"lope" poems - Hello Poetry

"lope" poems

It was in the end of September, The kashmir trip i still remember, The thought of going to the heaven on earth made me feel so excited, I was happy and delighted, Our eyes filled with enthusiasm and hope, And to kashmir we wanted to lope, Just the twelve of us, There wouldn't be any ruckus or fuss, We were accompanied by ma'am Handa and Mr. Pandey, We enjoyed everything from gondola rides to our house boat stay, We went to places like Sonamarg and Pahalgam, We'd get tired reach the hotel and apply Jhandu balm, We enjoyed all our horse rides, We were accompanied by well-versed guides, We always managed to take out time for shopping, From shop to shop we went hopping, Kashmiri kawah and authentic Kashmiri food for almost every meal, Would make the tiredness for long distance walking heal, A Kashmiri wedding is also what we attended, For back and forth rides on shikara we depended, Oh! But to sum up I have to say, In kashmir we loved it each and everyday.

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Dec 24, 2013

Dec 24, 2013 at 3:10 AM UTC

Journey through the heaven on earth

It was in the end of September, The kashmir trip i still remember, The thought of going to the heaven on earth made me feel so excited, I was happy and delighted, Our eyes filled with enthusiasm and hope, And to kashmir we wanted to lope, Just the twelve of us, There wouldn't be any ruckus or fuss, We were accompanied by ma'am Handa and Mr. Pandey, We enjoyed everything from gondola rides to our house boat stay, We went to places like Sonamarg and Pahalgam, We'd get tired reach the hotel and apply Jhandu balm, We enjoyed all our horse rides, We were accompanied by well-versed guides, We always managed to take out time for shopping, From shop to shop we went hopping, Kashmiri kawah and authentic Kashmiri food for almost every meal, Would make the tiredness for long distance walking heal, A Kashmiri wedding is also what we attended, For back and forth rides on shikara we depended, Oh! But to sum up I have to say, In kashmir we loved it each and everyday.

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Prowling, like a wolf on the periphery of the unknown betwixt knowledge and dread I saw the dark truth I felt the gulf the waste the expanse the difference in power the taste of defeat the vice grip of the inevitable the long, slow bleed of my dignity flowing out with the gold of my entrails eviscerated by my pride how I dared to topple the monolithic, undeniable truth that there is always a better you a better me a better us, out there stronger bigger faster smarter more hung more fashionable more handsome, more beautiful, more androgynous more capable more accomplished more patient more... loving more empathetic they know more random facts they've been more places they've known more people they've seen more sunrises they've counted every moon their worst is better than your best day he cares for her more deeply than you did she loves that she's forgotten you he tells her what he never told you and she loves him for that you were always afraid to find out they never invite you because you're not fun what a downer what a bore there's always that one person upon whom your envy is never sated they lope in moonlight flowing locks of grace teeth bared in a frightful grin they know all your cards they can play you like a fiddle they're out there where you fear to go the apex predator the person you'll never be but dream you could and dreams are all you'll have...

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Oct 31, 2022

Oct 31, 2022 at 6:37 PM UTC

Prowling, like a wolf on the periphery of the unknown betwixt knowledge and dread I saw the dark truth I felt the gulf the waste the expanse the difference in power the taste of defeat the vice grip of the inevitable the long, slow bleed of my dignity flowing out with the gold of my entrails eviscerated by my pride how I dared to topple the monolithic, undeniable truth that there is always a better you a better me a better us, out there stronger bigger faster smarter more hung more fashionable more handsome, more beautiful, more androgynous more capable more accomplished more patient more... loving more empathetic they know more random facts they've been more places they've known more people they've seen more sunrises they've counted every moon their worst is better than your best day he cares for her more deeply than you did she loves that she's forgotten you he tells her what he never told you and she loves him for that you were always afraid to find out they never invite you because you're not fun what a downer what a bore there's always that one person upon whom your envy is never sated they lope in moonlight flowing locks of grace teeth bared in a frightful grin they know all your cards they can play you like a fiddle they're out there where you fear to go the apex predator the person you'll never be but dream you could and dreams are all you'll have...

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To write a sonnet doth Juana press me, I've never found me in such stress or pain; A sonnet numbers fourteen lines, 'tis plain, And three are gone, ere I can say, God bless me! I thought that spinning rhymes might sore oppress me, Yet here I'm midway in the last quatrain; And if the foremost tercet I can gain, The quatrains need not any more distress me. To the first tercet I have got at last, And travel through it with such right good will, That with this line I've finished it, I ween; I'm in the second now, and see how fast The thirteenth line runs tripping from my quill; Hurrah, 'tis done! Count if there be fourteen!

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May 10, 2017

May 10, 2017 at 2:15 PM UTC

Sonnet on The Sonnet by Lope de Vega (1562-1635) Translated by James Y. Gibson

To write a sonnet doth Juana press me, I've never found me in such stress or pain; A sonnet numbers fourteen lines, 'tis plain, And three are gone, ere I can say, God bless me! I thought that spinning rhymes might sore oppress me, Yet here I'm midway in the last quatrain; And if the foremost tercet I can gain, The quatrains need not any more distress me. To the first tercet I have got at last, And travel through it with such right good will, That with this line I've finished it, I ween; I'm in the second now, and see how fast The thirteenth line runs tripping from my quill; Hurrah, 'tis done! Count if there be fourteen!

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Wounds heal but they'll always leave a scar. A little keepsake of memories. We may always lope that these wounds may heal without scars, that everything would out perfectly, despite us knowing that is very unlikely. It is reassuring that after time passes most will wear them with pride as a badge-like battle scar. Though I seem to fall into a hole of turmoil and confusion seeing as I'm not like most, I've always been different and found it hard to fit into the crowd. A blessing and a suede it may be but it is who I am and I promise you I'll always be your little "nerd" regardless of your desire.

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Jul 12, 2015

Jul 12, 2015 at 6:25 PM UTC

Wounds heal but they'll always leave a scar. A little keepsake of memories. We may always lope that these wounds may heal without scars, that everything would out perfectly, despite us knowing that is very unlikely. It is reassuring that after time passes most will wear them with pride as a badge-like battle scar. Though I seem to fall into a hole of turmoil and confusion seeing as I'm not like most, I've always been different and found it hard to fit into the crowd. A blessing and a suede it may be but it is who I am and I promise you I'll always be your little "nerd" regardless of your desire.

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Strata upon her lope with hope to everyone when leaves would fall betwixt these righteous paths whether your forks gathered rain as autumn found together in sheer delight where dryness perchance had provoked many living trunks and maple syrup was flowing from sap so delicious these hot cakes fulfilled grace and picnics in Eagles Mere.

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Oct 18, 2016

Oct 18, 2016 at 11:36 AM UTC

Strata upon her lope with hope to everyone when leaves would fall betwixt these righteous paths whether your forks gathered rain as autumn found together in sheer delight where dryness perchance had provoked many living trunks and maple syrup was flowing from sap so delicious these hot cakes fulfilled grace and picnics in Eagles Mere.

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There is nowhere to hold this, and it is heavy. We drink coffee in white, square mugs on the fifth ***** step. I am sick and the coffee pinballs in my stomach. You do not care about hydration. You are covered in so much paint you look like Matisse in a fender-bender. You look sore all the way down to your fingers. The bed in the opposite room won't be yours, but could be. I lope around nauseous on the mornings I don't work. I light candles that jump with a stench of French Vanilla. Dogs bark unholy early. I tire of the anxious sleep of the newly living-there, the newly living. The loud neighbour, the considerate neighbour, the ******* dogs. I open the bedside drawer. No Gideon hotel bibles. Condoms, picture frames, instructions for a washing machine. No Bibles. Sometimes, I find it in my shoes - this envy - or in my pockets. And sometimes I drag it behind me, like wedding cans on a bachelor's car, filaments of grief and filthy broken dinnerware, threaded cotton of towels too often used without washing and wine bottle bones. And somebody once told me not to paint a room in it, but this jealousy is sage, not lime, and I could **** well sleep in here, and sometimes do.

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Oct 24, 2011

Oct 24, 2011 at 4:02 PM UTC

Notes on a New Apartment

There is nowhere to hold this, and it is heavy. We drink coffee in white, square mugs on the fifth ***** step. I am sick and the coffee pinballs in my stomach. You do not care about hydration. You are covered in so much paint you look like Matisse in a fender-bender. You look sore all the way down to your fingers. The bed in the opposite room won't be yours, but could be. I lope around nauseous on the mornings I don't work. I light candles that jump with a stench of French Vanilla. Dogs bark unholy early. I tire of the anxious sleep of the newly living-there, the newly living. The loud neighbour, the considerate neighbour, the ******* dogs. I open the bedside drawer. No Gideon hotel bibles. Condoms, picture frames, instructions for a washing machine. No Bibles. Sometimes, I find it in my shoes - this envy - or in my pockets. And sometimes I drag it behind me, like wedding cans on a bachelor's car, filaments of grief and filthy broken dinnerware, threaded cotton of towels too often used without washing and wine bottle bones. And somebody once told me not to paint a room in it, but this jealousy is sage, not lime, and I could **** well sleep in here, and sometimes do.

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I am the rising sun. So when your eyelids open to explore the beauty of the day I pour My light into your soul, and set you on your laughing, loving way. They shafted steel into My heart That when My children linger, longing, looking at the Cross of Hope I pierce their hearts with shafts of love for all who near their pathways lope. I am the eagle Who rises on the wind and sees the visions of the future dreams, Who gives his eaglets flying starts so that they too the visions can impart. I am the cobbled pathway. My children pick me out among the highways, hills and valleys of their lives. Their prayer-flowered Kingdom road is tough but leads to pearly gates and open skies. True and Faithful are My thighs. Disciples know I’ll never leave but pour My peace on all their fear. Their weakness will become the towers of strength that men hold very dear. Blood Brother is My name. Commune with Me and in the strife your back is covered by My Life, And you will all blood brothers be to one another on this sea of strife. I am the Truth. The truth established long before the breath of life was mankind’s tool. Rock-solid, stationery still, though winds of change blow good and ill. I am LOVE If you will cast your lot with Me I’ll surf with you on curling sea. We’ll ride upon the tides of life on boards of love. You’ll be My wife. I’ll cherish you beyond whatever you could dream or e’en consider. Trust Me. That’s where it begins. You get to know Me and life spins In exponential, ceaselessly expanding spirals of liberty. COME.

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Jan 31, 2014

Jan 31, 2014 at 3:42 PM UTC

I am the rising sun. So when your eyelids open to explore the beauty of the day I pour My light into your soul, and set you on your laughing, loving way. They shafted steel into My heart That when My children linger, longing, looking at the Cross of Hope I pierce their hearts with shafts of love for all who near their pathways lope. I am the eagle Who rises on the wind and sees the visions of the future dreams, Who gives his eaglets flying starts so that they too the visions can impart. I am the cobbled pathway. My children pick me out among the highways, hills and valleys of their lives. Their prayer-flowered Kingdom road is tough but leads to pearly gates and open skies. True and Faithful are My thighs. Disciples know I’ll never leave but pour My peace on all their fear. Their weakness will become the towers of strength that men hold very dear. Blood Brother is My name. Commune with Me and in the strife your back is covered by My Life, And you will all blood brothers be to one another on this sea of strife. I am the Truth. The truth established long before the breath of life was mankind’s tool. Rock-solid, stationery still, though winds of change blow good and ill. I am LOVE If you will cast your lot with Me I’ll surf with you on curling sea. We’ll ride upon the tides of life on boards of love. You’ll be My wife. I’ll cherish you beyond whatever you could dream or e’en consider. Trust Me. That’s where it begins. You get to know Me and life spins In exponential, ceaselessly expanding spirals of liberty. COME.

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The poet looks and delves. She wonders if he ever stops, him, this rushing-forward-breathlessly train, if he did park himself in fantastical paragraphs; the poet is dumbfounded at him ceasing. In construction sites of grammar, where free ideas float in ruins, poet wonders how, how, how he came to plan to live up to an exclamation mark. And condensed so many dribbles and strikes of strange and fruitful, even withered paragraphs into one line and pointer - a smile and a lope-stagger dance of a walk - an exclamation mark. The poet stares, once again astounded by the little streaks of the universe and longs to hold on to something. Disarmed, she can't quite put a finger on it, his gaping honesty and his quiet one, that contradiction shouting in her face while whispering in her eyes. The poet laughs - laughs of, in, out of sleep. Summer is here. And she chooses to notice. He laughs too, but he's always been noticing and the poet writes down how she learnt to bite and chew into the fruit of the world and taste it sour runny sweet cold explosive lingering just as him. The poet saw all colours rolling in one strange song of limbs. She did not like the music but she made herself a blank white canvas and listened and laughed clean, silly laughs fluting out of the incongruity of simple, simple moments. Fun life, easy stretch of the mouth - it is possible to smile down at what a clown pain is. He declares this boldly without saying a word or two. The poet is dumbfounded at him being. She did not see and had not seen and now only began to picture but she was blind. He said he was blinder and that was true. The poet did not smirk but giggle at the irony - he lived in pop-bold spectacles, she slept in black and white films. But both were blind. We cannot see and we are blurs. The poet likes that life scrapes away at her because she can see chinks of white sunshine through all the sheared-off layers. Clean, clean, bright, bright - he teaches her in a beam without a hello. The poet writes poetry on breathing action prose. And she laughs - You are everything I don't want but I'm curious.

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Sep 23, 2015

Sep 23, 2015 at 5:48 PM UTC

The poet looks and delves. She wonders if he ever stops, him, this rushing-forward-breathlessly train, if he did park himself in fantastical paragraphs; the poet is dumbfounded at him ceasing. In construction sites of grammar, where free ideas float in ruins, poet wonders how, how, how he came to plan to live up to an exclamation mark. And condensed so many dribbles and strikes of strange and fruitful, even withered paragraphs into one line and pointer - a smile and a lope-stagger dance of a walk - an exclamation mark. The poet stares, once again astounded by the little streaks of the universe and longs to hold on to something. Disarmed, she can't quite put a finger on it, his gaping honesty and his quiet one, that contradiction shouting in her face while whispering in her eyes. The poet laughs - laughs of, in, out of sleep. Summer is here. And she chooses to notice. He laughs too, but he's always been noticing and the poet writes down how she learnt to bite and chew into the fruit of the world and taste it sour runny sweet cold explosive lingering just as him. The poet saw all colours rolling in one strange song of limbs. She did not like the music but she made herself a blank white canvas and listened and laughed clean, silly laughs fluting out of the incongruity of simple, simple moments. Fun life, easy stretch of the mouth - it is possible to smile down at what a clown pain is. He declares this boldly without saying a word or two. The poet is dumbfounded at him being. She did not see and had not seen and now only began to picture but she was blind. He said he was blinder and that was true. The poet did not smirk but giggle at the irony - he lived in pop-bold spectacles, she slept in black and white films. But both were blind. We cannot see and we are blurs. The poet likes that life scrapes away at her because she can see chinks of white sunshine through all the sheared-off layers. Clean, clean, bright, bright - he teaches her in a beam without a hello. The poet writes poetry on breathing action prose. And she laughs - You are everything I don't want but I'm curious.

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A yellow dog lies in a yellow field. Thinking of greener days, legs twitching in canine dreaming. Of fresh water, and tasty kibble, a special stick thrown by its master. Rusted stripe down his back, a flag of sorts, dogged wisdom. Ten years old, he still has some spry, a spring in his lope, a point yet to fang. Eyeteeth seeing all, pink nose knowing the smells of this field. Where the rabbits burrow, where the squirrel makes it home. The far off lament of distant freight trains running. A yellow dog sleeps in a yellow field, a small white cross marking his bed. He will run forever in yellow fields, Running, and dancing amongst the golden stalks.

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Jan 6, 2011

Jan 6, 2011 at 6:15 PM UTC

william-b-burkholder

A yellow dog lies in a yellow field. Thinking of greener days, legs twitching in canine dreaming. Of fresh water, and tasty kibble, a special stick thrown by its master. Rusted stripe down his back, a flag of sorts, dogged wisdom. Ten years old, he still has some spry, a spring in his lope, a point yet to fang. Eyeteeth seeing all, pink nose knowing the smells of this field. Where the rabbits burrow, where the squirrel makes it home. The far off lament of distant freight trains running. A yellow dog sleeps in a yellow field, a small white cross marking his bed. He will run forever in yellow fields, Running, and dancing amongst the golden stalks.

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I hate when the holidays are here.... I wish you were sround since ur someone I hold dear! I lope ur day tomorrow will be spent well... When a simple "hi " from u would make my day.... But who am I kidding ? This isn't a wishing well!!!

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Nov 25, 2014

Nov 25, 2014 at 12:48 PM UTC

I hate when the holidays are here.... I wish you were sround since ur someone I hold dear! I lope ur day tomorrow will be spent well... When a simple "hi " from u would make my day.... But who am I kidding ? This isn't a wishing well!!!

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Las fuerzas, Peregrino celebrado, afrentará del tiempo y del olvido el libro que, por tuyo, ha merecido ser del uno y del otro respetado. Con lazos de oro y yedra acompañado, el laurel con tu frente está corrido de ver que tus escritos han podido hacer cortos los premios que te ha dado. La invidia su verdugo y su tormento hace del nombre que cantando cobras, y con tu gloria su martirio crece. Mas yo disculpo tal atrevimiento, si con lo que ella muerde de tus obras la boca, lengua y dientes enriquece.

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1k

Francisco de Quevedo y Villegas

Las fuerzas, Peregrino celebrado, afrentará del tiempo y del olvido el libro que, por tuyo, ha merecido ser del uno y del otro respetado. Con lazos de oro y yedra acompañado, el laurel con tu frente está corrido de ver que tus escritos han podido hacer cortos los premios que te ha dado. La invidia su verdugo y su tormento hace del nombre que cantando cobras, y con tu gloria su martirio crece. Mas yo disculpo tal atrevimiento, si con lo que ella muerde de tus obras la boca, lengua y dientes enriquece.

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Buds bursting, coloured pale Birds tending twigs to nests Lambs fall about and flail Farmers try to look their best Market time has come again The people weave and wind Stuffed stalls and scrbbling pen Church bells start to chime Children hold their parents' hands Puppies start to whine Instinct says to lope the land But only if tis thine Steaming pits of people coil Grey morning sunlight Puddles iridescent with oil Blasted seagulls fight. The rain will come, human fingers Will grasp at crisp packets Cigarrette but stench lingers Still the seagus make a racket. For love they sell pretty flowers For death condolence cards The merchant will use his powers Decorum lies in splintered shards. So feast and sneeze as seasons Change and placate your winter Hunger, swallow reasons Lest in your palm they splinter.

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Apr 1, 2015

Apr 1, 2015 at 6:16 PM UTC

poeticlotusmachine

Buds bursting, coloured pale Birds tending twigs to nests Lambs fall about and flail Farmers try to look their best Market time has come again The people weave and wind Stuffed stalls and scrbbling pen Church bells start to chime Children hold their parents' hands Puppies start to whine Instinct says to lope the land But only if tis thine Steaming pits of people coil Grey morning sunlight Puddles iridescent with oil Blasted seagulls fight. The rain will come, human fingers Will grasp at crisp packets Cigarrette but stench lingers Still the seagus make a racket. For love they sell pretty flowers For death condolence cards The merchant will use his powers Decorum lies in splintered shards. So feast and sneeze as seasons Change and placate your winter Hunger, swallow reasons Lest in your palm they splinter.

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I woke up in every way That magic bus was fading away I here these words Echoing in my head Here the "Who" singing at whitehall stead I don't wanna . . . I don't wanna . . . Live to be sixty-four This time last year I was sixty-two Know what I had to go and do Went down to Social Security Signed up to collect Before I was sixty-three I don't wanna I don't wanna Hey ! Live to be sixty-four I began writing then I learned to drive Developed skills to stay alive Drove trucks with big round wheels For the longest time it gave me thrills I don't wanna . . . I don't wanna . . . Kiss my *** ! Live to be sixty-four When I was young I had my ***** Heard recently she's not around anymore I shed a tear when I think of her Sometimes I think I'm the one that's cursed I don't wanna . . . I don't wanna . . . Hey ! Live to be sixty-four When I was young I lived so fast Go out Friday and wake up Tuesday With an unknown lass Pills and *** and whiskey shots Had every up and down , I could not stop I don't wanna . . . I don't wanna . . . Live to be sixty-four I used to run with the antelope It's all I can do now just to lope I had a big car that went so fast Now I can't afford to buy it's gas I don't wanna I don't wanna ****** Live to be sixty-four I always thought I'd die real young With the words on my lips To my favorite song Where are my old friends None are here Now I'm alone living in the yesteryear I don't wanna . . . I don't wanna . . . Live to be sixty-four tick tick tick I don't wanna . . . I don't wanna . . . Live to be sixty-four tick tick tick I don't wanna . . . I don't wanna . . . Hey ! Live to be sixty-four

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Nov 10, 2014

Nov 10, 2014 at 3:09 AM UTC

South-by-Southwest

I don't wanna live to be sixty-four

I woke up in every way That magic bus was fading away I here these words Echoing in my head Here the "Who" singing at whitehall stead I don't wanna . . . I don't wanna . . . Live to be sixty-four This time last year I was sixty-two Know what I had to go and do Went down to Social Security Signed up to collect Before I was sixty-three I don't wanna I don't wanna Hey ! Live to be sixty-four I began writing then I learned to drive Developed skills to stay alive Drove trucks with big round wheels For the longest time it gave me thrills I don't wanna . . . I don't wanna . . . Kiss my *** ! Live to be sixty-four When I was young I had my ***** Heard recently she's not around anymore I shed a tear when I think of her Sometimes I think I'm the one that's cursed I don't wanna . . . I don't wanna . . . Hey ! Live to be sixty-four When I was young I lived so fast Go out Friday and wake up Tuesday With an unknown lass Pills and *** and whiskey shots Had every up and down , I could not stop I don't wanna . . . I don't wanna . . . Live to be sixty-four I used to run with the antelope It's all I can do now just to lope I had a big car that went so fast Now I can't afford to buy it's gas I don't wanna I don't wanna ****** Live to be sixty-four I always thought I'd die real young With the words on my lips To my favorite song Where are my old friends None are here Now I'm alone living in the yesteryear I don't wanna . . . I don't wanna . . . Live to be sixty-four tick tick tick I don't wanna . . . I don't wanna . . . Live to be sixty-four tick tick tick I don't wanna . . . I don't wanna . . . Hey ! Live to be sixty-four

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They wear white shirts that lope into the village square And hate the dust that settles there. Their children leave the schoolhouse with schoolmaster's nod To see the traveling works of odd. With cries and drums and fire held in open hands, Four insects bless the godless lands. Yes, every song on every face is writ on steel, Cemented by the thunder's peal. Toward the night the fires burned away the spell, Yet still the truth did four men tell.

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Feb 7, 2010

Feb 7, 2010 at 6:28 PM UTC

They wear white shirts that lope into the village square And hate the dust that settles there. Their children leave the schoolhouse with schoolmaster's nod To see the traveling works of odd. With cries and drums and fire held in open hands, Four insects bless the godless lands. Yes, every song on every face is writ on steel, Cemented by the thunder's peal. Toward the night the fires burned away the spell, Yet still the truth did four men tell.

Continue reading...

If you can’t trust your foremost-born son But think of him as if he doesn’t care If you can’t see the damage, been done And carry on as if it’s yours to bear If you can’t see the truth laid before you But see the story filled with lies And think that all the pain is for you And think that you’re the one that cries If you can’t see the innocent parties Before you push away all hope Before you chew them down – like smarties Then leave and slowly start to lope If you can’t see the fear you produce In those that want and need you near If you can’t hear the silence let loose Nor see the dry and shriveled tear If you can’t stop and change the angle If you can’t see another’s side If you can’t let your mind untangle And push your twisted thoughts aside If you can’t see a loyal person If you can’t feel the prayers and blessings Then that is why it will always worsen As blindness will stop your life progressing If you can’t see a family, loyal If you can’t see someone to trust None of us are godlike – royal But we are all still faithful, just If you can’t feel the help we offer And realise what you truly had You’ll lose it all to the garden coffer Except the love I have for you, dad

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Aug 23, 2013

Aug 23, 2013 at 6:48 PM UTC

the-black-beast

If you can’t trust your foremost-born son But think of him as if he doesn’t care If you can’t see the damage, been done And carry on as if it’s yours to bear If you can’t see the truth laid before you But see the story filled with lies And think that all the pain is for you And think that you’re the one that cries If you can’t see the innocent parties Before you push away all hope Before you chew them down – like smarties Then leave and slowly start to lope If you can’t see the fear you produce In those that want and need you near If you can’t hear the silence let loose Nor see the dry and shriveled tear If you can’t stop and change the angle If you can’t see another’s side If you can’t let your mind untangle And push your twisted thoughts aside If you can’t see a loyal person If you can’t feel the prayers and blessings Then that is why it will always worsen As blindness will stop your life progressing If you can’t see a family, loyal If you can’t see someone to trust None of us are godlike – royal But we are all still faithful, just If you can’t feel the help we offer And realise what you truly had You’ll lose it all to the garden coffer Except the love I have for you, dad

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i miss your funny walk, which i'm sorry for always making fun of because it's perfect, actually. it's more of a lope and you're perfect.

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Mar 10, 2014

Mar 10, 2014 at 2:25 AM UTC

i miss your funny walk, which i'm sorry for always making fun of because it's perfect, actually. it's more of a lope and you're perfect.

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Here’s my question: Don’t daughters lope their mules? However non-existent They too surely must bend the rules. Surely it’s not only guys Who secretly, daily slap their laps. If so, would you bluenoses Quickly and firmly shut your yaps? There are so many things Boys are not supposed to ever do Like farting and belching And all kinds of gods to apologize to. We have to fold napkins And keep our elbows off the table. The list seems to grow. I’m not sure I will ever really be able. Adhering to what it takes In life to keep myself perfectly decent Seems to involve rules Both ancient, ecclesiastical and recent. I must put the lid down Because, it seems, women can’t do it. Hold the door open for them Because, alone, they can’t go through it. Give your seat up on a bus Because even if they are younger than I Women are the weaker *** And I must be much stronger, I’m a guy. And there literally hundreds Of words I can’t say and shouldn’t think. Now if only the women of the world Would outlaw me getting near the kitchen sink.

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Sep 25, 2015

Sep 25, 2015 at 2:36 PM UTC

TOOLS FOR RULES

Here’s my question: Don’t daughters lope their mules? However non-existent They too surely must bend the rules. Surely it’s not only guys Who secretly, daily slap their laps. If so, would you bluenoses Quickly and firmly shut your yaps? There are so many things Boys are not supposed to ever do Like farting and belching And all kinds of gods to apologize to. We have to fold napkins And keep our elbows off the table. The list seems to grow. I’m not sure I will ever really be able. Adhering to what it takes In life to keep myself perfectly decent Seems to involve rules Both ancient, ecclesiastical and recent. I must put the lid down Because, it seems, women can’t do it. Hold the door open for them Because, alone, they can’t go through it. Give your seat up on a bus Because even if they are younger than I Women are the weaker *** And I must be much stronger, I’m a guy. And there literally hundreds Of words I can’t say and shouldn’t think. Now if only the women of the world Would outlaw me getting near the kitchen sink.

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Bien puedo yo pintar una hermosura, y de otras cinco retratar a Elena, pues a Filis también, siendo morena, ángel Lope llamó de nieve pura. Bien puedo yo fingir una escultura, que disculpe mi amor, y en dulce vena convertir a Filene en Filomena brillando claros en la sombra escura. Mas puede ser que algún letor extrañe estas musas de Amor hiperboleas, y viéndola después se desengañe. Pues si ha de hallar algunas partes feas, Juana, no quiera Dios que a nadie engañe, basta que para mí tan linda seas.

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Lope Félix de Vega Carpio

No se atreve a pintar su dama muy hermosa por no mentir que es mucho para poeta

Bien puedo yo pintar una hermosura, y de otras cinco retratar a Elena, pues a Filis también, siendo morena, ángel Lope llamó de nieve pura. Bien puedo yo fingir una escultura, que disculpe mi amor, y en dulce vena convertir a Filene en Filomena brillando claros en la sombra escura. Mas puede ser que algún letor extrañe estas musas de Amor hiperboleas, y viéndola después se desengañe. Pues si ha de hallar algunas partes feas, Juana, no quiera Dios que a nadie engañe, basta que para mí tan linda seas.

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some harts through forests dappled lope gentlest keen feet rumple leaves scatter or trees unspeaking sing with the fat incurable lust of sharp lovers sore hands fingers nuzzled against the fair muscles of arched backs wriggling muscles so sudored magic muscles viscously o'er the pretty spines of roots splendor splits and out bursting harts through loping forests lovers sorely hurt with crisp intricate eyes looking lean raw eyes wide into omnipotent pain

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Dec 26, 2011

Dec 26, 2011 at 7:50 PM UTC

patrick-wakefield-1

some harts through forests dappled lope gentlest keen feet rumple leaves scatter or trees unspeaking sing with the fat incurable lust of sharp lovers sore hands fingers nuzzled against the fair muscles of arched backs wriggling muscles so sudored magic muscles viscously o'er the pretty spines of roots splendor splits and out bursting harts through loping forests lovers sorely hurt with crisp intricate eyes looking lean raw eyes wide into omnipotent pain

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there is something charming seeing his off-kilter lope, down the sidewalks and through the rain. there’s something about his neck. I could recognize it almost anywhere. Something about his mouth, how he forms his words. It’s like a bird at the edge of flight. a half smile in the sunshine, eyes as bright as my empty grandmothers vase, they tear my skin and look inside me, assure me that I’m not too insane. I know when I think too much when I’m around myself too often I start to lose touch with that idea of reality that is so monopolized by the needy self-indulged ants, sitting by the heart of the womb of their comforts coffins. these people are flighty. They aren’t risky, they’re just flighty. And I need someone who’s not see through, he’s quite tangible. is that why I long to feel him constantly, his skin pulsing softly against my fingertips the slightest curvature of his very being, I would like to kiss until I am solidity in myself as well I almost need him though I don’t want to admit. when I can be held like that, Its like something is keeping me from completely losing my head I know I am not infinite I know that I could be swept off like a candle in the wind at any moment. No we are not boundless. We are very limited, very flawed. all we have is the moments we’re living, and we’re stuck with an idea for the future. We’re never happy, the grass is greener on the other side, true enough, but theres something wrong with not seeing life as it is in the moment, when you’re trying to write a story about it to look back upon in the future. what if there is no future to sit and look back upon? whats the other side? we only have our past for granted, the present a promise, and the future a lie, because we are not infinite, no, but He makes me stupid, He makes me feel like im forever.

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Dec 24, 2013

Dec 24, 2013 at 4:32 PM UTC

there is something charming seeing his off-kilter lope, down the sidewalks and through the rain. there’s something about his neck. I could recognize it almost anywhere. Something about his mouth, how he forms his words. It’s like a bird at the edge of flight. a half smile in the sunshine, eyes as bright as my empty grandmothers vase, they tear my skin and look inside me, assure me that I’m not too insane. I know when I think too much when I’m around myself too often I start to lose touch with that idea of reality that is so monopolized by the needy self-indulged ants, sitting by the heart of the womb of their comforts coffins. these people are flighty. They aren’t risky, they’re just flighty. And I need someone who’s not see through, he’s quite tangible. is that why I long to feel him constantly, his skin pulsing softly against my fingertips the slightest curvature of his very being, I would like to kiss until I am solidity in myself as well I almost need him though I don’t want to admit. when I can be held like that, Its like something is keeping me from completely losing my head I know I am not infinite I know that I could be swept off like a candle in the wind at any moment. No we are not boundless. We are very limited, very flawed. all we have is the moments we’re living, and we’re stuck with an idea for the future. We’re never happy, the grass is greener on the other side, true enough, but theres something wrong with not seeing life as it is in the moment, when you’re trying to write a story about it to look back upon in the future. what if there is no future to sit and look back upon? whats the other side? we only have our past for granted, the present a promise, and the future a lie, because we are not infinite, no, but He makes me stupid, He makes me feel like im forever.

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1. Sasquatch stalks the Washington woods. I lope through low-lying bushes in search of huckleberries. The purple-reddish stains on my fingers are as real as the grumbling in my stomach, or the solidity of these mighty pines. The “small rain” begins to seep through the atmosphere. It will not wash away my stains. 2. I do not believe in Big Foot. He towers, an outsized legend of the forest. A Nessie of the woodlands. A mythical creature created to satisfy our impoverished imagination, atrophied by the ever-encroaching artifice and sterility of the human world. 3. Soon, the mist turns to big rain. Clouds blot out the sky. Dusk turns to night, hours early. Thoroughly soaked, I will seek shelter alone. 4. Mountain folk recite encounters with Big Foot like happy-to-be-frightened children around a campfire. The scariest tale is always the next to come. Twigs snap, branches break, pine cones are crushed. We all listen, acutely alert. 5. Gorged on huckleberries, I will sleep tonight beneath the pines, solitary, curling up safely in the contours of a giant footprint. I can hear the leaves hit the forest floor. Dare I dream of conversion? Dare I dream of belief?

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Oct 4, 2018

Oct 4, 2018 at 3:35 PM UTC

1. Sasquatch stalks the Washington woods. I lope through low-lying bushes in search of huckleberries. The purple-reddish stains on my fingers are as real as the grumbling in my stomach, or the solidity of these mighty pines. The “small rain” begins to seep through the atmosphere. It will not wash away my stains. 2. I do not believe in Big Foot. He towers, an outsized legend of the forest. A Nessie of the woodlands. A mythical creature created to satisfy our impoverished imagination, atrophied by the ever-encroaching artifice and sterility of the human world. 3. Soon, the mist turns to big rain. Clouds blot out the sky. Dusk turns to night, hours early. Thoroughly soaked, I will seek shelter alone. 4. Mountain folk recite encounters with Big Foot like happy-to-be-frightened children around a campfire. The scariest tale is always the next to come. Twigs snap, branches break, pine cones are crushed. We all listen, acutely alert. 5. Gorged on huckleberries, I will sleep tonight beneath the pines, solitary, curling up safely in the contours of a giant footprint. I can hear the leaves hit the forest floor. Dare I dream of conversion? Dare I dream of belief?

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For four timeless seconds, The skies were eyes and his were mine to bode. A cold and bold stare beckons A stranger unravelling the gravel road. We meet; he greets and halts the shuffle Of his feet. Pairs my glare When I take his hand as we stifle The fear from one another with care. "Because of my lode I shall lighten The load you carry without cause. My eyes belong to you my brethren Like a trespassing truth troubling stumbling paws." Bitten by hunger, the vulture's eyes steady the path of the wild dog. "I have seen your herd Prancing through the fog Dancing like a headless bird Through the pass afore the lean, Past the crest of sacred grounds Steering where your soles have been. The graze astray from barking hounds." And there goes my hope In tatters and ragged apparel. Effortless and careless he paces his lope As though the path he crumbles was a familiar carol.

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Jul 11, 2016

Jul 11, 2016 at 8:49 AM UTC

For four timeless seconds, The skies were eyes and his were mine to bode. A cold and bold stare beckons A stranger unravelling the gravel road. We meet; he greets and halts the shuffle Of his feet. Pairs my glare When I take his hand as we stifle The fear from one another with care. "Because of my lode I shall lighten The load you carry without cause. My eyes belong to you my brethren Like a trespassing truth troubling stumbling paws." Bitten by hunger, the vulture's eyes steady the path of the wild dog. "I have seen your herd Prancing through the fog Dancing like a headless bird Through the pass afore the lean, Past the crest of sacred grounds Steering where your soles have been. The graze astray from barking hounds." And there goes my hope In tatters and ragged apparel. Effortless and careless he paces his lope As though the path he crumbles was a familiar carol.

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The victims refuse to surrender, Hiding and ignoring blight. The canaries do not share their splendor, Won’t sing their songs, won’t take flight. Death is imminent; We shall not part On this dreadful one last day. As the fallout slowly starts We fall to knees and begin to pray. They mar the suns in our broken sky, Yet, we have not lost all hope. The end continues to draw nigh, Toward salvation, we do lope. But in defeat, we wipe our brows, As black as night, it beckons, still. I tear my heart out, useless now, and Place it, beating, on the sill.

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Jul 7, 2010

Jul 7, 2010 at 11:25 PM UTC

The victims refuse to surrender, Hiding and ignoring blight. The canaries do not share their splendor, Won’t sing their songs, won’t take flight. Death is imminent; We shall not part On this dreadful one last day. As the fallout slowly starts We fall to knees and begin to pray. They mar the suns in our broken sky, Yet, we have not lost all hope. The end continues to draw nigh, Toward salvation, we do lope. But in defeat, we wipe our brows, As black as night, it beckons, still. I tear my heart out, useless now, and Place it, beating, on the sill.

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She wants to be loved Held tight with no hopes of never letting go Inhaling your succulent smell, while nibbling on the lope of your ear She listens as your breathing becomes heavy She knows you want to feel her inner goddess, but that is not what she's yearning for! She wants to be loved! Can you be her best friend? When times get rough will you be their to hold her tight? To be the first and last person you think of, and to promise to always protect her. Showing the world and expressing your feelings with no guilt in your heart is what she really wants!

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Apr 10, 2016

Apr 10, 2016 at 3:57 AM UTC

She wants to be loved

She wants to be loved Held tight with no hopes of never letting go Inhaling your succulent smell, while nibbling on the lope of your ear She listens as your breathing becomes heavy She knows you want to feel her inner goddess, but that is not what she's yearning for! She wants to be loved! Can you be her best friend? When times get rough will you be their to hold her tight? To be the first and last person you think of, and to promise to always protect her. Showing the world and expressing your feelings with no guilt in your heart is what she really wants!

Continue reading...