"listning" poems
I presse not to the Quire, nor dare I greet
The holy Place with my unhallow’d feet:
My unwasht Muse pollutes not things Divine,
Nor mingles her prophaner notes with thine;
Here, humbly at the Porch, she listning stayes,
And with glad eares ***** in thy Sacred Layes.
So, devout Penitents of old were wont,
Some without doore, and some beneath the Font,
To stand and heare the Churches Liturgies,
Yet not assist the solemne Exercise.
Sufficeth her, that she a Lay-place gaine,
To trim thy Vestments, or but beare thy traine:
Though nor in Tune, nor Wing, She reach thy Larke,
Her Lyricke feet may dance before the Arke.
Who knowes, but that Her wandring eyes, that run
Now hunting Glow-wormes, may adore the Sun.
A pure Flame may, shot by Almighty Power
Into my brest, the earthy flame devoure:
My Eyes, in Penitentiall dew may steepe
That bryne, which they for sensuall love did weepe:
So (though ‘gainst Natures course) fire may be quencht
With fire, and water be with water drencht.
Perhaps, my restlesse Soule, tyr’d with pursuit
Of mortall beautie, seeking without fruit
Contentment there; which hath not, when enjoy’d,
Quencht all her thirst, nor satisfi’d, though cloy’d;
Weary of her vaine search below, above
In the first Faire may find th’ immortall Love.
Prompted by thy Example then, no more
In moulds of Clay will I my God adore;
But teare those Idols from my Heart, and Write
What his blest Sp’rit, not fond Love, shall endite.
Then, I no more shall court the Verdant Bay,
But the dry leavelesse Trunk on Golgotha:
And rather strive to gaine from thence one Thorne,
Then all the flourishing Wreathes by Laureats worne.
2.3k
Kick me for feeling too smug over this pretty number which happened to write itself.
(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCLXVII)
O! how I yearn to wander through the tale
Of naked woods likeas a nymph from hence!
As if I am the sister of, fr'intents,
The trees whose boughs like arms reach up, t'avail
Me of the light is't? or that sense of pale
Keen longing to just breathe, non listning thence
Unto the softest whispers passing whence
We canna say twixt all the leaves, t'exhale.
I want to search for violets, like they'd stir
Now that rain's melted half the snow anew,
Whiles lo, winds toss the firs whose voice as twere
Sounds hoarsely in this fragile warmth's debut.
Yes, I can feel it in my bones--that pure
Note of sweet life which calls buds as it'd woo.
13Mar19a
Mar 14, 2019
Mar 14, 2019 at 10:43 PM UTC
*08Jun17: probably Joe is done with me, Adrian assessed; my brother sez it is too fishy: "just forget it/him."
(sonnet #MMMMMMCCCCLXXXII)
How piquant notes of car'mel waft thin scents
Across this hollow silence like t'avail,
'Cept there's none to be had in sheer betrayl;
And blue skies wear soft white clouds with a sense
Of lazy calm winds flirt 'non through from hence,
Boughs nodding lightly as leaves whisper frail
Auld secrets to the listning ear, as pale
Light eyes these shadows which cavort, and whence?
Forsooth. They talk of la, the wedding, fer
Our questions: groom was "bro-force." Hope th'ado
Lasts until death, though couples think that poor
These days. And I cannot be sick of who
Just toy with me, cuz I'm forever your
Fool who oft use me thus. Yes, what is new?
08Jul17a
Jul 12, 2017
Jul 12, 2017 at 8:17 PM UTC
(or, what I did 02Mar19PM)
(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCXLIII)
Crunch M&M's whilst listning to, t'avail,
Karl Lagerfeld on lo, his craft and thence
Why he scorned social media for intents:
Cuz artists need to keep the channels they'll
Use to inspire such feats as we'll in frail
Excuse half worship clear of aught else hence,
Which I have learned ere now in sheer defense
Of this mine own work, whence erm, nod, t'exhale.
Chanel and Fendi lost a master fer
Their grand success these decades, likeas to
Effect they'll never know again in tour,
Methinks. Ah, Shakespeare, Shelley, long gone too,
Carl Philippe um, Emmanuel Bach--what were
We thinking was ahead? Mars candy'd do.
03Mar19a
Mar 9, 2019
Mar 9, 2019 at 9:51 PM UTC
...the last of three for national poetry day when writing one's become a chore.
(sonnet #MMMMMMMCDXL)
Tis nash'nal po'try day, and I've from thence
Ne words for aught. To be suffices. Pale
Hours watch rain trip on puddles to avail,
As I wish to be out there listning, whence
Do not take notes; thet silver eye suspense
Just trims its nails through, sans a voice, is frail.
And when those navy racks glowr in betrayl,
I note orange bushes, yet hopes are pretense.
We have our dinner now as gloaming'd stir.
Wash dishes after, while the dark night to
Effect is black, so very black. Who tour
Upon these roads are like the fireflies through
Warm August twilight. Oh! What is't as twere?
Why's writing such a chore? Will being just do?
10Oct18c
Oct 13, 2018
Oct 13, 2018 at 4:12 PM UTC
I am certain they DID bury me with Mum.
(sonnet #MMMMMMMCLXXVI)
Memor'al weekend's here, and summer thence
In tow as wont: my stockings in betrayl
Hang limply, needing to be washed, and stale
Cuz warmth is now a constant, with those scents
I had forgot: that sour note haunting sense,
As to perspire is what we'll do sans bail
The next four months, erm straight, t'exhale
Nor think of sweaters, chill our sweet defense.
Watch golden shafts, while Maple leaves half stir
To fragile whispers, tricking shadows to
Shift vaguely 'cross grass' carpet, skies deep blue
And moody, clouds mair grey, light ghastly, poor
As listning to the kitchen sounds in tour,
The music gone, how static mocks which cue?
26May18b
May 27, 2018
May 27, 2018 at 8:35 PM UTC
...or--what?
(sonnet #MMMMMMMCDXXXII)
Rain trips so lightly in the hallowed sense
Of keener silence listning to that frail
Step traffic rushes heedless through. Birds hail
With merry notes and fragile, as from hence
Lo, crickets murmer like for all intents
The solemn ghost of patience walks here, pale
As Sunday's dimmer eye. Clouds' masque the veil
Oer all, an airplane's voice sifts through, and whence?
Oh! how the maples' boughs rock, tinged as twere
By orange' first warnings of that rendezvous
With Death. Winds caller as they whisper through
This calm, wool, tights, and tweed now, are not poor.
And if I mourn that I've ne lover fer
Whatever, somehow even that's not new.
07Oct18a
Oct 13, 2018
Oct 13, 2018 at 3:57 PM UTC
Tuesday in a nutshell, the week, for that matter.
(sonnet #MMMMMMMCMXXIV)
Rain dances on vast puddles with a sense
Of that delicious wetness, where in pale
Excuse I maunt find one spare minute's bail
To steal a chance out where it'd whisper thence
Fair secrets to the listning few. Note hence
That lightning flashes, thunder's deep exhale
In tow, and how my schedule shan't avail
Me of a chance to breathe for aught intents.
No, run, run, run, mair thankful thus in poor
Reply that lo, Thy mercies are e'er new.
And further, that "man does not live [in tour]
By bread alone--" but by Thy Word, while too
Besieged by what would drown me, 'cept for Your
Great lovingkindness...cept, LORD, cuz of You.
30Apr19b
May 2, 2019
May 2, 2019 at 11:30 PM UTC
Hint: see his sonnet on his second wife Catherine, specifically the line--"...vested all in white--"
(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCXVII)
Snow. Was last summer traipsing through a tale
Of mirey puddles? Ah. Tis wet fr'intents,
But with frore air presiding all's white hence
Or icy, like the curving claws that hail
From silent eaves, no scimiter--in pale
Excuse for fancied heights--but fringing thence
The void twixt roof and far below, a sense
Perchance of grasping in their scope's detail.
I look out half surprised all's buried fer
The umpteenth time, as flakes cavort now through
Unnumbered hours likeas soft mists in tour,
Sip that espresso foamed milk crowns anew
In thoughtful silence, not unlike that pure
Calm listning as snow falls in silence too.
17Feb19a
Mar 9, 2019
Mar 9, 2019 at 9:36 PM UTC
Ha. I've too much stacked up on all accounts for your feeble dispute, if any, to be heard.
(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCLXXII)
He led me on a wild goose chase, to thence
Look was't half sheepish, 'fessing in betrayl
Twas all a ruse. No kisses either, pale
Night bitter, though alive and listning hence
Mair keenly than I cared t'acknowledge, sense
Upon its honour as a watchman they'll
Arraign for sleeping on his post, t'avail
I had a ball despite was't ill intents?
What DOES "I love you" signify as twere?
Folk never knew what was afoot 'til to
Effect twas: over. He's most chummy fer
Good show now my heart's lost. The weeks we two
Spent in a whirlwind romance are gone, poor
As his late overtures who can not woo.
27Jan19b
Feb 13, 2019
Feb 13, 2019 at 12:41 AM UTC