still loud her prayses sing,
That all the woods may answer, and your eccho ring.

Tell me, ye merchants daughters, did ye see
So fayre a creature in your towne before;
So sweet, so lovely, and so mild as she,
Adornd with beautyes grace and vertues store?
Her goodly eyes lyke Saphyres shining bright,
Her forehead yvory white,
Her cheekes lyke apples which the sun hath rudded,
Her lips lyke cherryes charming men to byte,
Her brest like to a bowle of creame uncrudded,
Her paps lyke lyllies budded,
Her snowie necke lyke to a marble towre;
And all her body like a pallace fayre,
Ascending up, with many a stately stayre,
To honors seat and chastities sweet bowre.
Why stand ye still ye virgins in amaze,
Upon her so to gaze,
Whiles ye forget your former lay to sing,
To which the woods did answer, and your eccho ring?

But if ye saw that which no eyes can see,
The inward beauty of her lively spright,
Garnisht with heavenly guifts of high degree,
Much more then would ye wonder at that sight,
And stand astonisht lyke to those which red
Medusaes mazeful hed.
There dwels sweet love, and constant chastity,
Unspotted fayth, and comely womanhood,
Regard of honour, and mild modesty;
There vertue raynes as Queene in royal throne,
And giveth lawes alone,
The which the base affections doe obay,
And yeeld theyr services unto her will;
Ne thought of thing uncomely ever may
Thereto approch to tempt her mind to ill.
Had ye once seene these her celestial threasures,
And unrevealèd pleasures,
Then would ye wonder, and her prayses sing,
That al the woods should answer, and your echo ring.

Open the temple gates unto my love,
Open them wide that she may enter in,
And all the postes adorne as doth behove,
And all the pillours deck with girlands trim,
For to receyve this Saynt with honour dew,
That commeth in to you.
With trembling steps, and humble reverence,
She commeth in, before th’ Almighties view;
Of her ye virgins learne obedience,
When so ye come into those holy places,
To humble your proud faces:
Bring her up to th’ high altar, that she may
The sacred ceremonies there partake,
The which do endlesse matrimony make;
And let the roring Organs loudly play
The praises of the Lord in lively notes;
The whiles, with hollow throates,
The Choristers the joyous Antheme sing,
That al the woods may answere, and their eccho ring.

Behold, whiles she before the altar stands,
Hearing the holy priest that to her speakes,
And blesseth her with his two happy hands,
How the red roses flush up in her cheekes,
And the pure snow, with goodly vermill stayne
Like crimsin dyde in grayne:
That even th’ Angels, which continually
About the sacred Altare doe remaine,
Forget their service and about her fly,
Ofte peeping in her face, that seems more fayre,
The more they on it stare.
But her sad eyes, still fastened on the ground,
Are governèd with goodly modesty,
That suffers not one looke to glaunce awry,
Which may let in a little thought unsownd.
Why blush ye, love, to give to me your hand,
The pledge of all our band!
Sing, ye sweet Angels, Alleluya sing,
That all the woods may answere, and your eccho ring.

Now al is done: bring home the bride againe;
Bring home the triumph of our victory:
Bring home with you the glory of her gaine;
With joyance bring her and with jollity.
Never had man more joyfull day then this,
Whom heaven would heape with blis,
Make feast therefore now all this live-long day;
This day for ever to me holy is.
Poure out the wine without restraint or stay,
Poure not by cups, but by the belly full,
Poure out to all that wull,
And sprinkle all the postes and wals with wine,
That they may sweat, and drunken be withall.
Crowne ye God Bacchus with a coronall,
And ***** also crowne with wreathes of vine;
And let the Graces daunce unto the rest,
For they can doo it best:
The whiles the maydens doe theyr carroll sing,
To which the woods shall answer, and theyr eccho ring.

Ring ye the bels, ye yong men of the towne,
And leave your wonted labors for this day:
This day is holy; doe ye write it downe,
That ye for ever it remember may.
This day the sunne is in his chiefest hight,
With Barnaby the bright,
From whence declining daily by degrees,
He somewhat loseth of his heat and light,
When once the Crab behind his back he sees.
But for this time it ill ordainèd was,
To chose the longest day in all the yeare,
And shortest night, when longest fitter weare:
Yet never day so long, but late would passe.
Ring ye the bels, to make it weare away,
And bonefiers make all day;
And daunce about them, and about them sing,
That all the woods may answer, and your eccho ring.

Ah! when will this long weary day have end,
And lende me leave to come unto my love?
How slowly do the houres theyr numbers spend?
How slowly does sad Time his feathers move?
Hast thee, O fayrest Planet, to thy home,
Within the Westerne fome:
Thy tyrèd steedes long since have need of rest.
Long though it be, at last I see it gloome,
And the bright evening-star with golden creast
Appeare out of the East.
Fayre childe of beauty! glorious lampe of love!
That all the host of heaven in rankes doost lead,
And guydest lovers through the nights sad dread,
How chearefully thou lookest from above,
And seemst to laugh atweene thy twinkling light,
As joying in the sight
Of these glad many, which for joy doe sing,
That all the woods them answer, and their echo ring!

Now ceasse, ye damsels, your delights fore-past;
Enough it is that all the day was youres:
Now day is doen, and night is nighing fast,
Now bring the Bryde into the brydall boures.
The night is come, now soon her disaray,
And in her bed her lay;
Lay her in lillies and in violets,
And silken courteins over her display,
And odourd sheetes, and Arras coverlets.
Behold how goodly my faire love does ly,
In proud humility!
Like unto Maia, when as Jove her took
In Tempe, lying on the flowry gras,
Twixt sleepe and wake, after she weary was,
With bathing in the Acidalian brooke.
Now it is night, ye damsels may be gon,
And leave my love alone,
And leave likewise your former lay to sing:
The woods no more shall answere, nor your echo ring.

Now welcome, night! thou night so long expected,
That long daies labour doest at last defray,
And all my cares, which cruell Love collected,
Hast sumd in one, and cancellèd for aye:
Spread thy broad wing over my love and me,
That no man may us see;
And in thy sable mantle us enwrap,
From feare of perrill and foule horror free.
Let no false treason seeke us to entrap,
Nor any dread disquiet once annoy
The safety of our joy;
But let the night be calme, and quietsome,
Without tempestuous storms or sad afray:
Lyke as when Jove with fayre Alcmena lay,
When he begot the great Tirynthian groome:
Or lyke as when he with thy selfe did lie
And begot Majesty.
And let the mayds and yong men cease to sing;
Ne let the woods them answer nor theyr eccho ring.

Let no lamenting cryes, nor dolefull teares,
Be heard all night within, nor yet without:
Ne let false whispers, breeding hidden feares,
Breake gentle sleepe with misconceivèd dout.
Let no deluding dreames, nor dreadfull sights,
Make sudden sad affrights;
Ne let house-fyres, nor lightnings helpelesse harmes,
Ne let the Pouke, nor other evill sprights,
Ne let mischivous witches with theyr charmes,
Ne let hob Goblins, names whose sence we see not,
Fray us with things that be not:
Let not the shriech Oule nor the Storke be heard,
Nor the night Raven, that still deadly yels;
Nor damnèd ghosts, cald up with mighty spels,
Nor griesly vultures, make us once affeard:
Ne let th’ unpleasant Quyre of Frogs still croking
Make us to wish theyr choking.
Let none of these theyr drery accents sing;
Ne let the woods them answer, nor theyr eccho ring.

But let stil Silence trew night-watches keepe,
That sacred Peace may in assurance rayne,
And tymely Sleep, when it is tyme to sleepe,
May poure his limbs forth on your pleasant playne;
The whiles an hundred little wingèd loves,
Like divers-fethered doves,
Shall fly and flutter round about your bed,
And in the secret darke, that none reproves,
Their prety stealthes shal worke, and snares shal spread
To filch away sweet snatches of delight,
Conceald through covert night.
Ye sonnes of Venus, play your sports at will!
For greedy pleasure, carelesse of your toyes,
Thinks more upon her paradise of joyes,
Then what ye do, albe it good or ill.
All night therefore attend your merry play,
For it will soone be day:
Now none doth hinder you, that say or sing;
Ne will the woods now answer, nor your Eccho ring.

Who is the same, which at my window peepes?
Or whose is that faire face that shines so bright?
Is it not Cinthia, she that never sleepes,
But walkes about high heaven al the night?
O! fayrest goddesse, do thou not envy
My love with me to spy:
For thou likewise didst love, though now unthought,
And for a fleece of wooll, which privily
The Latmian shepherd once unto thee brought,
His pleasures with thee wrought.
Therefore to us be favorable now;
And sith of wemens labours thou hast charge,
And generation goodly dost enlarge,
Encline thy will t’effect our wishfull vow,
And the chast wombe informe with timely seed
That may our comfort breed:
Till which we cease our hopefull hap to sing;
Ne let the woods us answere, nor our Eccho ring.

And thou, great Juno! which with awful might
The lawes of wedlock still dost patronize;
And the religion of the faith first plight
With sacred rites hast taught to solemnize;
And eeke for comfort often callèd art
Of women in their smart;
Eternally bind thou this lovely band,
And all thy blessings unto us impart.
And thou, glad
Awake, awake my little Boy!
Thou wast thy Mother’s only joy:
Why dost thou weep in thy gentle sleep?
Awake! thy Father does thee keep.

“O, what land is the Land of Dreams?
What are its mountains, and what are its streams?
O Father, I saw my Mother there,
Among the lillies by waters fair.

Among the lambs clothed in white
She walked with her Thomas in sweet delight.
I wept for joy, like a dove I mourn—
O when shall I return again?”

Dear child, I also by pleasant streams
Have wandered all night in the Land of Dreams;
But though calm and warm the waters wide,
I could not get to the other side.

“Father, O Father, what do we here,
In this land of unbelief and fear?
The Land of Dreams is better far
Above the light of the Morning Star.”
Stephanie Lynn Jul 2014
i wonder if you've made love
the way you make love to me
i wonder if every word spoken
in black and white
was prepared and practiced
and written ahead of our time
i wonder if your love for me shall fade
upon the darkening of the lillies
when the seasons change
so be it if you will
but i'd rather remain alone
this beating box in my chest has
become but a cold center of a core
for every man to lay his hand
softly upon my right cheek
only to slap the left
for every man to say he has
never loved
never wanted
never desired
anyone as strongly as i
only to feel the same for her too
a good woman is always scorned
there's always a past to be ridden
so all the while
you dream of me coming
i'll be dreaming of running away
(C) Maxwell 2014
Anastasia Aug 2019
lillies
and lilacs
violet
and white
the scent
of sweetness
makes it
alright
bitter
sweetness
coats
my tongue
vines
creeping
with blossoms
twisting
around
the swing
and there
we sat
just you and me
your hand in mine
for eternity
Julia Low May 2012
You were delivered in flowers,

bright bouquets of indifference,

and you floated like lillies,

through vines of resistance.

Your green stems left untrimmed,

and your heart in a bow,

you slowly unraveled,

with your petals on show.

But the daisies all wilted,

the ones I loved the best,

and I realized you’re empty,

dead butterflies in your chest.
Bryce Jun 2018
Hello Chicago
Flat carpet-town of corn meal
steel spears at the northern junction
of Cahokia and some unknown dream

No lillies grow here sir,
no tulip fields
though there are many Dutch
a little up north
Wisconsin, dontcha' know?

Family blood rains through the Chicago river
named of the blood of a slain tribal wonder
wanders
with the roaming buffalo

I sat at the top of Sears
(Willis)
Tower and peered into the foggy distance
and made out the shores of Michigan
through Indiana
the leftover rains of a continental freeze
churned the earth to butter and carved the arteries
and bowels
of today's earthly body

And when we drove in from O'Hare
in the late hours on incessant stoplight highways
counting down the streets
thinking maybe they'll go all the way to
Mississippi
just a long row of
Concrete

I saw the brick tower
of a decrepit Frito-lay plant
where they cooked their corn and potato
into succulent
can't eat just one
little snacks

for the whole of america
to enjoy in backyard barbecues
and convenience stores
and grocery outlets
All across the planet

Now with the trucks they come and go
up to and whizzing past Chicago
on to greener states with greater relief
with hills and lakes and winding streams

Different sections of the sculpture
Cities eroding into the pleasant coasts
quaking and breaking into tiny stones
a monumental David
cracked in the gallery
bird **** corroding the silicates
unpolished and immortal
words

Chicago!
oh you mighty city you
built from sod and sweat and dew
of new morning
I see your towers
you dreamer, you
But your towers are in Dubai,
and Shanghai
now

The world moved on
and forgot everything about
that magnificent mile
burned to make you earn
new toys and fancy things
from far beyond your winding river streams

But you didn't die
amazing, how much they tried
to rust you out
to bleed you dry

no,
Chicago,
you keep your ***** rivers flowing
all the way to the Mississippi
flanked by modern Roman concrete
all the way to the great green sea
out into the puddle that surronds
the Amerigo

Chicago
don't you give up that river dream
Summer Novak Jul 2012
with petals as white as the moon herself
the flower floated on the water
with the geisha watching from her window
she unraveled her long black hair
and gazed at the lilies
their dew shone in the light of the setting sun
and as the last light of day dimmed down,
she left the flowers in her secret pond
and returned to her tower above
Peter Cullen Jun 2014
The Calm amongst the lillies,
made all those old fears seem so silly.
Shun light into the darkened cave,
like flowers on a strangers grave.
The light it flooded through in waves,
fractured by the morning haze.
Stillness lying in the grass
with the minutes, hours pass.
Staring at a moving cloud
and all the silence seems so load,
away from all those bustling crowds,
away from all those bustling crowds.
haley Oct 2017
this is a reminder. sweet one,
your heart does not beat too loudly in your chest.
does not take up too much space,
does not mistake the moonlight for a streetlamp
when you hold your lover's hand
soft and intertwined
drunk and kissing your way home.
this is a reminder.
your heart is not a machine, is not
a second-class citizen, is not
the color of a bullet hole, a gunshot wound
against a rainbow flag;
this is a reminder. sweet one,
your heart is too big for your body
too tremendous to be
encapsulated within two arms and two legs and
ten fingers and ten toes and
when you kiss, sweet,
carry your hurt like the orange lillies
in front of my childhood home
planted by my mother and
the way she gave more
than she could give. give.
this is a reminder:
the only time
your heart should feel too loud in your chest
is when your fingers are finding her's
or his, or their's,
intoxicated by that moonlight,
a will to live against every clenched fist
finding harmony in disharmony
finding your way
to your orange lillies.
wrote this for my friend's queer power zine!! your love is beautiful and valid
Abigail Shaw Dec 2014
12 in the dark, I sit awake by the window,
Across from Hyde Park, and the feel of the wind oh,
Sparking a bark, Nana's remarking from below,
Canine matriarch against the boy with no shadow,
Time's flickering by and I begin to rust,
Consumed, I'm high with lust just for pixie dust,
But to fly you must be robust and adjust,
And I can't, though I try, I just look with disgust,
Sitting on the sill, I think of him mournfully,
Hard as I try, I can't think of him scornfully,
Despite the fact that he talks so informally,
He says my name and I know I was born to be,
Part of the family, I think of them nightly,
Tootles, the twins, Curly, Nibs and Slightly,
Second star to the right, it shines so brightly,
Hope he might come back if I ask politely,
He doesn't apologize, he's immature and he's cold,
Lives in a land without rules so he can't be controlled,
But as soon as I saw him I knew I'd struck green-gold,
Peter Pan is a joke that just never gets old,
Don't smile at crocodiles down in Neverland,
And if you hear a ticking clock, hope the ships are manned,
Because there's a high demand for the taste of pirate band,
And if you're not hooked by now then Hook'll tell you first hand,
I flew here like a bird in a night-dress, frilly,
Scared, trying to fight stress, skin like Chantilly,
Found Peter and I confess that the boy's my Achilles,
Now I'm a lost girl treading on Tiger Lillies,
Acorns and thimbles are my idea of 'bases',
And sword fights with pirates are my ***** chasers,
Watching the boys as they fly and admiring Peter Pan,
But he's the boy who can't love here in Neverland,
I wanted devotion, to marry men who were charming,
So I repressed, left my emotion, I left Peter Pan snarling,
My own species no longer, just a common starling,
Caged by age at my window, I'm Wendy Darling.
Day Oct 2011
your eyes
of orchids
maybe lotus...
they float



                      detached




stars perhaps.

                      a ship set sail
                                              longing...

y­ou
a pixie’s playground
or a forest,
a child’s castle
or a tree
              (it's all the same to you)



innocence
in essence;
inevitably transcends
to me

(unworthy)       I must decline,
                            my beauty;
                            so humble
                            remarkable

your eyes*
of lillies...



or lilacs
cannot describe
the          (elegance)
the          (delicacy)

the beauty
                   of your eyes.
SøułSurvivør Jan 2016
in a room with
no windows
wafting
beguiling
scent
drawing little
children
the young
the
innocent

the decadence
seems harmless
the courtiers
ask pardon
nothing 's deemed
evil in this
shadowy
garden

sans the
light
for rainbow hues
their color
there refracts

but none
can see the tragic
cost, nor
the

lilies

*black
I have to write about
evil perpetrated against children

I am a survivor of childhood abuse

no greater evil could exist

-----------'@
Calme was the day, and through the trembling ayre
Sweete-breathing Zephyrus did softly play
A gentle spirit, that lightly did delay
Hot Titans beames, which then did glyster fayre;
When I, (whom sullein care,
Through discontent of my long fruitlesse stay
In Princes Court, and expectation vayne
Of idle hopes, which still doe fly away,
Like empty shaddowes, did afflict my brayne,)
Walkt forth to ease my payne
Along the shoare of silver streaming Themmes;
Whose rutty Bancke, the which his River hemmes,
Was paynted all with variable flowers,
And all the meades adornd with daintie gemmes
Fit to decke maydens bowres,
And crowne their Paramours
Against the Brydale day, which is not long:
  Sweete Themmes! runne softly, till I end my Song.

There, in a Meadow, by the Rivers side,
A Flocke of Nymphes I chauncèd to espy,
All lovely Daughters of the Flood thereby,
With goodly greenish locks, all loose untyde,
As each had bene a Bryde;
And each one had a little wicker basket,
Made of fine twigs, entrayl`d curiously,
In which they gathered flowers to fill their flasket,
And with fine Fingers cropt full feateously
The tender stalkes on hye.
Of every sort, which in that Meadow grew,
They gathered some; the Violet, pallid blew,
The little Dazie, that at evening closes,
The ****** Lillie, and the Primrose trew,
With store of vermeil Roses,
To decke their Bridegromes posies
Against the Brydale day, which was not long:
  Sweete Themmes! runne softly, till I end my Song.

With that I saw two Swannes of goodly hewe
Come softly swimming downe along the Lee;
Two fairer Birds I yet did never see;
The snow, which doth the top of Pindus strew,
Did never whiter shew;
Nor Jove himselfe, when he a Swan would be,
For love of Leda, whiter did appeare;
Yet Leda was (they say) as white as he,
Yet not so white as these, nor nothing neare;
So purely white they were,
That even the gentle streame, the which them bare,
Seem’d foule to them, and bad his billowes spare
To wet their silken feathers, least they might
Soyle their fayre plumes with water not so fayre,
And marre their beauties bright,
That shone as heavens light,
Against their Brydale day, which was not long:
  Sweete Themmes! runne softly, till I end my Song.

Eftsoones the Nymphes, which now had Flowers their fill,
Ran all in haste to see that silver brood,
As they came floating on the Christal Flood;
Whom when they sawe, they stood amazèd still,
Their wondring eyes to fill;
Them seem’d they never saw a sight so fayre,
Of Fowles, so lovely, that they sure did deeme
Them heavenly borne, or to be that same payre
Which through the Skie draw Venus silver Teeme;
For sure they did not seeme
To be begot of any earthly Seede,
But rather Angels, or of Angels breede;
Yet were they bred of Somers-heat, they say,
In sweetest Season, when each Flower and weede
The earth did fresh aray;
So fresh they seem’d as day,
Even as their Brydale day, which was not long:
  Sweete Themmes! runne softly, till I end my Song.

Then forth they all out of their baskets drew
Great store of Flowers, the honour of the field,
That to the sense did fragrant odours yield,
All which upon those goodly Birds they threw
And all the Waves did strew,
That like old Peneus Waters they did seeme,
When downe along by pleasant Tempes shore,
Scattred with Flowres, through Thessaly they streeme,
That they appeare, through Lillies plenteous store,
Like a Brydes Chamber flore.
Two of those Nymphes, meane while, two Garlands bound
Of freshest Flowres which in that Mead they found,
The which presenting all in trim Array,
Their snowie Foreheads therewithall they crownd,
Whil’st one did sing this Lay,
Prepar’d against that Day,
Against their Brydale day, which was not long:
  Sweete Themmes! runne softly, till I end my Song.

‘Ye gentle Birdes! the worlds faire ornament,
And heavens glorie, whom this happie hower
Doth leade unto your lovers blisfull bower,
Joy may you have, and gentle hearts content
Of your loves couplement;
And let faire Venus, that is Queene of love,
With her heart-quelling Sonne upon you smile,
Whose smile, they say, hath vertue to remove
All Loves dislike, and friendships faultie guile
For ever to assoile.
Let endlesse Peace your steadfast hearts accord,
And blessèd Plentie wait upon your bord;
And let your bed with pleasures chast abound,
That fruitfull issue may to you afford,
Which may your foes confound,
And make your joyes redound
Upon your Brydale day, which is not long:
  Sweete Themmes! runne softlie, till I end my Song.’

So ended she; and all the rest around
To her redoubled that her undersong,
Which said their brydale daye should not be long:
And gentle Eccho from the neighbour ground
Their accents did resound.
So forth those joyous Birdes did passe along,
Adowne the Lee, that to them murmurde low,
As he would speake, but that he lackt a tong,
Yet did by signes his glad affection show,
Making his streame run slow.
And all the foule which in his flood did dwell
Gan flock about these twaine, that did excell
The rest, so far as Cynthia doth shend
The lesser starres. So they, enrangèd well,
Did on those two attend,
And their best service lend
Against their wedding day, which was not long:
  Sweete Themmes! runne softly, till I end my Song.

At length they all to mery London came,
To mery London, my most kyndly Nurse,
That to me gave this Lifes first native sourse,
Though from another place I take my name,
An house of auncient fame:
There when they came, whereas those bricky towres
The which on Themmes brode agèd backe doe ryde,
Where now the studious Lawyers have their bowers,
There whylome wont the Templer Knights to byde,
Till they decayd through pride:
Next whereunto there standes a stately place,
Where oft I gaynèd giftes and goodly grace
Of that great Lord, which therein wont to dwell,
Whose want too well now feeles my freendles case;
But ah! here fits not well
Olde woes, but joyes, to tell
Against the Brydale daye, which is not long:
  Sweete Themmes! runne softly, till I end my Song.

Yet therein now doth lodge a noble Peer,
Great Englands glory, and the Worlds wide wonder,
Whose dreadfull name late through all Spaine did thunder,
And Hercules two pillors standing neere
Did make to quake and feare:
Faire branch of Honor, flower of Chevalrie!
That fillest England with thy triumphes fame,
Joy have thou of thy noble victorie,
And endlesse happinesse of thine owne name
That promiseth the same;
That through thy prowesse, and victorious armes,
Thy country may be freed from forraine harmes;
And great Elisaes glorious name may ring
Through al the world, fil’d with thy wide Alarmes,
Which some brave muse may sing
To ages following,
Upon the Brydale day, which is not long:
  Sweete Themmes! runne softly till I end my Song.

From those high Towers this noble Lord issuing,
Like Radiant Hesper, when his golden hayre
In th’ Ocean billowes he hath bathèd fayre,
Descended to the Rivers open vewing,
With a great traine ensuing.
Above the rest were goodly to bee seene
Two gentle Knights of lovely face and feature,
Beseeming well the bower of anie Queene,
With gifts of wit, and ornaments of nature,
Fit for so goodly stature,
That like the twins of Jove they seem’d in sight,
Which decke the Bauldricke of the Heavens bright;
They two, forth pacing to the Rivers side,
Received those two faire Brides, their Loves delight;
Which, at th’ appointed tyde,
Each one did make his Bryde
Against their Brydale day, which is not long:
  Sweete Themmes! runne softly, till I end my Song.
Dada Olowo Eyo May 2013
You're a shooting star against the darkened sky,
You're a red rose in a sea of white lillies,
You're a breath of fresh air in this stale world,
You're a gold nugget in a dark coal quarry.
In praise of Eliza, Queen of the Shepherds


See where she sits upon the grassie greene,
        (O seemely sight!)
Yclad in Scarlot, like a mayden Queene,
        And ermines white:
Upon her head a Cremosin coronet
With Damaske roses and Daffadillies set:
        Bay leaves betweene,
        And primroses greene,
Embellish the sweete Violet.

Tell me, have ye seene her angelick face
        Like Phoebe fayre?
Her heavenly haveour, her princely grace,
        Can you well compare?
The Redde rose medled with the White yfere,
In either cheeke depeincten lively chere:
        Her modest eye,
        Her Majestie,
Where have you seene the like but there?

I see Calliope speede her to the place,
        Where my Goddesse shines;
And after her the other Muses trace
        With their Violines.
Bene they not Bay braunches which they do beare,
All for Elisa in her hand to weare?
        So sweetely they play,
        And sing all the way,
That it a heaven is to heare.

Lo, how finely the Graces can it foote
        To the Instrument:
They dauncen deffly, and singen soote,
        In their meriment.
Wants not a fourth Grace to make the daunce even?
Let that rowme to my Lady be yeven.
        She shal be a Grace,
        To fyll the fourth place,
And reigne with the rest in heaven.

Bring hether the Pincke and purple Cullambine,
        With Gelliflowres;
Bring Coronations, and Sops-in-wine
        Worne of Paramoures:
Strowe me the ground with Daffadowndillies,
And Cowslips, and Kingcups, and lovèd Lillies:
        The pretie Pawnce,
        And the Chevisaunce,
Shall match with the fayre flowre Delice.

Now ryse up, Elisa, deckèd as thou art
        In royall aray;
And now ye daintie Damsells may depart
        Eche one her way.
I feare I have troubled your troupes to longe:
Let dame Elisa thanke you for her song:
        And if you come hether
        When Damsines I gether,
I will part them all you among.
Name Redacted Sep 2015
Without reason, in peacetime state
There stands the enemy at the gate
And the gates are holding, iron-wrought
But arrows slip through the bars and rock

And with his army held but immortal still
The Lord of Babylon waits until
A weakened moment, the changing guard
To bring fire and doubt and idol gods

But in castle courtyard, stands a Shepard
Who in faithful watch serves duties two
On his blooded right: the arrows
And in the other hand is you.

It's unthinkable to a castle's king
That victory be in surrender
But never had the Shepard led astray
And was let through unhindered

And the army lacking death and reason
Drew back their ranks in fear
For here stood the Shepard, proven dead
By Longinus's spear.

And the clanging sound of sword and shield
Of armor, whip and chain
Fell for the first time ever, silent.
At king's crying of His Name.
A poem I wrote at the request of a friend who was dealing with an anxiety disorder and wanted something he could read so he could be reminded of Christ's victory over our fear and worry. The title is a reference to Matthew 6:28-30, and illustrates the pride we have that separates us from our trust in God.
Ivan Brooks Sr Jul 2018
When a published poet dies,
A shooting star falls.
The universe cries
And rainbows hugs waterfalls.

When an old poet dies,
A new poet is born.
Nature lights up a million fireflies,
And a ship gives a tot on its horn.

When a young poet dies,
A Crack appears in a crystal ball.
A Fountain pen dries,
And a sad poem appears on a wall.

When an old poetess dies,
For a while the wind will cease.
Petals will fall from Lillies,
And disappear without a trace.

When a great poetess dies,
Fallen poets observe silence.
The men adorn black bow ties,
And the ladies dress in elegance.

When any poet dies,
The world loses a bright mind.
Shakespeare appears across the skies,
Waving to those of us left behind.

When a poor poet dies,
Nothing at all happens.
The world goes about its duties
He goes on to rest with other legends.


#IvanBrooksPoetry
29/7/2018
A poet dies but he's not done..his words lives on.
Liz Devine Aug 2014
It was a pretty standard bench;
the same one in the catalogs
with golden lillies
engraved right into the plaque
on the back rest

But Oh, how I loved
to sit there for hours
just kicking my feet back
and forth
watching the cars go by

He sat there once too
beneath the moon
and under the oak trees
in all his galant glory
I was ashamed;
but he was beautiful
You call it coincidence.
I call it a blessing.
It's the gift of life.
It's the splendor of the universe.
The lillies of the valley.
The glory of the sun.

You call it opportunity .
I call it a blessing.
It's the education that is ever so free.
It's the freedom that was fought for the upcoming generation.

You call it chance.
I call it a blessing.
It's a mother's love, that I still have.
It's the wonder of friendship.
The people that hold you up.
The strengh of your bestfriend that sticks closer than a brother.

You call it a big break.
I call it a blessing.
It's the job that is perfect for me.
The material benefits that I enjoy.

You call it luck.
I call it a blessing.
It's a life partner that stands when you want to fall.
The love that is available to us all, if only we ask for it.
It's called a blessing, a blessing that we don't deserve.
Not coincidence, opportunity, chance, a big break or luck.

It's a higher power, bigger than anything of this world...
It's called a blessing.
                       ~Gabbriella with 2 b's~
#npmluck
EM Biller Feb 2011
I went to Wal-Mart, the other day
To buy you a shower curtain.
Not just any shower curtain, if I do say so myself,
But the perfect shower curtain.
I wanted a shower curtain that would describe you, as a person.
A shower curtain so wonderful
And weird
And uniquely you
That everyone that saw it would say,
"****!  That's a fine shower curtain!"
And what's more, they would know,
Beyond a shadow of a doubt,
That it was your shower curtain.
No one else's.

I didn't find it.

I'm sorry.  I am.
I tried to get one that fit
Your style, your class, your ******* beauty,
But I'm not sure it exists.

First, I tried to find one that smelled like fresh-cut flowers
After a rainstorm
In the Amazon.
Then, I thought about trying to find
Something that would match the color of your eyes,
But I don't think they've invented a material
That starts out sea green
Then changes to iron gray when you're happy,
Sky blue when you're sad,
And a mix of all three when you're angry,
Like a technicolor warning system.

So I looked for one patterned with cartoon owls.
Because I know you're scared of birds,
And the best time to face any fear
Is in the morning.
And the best way
Is as a cartoon.

They didn't have one printed with your favorite song,
Or one made entirely of white lillies,
Or one cut into the shape of every snowflake
From every snowball
You've ever fired,
With the accuracy of the captain of the softball team,
Directly at my head.

I tried to find one with your vicious brand of humor
That I find so compelling,
But they don't make a shower curtain
That insults your mother,
Then gives you a kiss on the chin
Because it can't reach your nose.

I went to Wal-Mart to buy you a shower curtain.

So I bought the only one they had
That I could justify
Because nothing else would have fit.
I bought one that is translucent,
So that if I walk in on you one morning-

By accident, of course-

When you are busy washing your hair
As you sing Elvis songs,
I'll be able to see you,
Without seeing everything.
Copyright 2010 E.M. Biller.  Or whatever I need to put here to say, "Don't steal this!"
Tabby Jun 2017
The Lillies bring you peace,
They can even be an animal.

The breath of babies,
The man that's hanging.

Roses are many different colors than just red,
Those colors having different meanings.

Violets can be the color of their name,
They can also be the color blue.

Some flowers are from the sun,
Others are not as bright.

Daisies and Lillies can be in a prarie,
Others don't even sprout from the ground.

My best friend is my favorite flower,
Even though she's not an actual.

Flowers are bright and colorful,
While others can be dull at times.

She is as beautiful as anyone's favorite flower,
Looks wise and personality.

She's almost always bright,
But everyone and thing had their moments.

The moment we meet she had me hooked,
I never knew I was missing anything till I found her.

When people are sick they ate given flowers,
Or even is they just need them.

Good saw we needed some flowers,
But he had a plan.

He gave us each one flower a piece,
He knew just the one would suffice.

He knew we would help the other,
He knew she'd be the perfect flower,  for a damaged one like me.
Tom Orr Oct 2012
Hello.

                 Hello.

Lillies please,
just a handful,
keep the change.

He asked if they were for a loved one

No sir, for Benny, sir. He questioned the King.

With that I turned and left.
As I broke into the outside air,
my eyes turned to the sky.

It was no use holding back the tears.

He slept beneath the tree as his friends and family congregated

To abandon oneself to principles is really to die - and to die for an impossible love which is the contrary of love.
Eulogy taken from a quotation by Albert Camus
Robin Carretti May 2018
City rush me
Pretty push
Did he see?
The wish on
*******
Sunday I thought
A rush of pluses +++
He won
Be on time if not - - -

Monday be
good to me
Rumors
Fantasy thoughts
I am
What I am
Not Popeye
Going day back
I need a third eye
I am
All free
Robin
Bird
From
everyone

Wait!!

Don't rush me
I love everyone
*

Newspaper's
Sunday
Daily
News
Poem
touchdown
My poem stood
With the others
I bowed ((Gladly))


Waking up
To a Racers- mouth
Ray
_ speed lover
No homework

All game
Sunday_

Candles burned
The House flamed

"Procrastinator"
I'll be back
"Destroyer-Terminator"
Coffee drug me percolator
He April fools her
Shopping Sunday
right up magnifying
dress

He is back
Not the future
Smart *** tricks
On the Escalator
He Jeremy irons out
her clothes
That's it!!!

Never rushed
on Sunday
To make
a mob hit

The call girls
Busy- tight pants
So Panicked Monday's
religiously
Hooked in
Scientology

So ****** in
Not to ever kiss
her on a
Sunday
He bunked into ((God))
Poem ritual bunk bed
Well NYC
Cabbie, he
will
never
take it
on Sunday

The big game
crazies
The flower
shops
of horror
Emptied
out with
Moms
Tiger
Lillies
Smelling

Mad Men hungover

Rush hour
Tv movie
Hangover
Jet game
Sprinkler
shower

Opening up
The door to his
apartment
Big Girly
hoarder mess
After a
long talk
night

Saturday Night
Brooklyn
The Disco Queen
bridge-sight
His Mom
is still oiling
His BMW Racecar
with
Hot fire Crisco
he
will never
be
rushed
out the door
His car
never
starts
Sunday
or a
Monday

Teased on
Tuesday
Wednesday
shes wild
Thursday
Ladies
drink
for free
_

She got
her husband
to buy
her cushion
cut square
On Sunday
Do it or dare
She's
hanging
low

Times Square

Girly rough
Brooklyn
tough
Channel
blush
On Sunday
he is so
wired bushed
All the day os the week and the weekend should be the most relaxing. But its all crazies and cabbies give me my Starbucks of sugar daddies
There she sits my sweet love
in the valley of lilies
her hair swept back by kind warm winds
summer has come to her wonder sweet

I hide on the hilltop and watch her as she sings
and all around birds she does bring
my heart does pound
as in the valley her voice resounds

Oh what a beauty she is
and she is mine
her surprise will be
that I am back and fine

So I watch her
ready to surprise her
that I am back again
to marry her

But for now I just watch her
as she sings picking white peace lilies
the ring I have for her finger
is just for her and no other


By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris
Joy Apr 2016
The world was pushing me cotton white lillies
But all I saw were rose petals flooding in the breeze.

My kisses were stars in the sky
Never ending, bright as can be
But even those started blinking out,
Flickering like candle light.

Wide eyes stuck on the moon,
*I never could keep my eyes on the road when driving with you.
April, 2016
Ever let the Fancy roam,
Pleasure never is at home:
At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth,
Like to bubbles when rain pelteth;
Then let winged Fancy wander
Through the thought still spread beyond her:
Open wide the mind's cage-door,
She'll dart forth, and cloudward soar.
O sweet Fancy! let her loose;
Summer's joys are spoilt by use,
And the enjoying of the Spring
Fades as does its blossoming;
Autumn's red-lipp'd fruitage too,
Blushing through the mist and dew,
Cloys with tasting: What do then?
Sit thee by the ingle, when
The sear ****** blazes bright,
Spirit of a winter's night;
When the soundless earth is muffled,
And the caked snow is shuffled
From the ploughboy's heavy shoon;
When the Night doth meet the Noon
In a dark conspiracy
To banish Even from her sky.
Sit thee there, and send abroad,
With a mind self-overaw'd,
Fancy, high-commission'd:--send her!
She has vassals to attend her:
She will bring, in spite of frost,
Beauties that the earth hath lost;
She will bring thee, all together,
All delights of summer weather;
All the buds and bells of May,
From dewy sward or thorny spray;
All the heaped Autumn's wealth,
With a still, mysterious stealth:
She will mix these pleasures up
Like three fit wines in a cup,
And thou shalt quaff it:--thou shalt hear
Distant harvest-carols clear;
Rustle of the reaped corn;
Sweet birds antheming the morn:
And, in the same moment, hark!
'Tis the early April lark,
Or the rooks, with busy caw,
Foraging for sticks and straw.
Thou shalt, at one glance, behold
The daisy and the marigold;
White-plum'd lillies, and the first
Hedge-grown primrose that hath burst;
Shaded hyacinth, alway
Sapphire queen of the mid-May;
And every leaf, and every flower
Pearled with the self-same shower.
Thou shalt see the field-mouse peep
Meagre from its celled sleep;
And the snake all winter-thin
Cast on sunny bank its skin;
Freckled nest-eggs thou shalt see
Hatching in the hawthorn-tree,
When the hen-bird's wing doth rest
Quiet on her mossy nest;
Then the hurry and alarm
When the bee-hive casts its swarm;
Acorns ripe down-pattering,
While the autumn breezes sing.

Oh, sweet Fancy! let her loose;
Every thing is spoilt by use:
Where's the cheek that doth not fade,
Too much gaz'd at? Where's the maid
Whose lip mature is ever new?
Where's the eye, however blue,
Doth not weary? Where's the face
One would meet in every place?
Where's the voice, however soft,
One would hear so very oft?
At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth
Like to bubbles when rain pelteth.
Let, then, winged Fancy find
Thee a mistress to thy mind:
Dulcet-ey'd as Ceres' daughter,
Ere the God of Torment taught her
How to frown and how to chide;
With a waist and with a side
White as ****'s, when her zone
Slipt its golden clasp, and down
Fell her kirtle to her feet,
While she held the goblet sweet
And Jove grew languid.--Break the mesh
Of the Fancy's silken leash;
Quickly break her prison-string
And such joys as these she'll bring.--
Let the winged Fancy roam,
Pleasure never is at home.
Joseph Valle Aug 2012
Night beckons to strange people.
Actually, if you can accept this premise,
then the mind makes everyone strange.
And still yet, there is something specific about darkness,
I cannot put my finger on it,
that sends odd sparks of real life
on a mission to city street corners.

I hide in my car after leaving the café
with the hope of seeing, "The Pigtailed Man."
This isn't his name.
However, I need say no more to any stranger
for him to envision my character.
We objectify him and his image becomes clear
even when spotted in narrowed alleyway darkness.

He has a beautiful wife
with locks past her shoulder
of auburn and lillies,
and two wonderfully bright children
who sit on his knee when listening
to nighty-night, bedtime stories.
Their ringing laughter illuminates
the darkest corners of their happy home.
They'll never know why he needs
to go bye-bye at dangerous evening hours,
hunting sour scowls from passers-by.

He's unkempt: legs unshaven, chin covered
by midnight shadow, beer belly hanging over his
plaid picnic-basket red schoolgirl skirt,
and his face sags as if a topical novocaine
was applied generously to his chubby, rosy cheeks.
Upon seeing his aimless strut
and dead-to-self eyes, I wonder: Where does he dress?
Does he put his outfit on from plastic grocery bag
around the block from the lamp-lit looks of
the neighbors' friendly daytime greetings?
More importantly, if I were friend
and was to catch him in the act,
would I say anything?

Darkness calls out the most intriguing creatures.
We're afraid to call them "human beings,"
because being human most certainly
does not look like this.
Or, does it not look like this?
Shadows claw walls around all
because not one body projects light.
There are some who know, and some who appease.
The pigtails hang to his knees as he stares
at the mannequins of pretty women
in the window of the closed department store.
First born of Chaos, who so fair didst come
        From the old *****’s darksome womb!
        Which when it saw the lovely Child,
The melancholly Mass put on kind looks and smil’d.

Thou Tide of Glory which no Rest dost know,
        But ever Ebb, and ever Flow!
        Thou ******* of a true Jove!
Who does in thee descend, and Heav’n to Earth make Love!

Hail active Natures watchful Life and Health!
        Her Joy, her Ornament, and Wealth!
        Hail to thy Husband Heat, and Thee!
Thou the worlds beauteous Bride, the ***** Bridegroom He!

Say from what Golden Quivers of the Sky,
        Do all thy winged Arrows fly?
        Swiftness and Power by Birth are thine:
From thy Great Sire they came, thy Sire the word Divine.

’Tis, I believe, this Archery to show,
        That so much cost in Colours thou,
        And skill in Painting dost bestow,
Upon thy ancient Arms, the Gawdy Heav’nly Bow.

Swift as light Thoughts their empty Carriere run,
        Thy Race is finisht, when begun,
        Let a Post-Angel start with Thee,
And Thou the Goal of Earth shalt reach as soon as He:

Thou in the Moons bright Chariot proud and gay,
        Dost thy bright wood of Stars survay;
        And all the year dost with thee bring
Of thousand flowry Lights thine own Nocturnal Spring.

Thou Scythian-like dost round thy Lands above
        The Suns gilt Tent for ever move,
        And still as thou in pomp dost go
The shining Pageants of the World attend thy show.

Nor amidst all these Triumphs dost thou scorn
        The humble Glow-worms to adorn,
        And with those living spangles gild,
(O Greatness without Pride!) the Bushes of the Field.

Night, and her ugly Subjects thou dost fright,
        And sleep, the lazy Owl of Night;
        Asham’d and fearful to appear
They skreen their horrid shapes with the black Hemisphere.

With ’em there hasts, and wildly takes the Alarm,
        Of painted Dreams, a busie swarm,
        At the first opening of thine eye,
The various Clusters break, the antick Atomes fly.

The guilty Serpents, and obscener Beasts
        Creep conscious to their secret rests:
        Nature to thee does reverence pay,
Ill Omens, and ill Sights removes out of thy way.

At thy appearance, Grief it self is said,
        To shake his Wings, and rowse his Head.
        And cloudy care has often took
A gentle beamy Smile reflected from thy Look.

At thy appearance, Fear it self grows bold;
        Thy Sun-shine melts away his Cold.
        Encourag’d at the sight of Thee,
To the cheek Colour comes, and firmness to the knee.

Even Lust the Master of a hardned Face,
        Blushes if thou beest in the place,
        To darkness’ Curtains he retires,
In Sympathizing Night he rowls his smoaky Fires.

When, Goddess, thou liftst up thy wakened Head,
        Out of the Mornings purple bed,
        Thy Quire of Birds about thee play,
And all the joyful world salutes the rising day.

The Ghosts, and Monster Spirits, that did presume
        A Bodies Priv’lege to assume,
        Vanish again invisibly,
And Bodies gain agen their visibility.

All the Worlds bravery that delights our Eyes
        Is but thy sev’ral Liveries,
        Thou the Rich Dy on them bestowest,
Thy nimble Pencil Paints this Landskape as thou go’st.

A Crimson Garment in the Rose thou wear’st;
        A Crown of studded Gold thou bear’st,
        The ****** Lillies in their White,
Are clad but with the Lawn of almost Naked Light.

The Violet, springs little Infant, stands,
        Girt in thy purple Swadling-bands:
        On the fair Tulip thou dost dote;
Thou cloath’st it in a gay and party-colour’d Coat.

With Flame condenst thou dost the Jewels fix,
        And solid Colours in it mix:
        Flora her self envyes to see
Flowers fairer then her own, and durable as she.

Ah, Goddess! would thou could’st thy hand withhold,
        And be less Liberall to Gold;
        Didst thou less value to it give,
Of how much care (alas) might’st thou poor Man relieve!

To me the Sun is more delighful farr,
        And all fair Dayes much fairer are.
        But few, ah wondrous few there be,
Who do not Gold preferr, O Goddess, ev’n to Thee.

Through the soft wayes of Heaven, and Air, and Sea,
        Which open all their Pores to Thee;
        Like a cleer River thou dost glide,
And with thy Living Stream through the close Channels slide.

But where firm Bodies thy free course oppose,
        Gently thy source the Land oreflowes;
        Takes there possession, and does make,
Of Colours mingled, Light, a thick and standing Lake.

But the vast Ocean of unbounded Day
        In th’ EmpyrÆan Heaven does stay.
        Thy Rivers, Lakes, and Springs below
From thence took first their Rise, thither at last must Flow.
Manisha Uniyal Nov 2015
Blooming flowers in the heart of sky
dancing the shades vibrant of butterfly
magic of grass green
blending in light of the dawn serene

Rainbow with all it's colors
sprinkled on the contours of earth
red and green and blue
Like Sparkling drops of resting dew

soothing white lillies
and sensual red rose
captivating fragrance of jasmine
and the smiling marigold

ornamental purple vines of bougainvillea
glorifying in the bright of light
in the cloudy patterns of heaven
inciting mischief in the playful minds

Bells of Gladiolus
supreme in its strength
Sunlit sword of lily
Blushing,when emerging from it's stem


Manisha
Caleb Reeves May 2014
A room
Full of flowers

Roses
Lillies
Sunflowers

Would not look as

Vibrant
Delicate
Captivating

nor smell as

Sweet
Intoxicating
Seductive
A poem a found in some old notes labled "Page of Love poems" from high school and then revised when posted
SøułSurvivør Feb 2015
-


this page of leaves
blowing smoke of the
burning woman inside her
convenient misery
-
this, her offspring
failure to launch
-
the babes of her
black bossom bugeoning
with brokenness
delinquent
-
now does her pride purloined
of a place In the world
deliver under death
the kindred kindled
blood
-
the substance of her support
now darker . drained
the black lillies
of her bed soon
broken of
spirit
smouldering
-
she wishes the furnace
to burn away
all but
love
-
the world of her nature
still nourishing the
swarthy children of her
caligraphic countinance
forever distracted
and distraught
-
producing naught
but despair
and
d
i
s
a
p
p
e
a
r
i
n
g

i

n


k


soulsurvivor
(C) 2/11/2014
I think of whatever I create
as a sort of a child

I have no child to carry on
after me so I hope my work
will be held in perpetuaty
-
Storygiver Jun 2017
Do green fingers still pull triggers?
Or do they only till the fields of hair?
Ploughing furrows of worry through thinning follicles,
Tangled knots of concern, snarling their path from the true.
Or can they only point accusingly,
Trembling fists beneath pointed judgements?
Hoping the directions sought by those lost,
Do not lead them down the garden path of violence.
This is for a man who takes nurturing into his hands.
A man who believes that the Kingdom of God can be found on earth.
A man who is determined to labour here in this the city of his birth
To cultivate the hope that springs eternal.
Changes part of the faith in his dreams to piece together his reality;
A world without violence.
These hopes are sleep sent for certain.
But his hands are sandstone
So when he rubs the rest from his eyes
He's only shaping his wishes into something less fleeting
For sure, his resting place is a flower bed
cos he wakes plants from their sleeping.

For each shoot that doesn't fire and grow
And each root that doesn't take hold and show
Each colour he knows they're capable of,
feels like a personal blow to all the effort he's put in.

This is the last gardener of Aleppo
His name is Abu *** and he is sick of watching his city fall apart
Ash Shabbah – the city of white soil and pale marble
Now  the white of ash, pale of face and fearful.
Once sanctuary against war,
Now this may as well be the last garden in the world.

He tells us “flowers help the world and there is no greater beauty than flowers”
And so for years, as his city suffers pallid,sickly but not bloodless,
He makes bouquets by roadsides for those who chose to stay
or have nowhere else to go,
or have left but their bodies remain,
And whose only beauty is ribcage grown

He wreathes his arm around the world
Turns our world into a garden of funeral tributes,
appreciated only now
In stark contrast to the destruction that never ceases.

He tends to carry on conversations with the dead
Motionless beneath the surface.
Friends or strangers
Rubble roused and fleeing, now their journey ended
Escaped as best they could, holding flowers in hands
 as he tends his garden still.

It’s a losing battle, lost
How only weeds grow through the cracks that civilization left .
Lichens lasting forever whenever they find the surface to hold onto long enough in this turmoil.
Though he pines for lillies;
 White crocus and daisies grow best in rebel held streets.
No matter.
He makes the dinner he deserves
fragrant with rosebay willow herb
And sage for remembering
But he can’t help but develop a bad taste in his mouth .
He has no taste for retribution
And he has nothing to cleanse the palate,
Of the pungency of despair,
The starvation of the soul.

The desert creeps further into his domain every year
Tendrils of havoc pushed like weeds wicked fingers by fertile bullets
Planted with no thought for the cruel blooms that unknown casualties assume know best
Brush strokes of red lichen, grace pocked walls carelessly evident of lives now past.
For every gravestone reminder of fertile soil
He knows each harvest relies on the last.
Cultivating only goodness in his heart,
the last gardener opposes the law of abandoned places:
That only rot will grow in the spaces left by humanity’s neglect
With agriculture he fights the ravages of the faithless. Torn turning this place into nothingness,
Looking for any hope this last chance leaves in a forest fresh of despair
So he tells us he’s heard from God that
“This tree will live and we will live despite everything.”
And he believes that the timbre of his voice would drown out the violence as he kneels in prayer,
As everything he loves splinters around him.

And he believes that even against the decrepit disrepair
That He can make this place an Eden again,
An oasis of calm during conflict.

Ibrahim lost his father
But maybe his memory can blossom and some beauty can bloom from the killing fields
Of the lily white city that can raise it’s own colours as a flag
And surrender itself to the will of the God of the Gardeners.
This was inspired by a channel 4 documentary of the same name.
You can watch it here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lJGp3g93h6M

I know that it can be disingenuous to write a poem where you have no personal experience of the subject matter but my purpose was to be respectful and honour a human who lived. If you feel this has not been the case please feel free to contact me and make me aware - I would rather be called out.
Stephanie Lynn Jun 2014
Dear Precious,

Mommy loves you.

You are the complete adoration of my selfless soul. What joy and learning experience it will be to watch you grow!

You aren't even here yet, but I know you are patiently waiting to come through. Funny thing you may want to know; your mommy is patiently waiting too!

I pray to God He gives me the tools I need to be the perfect mother. That I can truly provide you with the world you deserve, and to make you the greatest King or Queen you were born to be.

I will teach you about loss and I will teach you about love. I will show you the beauty in lillies and the purity of a dove. I will introduce you to adventures and the rising of the sun, and I will teach you how to capture fire flies when the day is done.

I will do my best to help you understand pain, and show you that even a rainbow cannot exist without rain. You will know the gift of a father and will know the love of a much higher power.

My precious soul child you, I will do everything in my power to love, honor, and rightfully protect you. So do not be afraid to come down to this silly earth, there is far too much to see.  Come down for a visit and be with me.

You will understand one day what it is to be in my shoes, and I will always be at your side, whether in physical or spiritual form, to guide you.

My precious soul child wherever you may be, I will always be waiting.

Love You Forever,
Mom
(C) Maxwell 2014
Poetic T Mar 2017
singing on lillies
acoustic ripples vibrate

morning awakens

— The End —