"lowliest" poems
#*Jesus entrusts
the most luscious of
blessings and the rarest of
secrets to the most desperate and
thirsty of souls, for He delights to place
the loveliest of wings on the lowliest of worms*#
Jul 25, 2016
Jul 25, 2016 at 5:16 PM UTC
I am the monarch of the Sea,
The ruler of the Queen's Navee,--
When at anchor here I ride,
My ***** swells with pride,
And I snap my fingers at a foeman's taunts.
And so do his sisters, and his cousins, and his aunts
His sisters and his cousins!
Whom he reckons by the dozens,
And his aunts!
'I am the lowliest tar
That sails the water.
And you, proud maiden, are
My captain's daughter.'
'Refrain, audacious tar.
Your suit from pressing;
Remember what you are,
And whom addressing.'
For I am called Little Buttercup,--dear Little Buttercup,
Though I never could tell why;
But still I'm called Buttercup,--poor Little Buttercup,
Sweet Little Buttercup I!
Fair moon, to thee I sing
Bright regent of the heavens;
Say, why is every thing
Either at sixes or at sevens!
He is an Englishman!
For he himself has said it,
And it's greatly to his credit
That he is an Englishman.
3.4k
Lightly come or lightly go:
Though thy heart presage thee woe,
Vales and many a wasted sun,
Oread let thy laughter run,
Till the irreverent mountain air
Ripple all thy flying hair.
Lightly, lightly -- - ever so:
Clouds that wrap the vales below
At the hour of evenstar
Lowliest attendants are;
Love and laughter song-confessed
When the heart is heaviest.
3k
Milton! thou should’st be living at this hour:
England hath need of thee: she is a fen
Of stagnant waters: altar, sword, and pen,
Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower,
Have forfeited their ancient English dower
Of inward happiness. We are selfish men;
Oh! raise us up, return to us again;
And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power.
Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart:
Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea:
Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free,
So didst thou travel on life’s common way,
In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart
The lowliest duties on herself did lay.
2.9k
I looked down a high cliff
at a restless ocean below,
I climbed the proud mountains
crowned with lofty clouds,
I reached the serene jungles
sitting in silent pride,
I did not find it...
I visited the richest nawabs
in their castles and towers,
I ate with the lowliest creatures
whom language didn't own,
I met the right-hands and mouths
of Gods we know from pages,
yet, I didn't find it...
At last, lost in thought
I walked by a crowd
Some in white, some in black, some in uniform.
All turned to a majestic but still figure
In an honored embrace of the Tricolour
Twenty-one guns and croaking crows later
I heard a little girl's cry -
"Keta 9GR ko ** ke hoena" - ** ** **
The tears never ceased,
The roar never stopped
With faltering steps, the brave-heart...
There.
I found it,I found inspiration.
(Refer to the notes)
Jan 31, 2015
Jan 31, 2015 at 2:58 AM UTC
the curling smoke
from warming fires
rise into the slate
gray sky of the
Beqaa Valley
sheaves of
rising prayers
expire in twisted plumes
dissipating into the
gloom of an ever
looming winter
overcast
refugees from
the Arab Spring's
uncivil wars
gather for warmth
around waning embers,
smoldering in the underbelly
of the lowliest bottom of rusted
steel drums, tended
with scavenged debris
some thought better
suited to fortify the
faltering hovels of
last resort
the fires
join us in
communal rings
straining the
tenuous links of
brotherhood, the
politics of men
assiduously tear
asunder
we count ourselves
among the fortunate,
blessed exiles recused
from the acrimony
of desecrated cities,
welcoming the
residencies of
bewailing lullabies
of colic infants, the
searing hunger of
stunted children and the
incomprehensible babble
the elderly eloquently
speak in tongues
of a desperate
exasperation
our nagging impotence
swaddle us in ambivalent
inabilities to master circumstances
profanely denigrating our humanity
privation is
our daily bread
the bitter manna
feasting on the
animosity the banquet
of rancor generously
prepares for
peace starved
pilgrims
in these
refugee camps
the cold cuts deeper
hunger pangs
grow sharper
our blighted dignity,
vanished livelihoods,
and the presence of
recently interred
loved ones trudge
through our mean
encampment as
fully enfranchised
citizens in our
distressed
kingdom
what was lost can
never be recovered
our homeland leveled
yet doors still stand open
silently pleading all
to cross a new
threshold
the full restoration
of our hope,
the reconstitution
of our flagging
humanity, the
spark of the
holy spirit
willfully uniting us
in the salvation
of reconciliation
is nigh
we are
the divine children
stoking the embers
tending the fire
that light pathways
through the cold
darkness of a
broken world
Oh come
Emmanuel,
dwell among us
Oh come
Emmanuel
ransom once
again the
poor captives
of Israel….
Selah
Music Selection:
L'Accorche-Choeur, Ensemble vocal Fribourg
Veni Veni Emmanuel
Everywhere
Christmas
2013
jbm
Dec 24, 2013
Dec 24, 2013 at 10:48 AM UTC
O Thou, the Nymph with placid eye !
O seldom found, yet ever nigh !
Receive my temperate vow :
Not all the storms that shake the pole
Can e'er disturb thy halcyon soul,
And smooth unalter'd brow.
O come, in simplst vest array'd,
With all thy sober cheer display'd
To bless my longing sight ;
Thy mien compos'd, thy even pace,
Thy meek regard, thy matron grace,
And chaste subdued delight.
No more by varying passions beat,
O gently guide my pilgrim feet
To find thy hermit cell ;
Where in some pure and equal sky
Beneath thy soft indulgent eye
Thy modest virtues dwell.
Simplicity in Attic vest,
And Innocence with candid breast,
And clear undaunted eye ;
And Hope, who points to distant years,
Fair opening through this vale of tears
A vista to the sky.
There Health, thro' whose calm ***** glide
The temperate joys in even tide,
That rarely ebb or flow ;
And Patience there, thy sister meek,
Presents her mild, unvarying cheek
To meet the offer'd blow.
Her influence taught the Phrygian sage
A tyrant master's wanton rage
With settled smiles to meet ;
Inur'd to toil and bitter bread
He bow'd his meek submitted head,
And kiss'd thy sainted feet.
But thou, oh Nymph retir'd and coy !
In what brown hamlet dost thou joy
To tell thy simple tale ;
The lowliest children of the ground,
Moss rose, and violet, blossom round,
And lily of the vale.
O say what soft propitious hour
I best may chuse to hail thy power,
And court thy gentle sway ?
When Autumn, friendly to the Muse,
Shall thy own modest tints diffuse,
And shed thy milder day.
When Eve, her dewy star beneath,
Thy balmy spirit loves to breathe,
And every storm is laid ;
If such an hour was e'er thy choice,
Oft let me hear thy soothing voice
Low whispering thro' the shade.
2.1k
The 'gyre' hints arrival-
Twenty centuries making room
For a new epoch,
I’m a modern bird now,
I may sound haphazard, troublesome, and brooding
unimportant topic for hours,
It's up to you to lend ear or not;
I was a winged rooster confined to land only,
Now I’ve become a 'hawk', with knowledge of flight
perhaps power too,
Seeing the world from far above
Envisioned me a seer sight;
I see the world functioning; the lowliest on top,
the best in daze, and mediocre relishing mediocrity,
One or two good men wasting
life in poetry which none cares.
Oblivious armed men guard the periphery;
White termites gnaw the door at the Centre.
At this height, all seem different,
I can’t relate with my earlier self;
My knowledge seems nothing but
a frail sound in a vacuum.
When I became 'conscious'-
My dreams stopped being dreams—
My thoughts were invaded daily—
Life evolved in million years—
'God is dead', the universe all naked.
We’re the supreme, the Satan both;
Busy in triumphing Desires.
Converging all— blazed my beliefs.
We’ve progressed too much, portends
trembling of the earth
And smoke eclipsing the sun.
'Death I breathe',
War looms again,
Life is traded in forfeited currency.
I see the world functioning,
I know one or two tricks too to cheat,
To assault, to **** to loot.
I can foresee the end—
Its good to die starving then
Fly in the proximity of land.
May 5, 2019
May 5, 2019 at 5:52 PM UTC
1626
No Life can pompless pass away—
The lowliest career
To the same Pageant wends its way
As that exalted here—
How cordial is the mystery!
The hospitable Pall
A “this way” beckons spaciously—
A Miracle for all!
1.7k
Milton! thou shouldst be living at this hour:
England hath need of thee: she is a fen
Of stagnant waters: altar, sword, and pen,
Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower,
Have forfeited their ancient English dower
Of inward happiness. We are selfish men;
O raise us up, return to us again,
And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power!
Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart;
Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea:
Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free,
So didst thou travel on life’s common way,
In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart
The lowliest duties on herself did lay.
1.4k
Jailed with all the other squawking birds
confined, it never flew and barely grew
& never knew the mimicry of words
sanguine, foul molting cockatoo in the corner
lowered, bloodied, the lowliest in a pecking order
his owner's a loner, a collector of tinged newsprint
entombed in brick & mortar - nomad minus footprint
and his birds, perched across wooden dowels
proceeded to empty their millet'd bowels
onto sheets of unfinished poetry
correctivewhiteoutmisery
so, he, being miserly, wouldn't shell out the reader's fee
to the greedy posthumous publishing company, yet
another relic in a mortuary of literacy
he was just another faceless, bearded bard
and with the old coffee grounds
he would discard
piling mounds of compost, broken bound
his compositions decomposing in the attic
warbling hiss, winding tape spool. ghosts
searching for signals amongst the static
he awaited revision of his works
ill, amidst the scattered ruins
red ink, gold leaf & carets^
he, impetuous, slumped further into his doldrums
though, all public grievances were withdrawn
crass, he prattled on to his dolorous birds
still oblivious to his defunct words
He lied dormant, comatose
in the 3rd degree infirmary
there was once a pretty lass
who could exhume the pristine
glass contents of his tinsel'd tomb
His malady, he once named Gamine
lived in a stretched-white canvas room
she eyed his burnt pile of vile-dirge verse
as mayflys & junebugs, & smoggy dirigibles
fluttered gently out of her empty purse
she grew on him like a cancer
for she was God's embellishment
pallid and perfect, and he cursed
her love as it ebbed and flowed
her aureole glowed, safely stowed
in an airship's overhead compartment
she was flying home for
there was no other answer
Jul 13, 2015
Jul 13, 2015 at 12:01 AM UTC
My eyes have encompassed all the world
Surveying its glory and splendour
Civilisations advance
Society cultivating cultures
Technology, created and innovated
By human beings being knowledgeable
Expanding capacity, capital, territory
In terror, losing identity
Working, moving, breathing
They cry
“Worthy!”
But is this worthy?
My eyes have encompassed all the earth
Surveying her beauty, her majesty
Mountains, hills, and forests of lush green
Beasts and creatures of all shapes and sizes
Oceans, seas, rivers, clear blue sky
They all seem to cry
“Worthy!”
Is there more to this?
My eyes gaze into the heavens
Pondering all their mysteries
Planets, systems, billions of stars
Galaxies upon galaxies lightyears afar
And I hear in the distance
Echoes of angels and heavenly hosts
Thrones, dominions, powers, rulers
Saints and elders around a radiant throne
They all cry
“Worthy!”
I bow my head in awe
And in silence reflected
What the measure of a man is worth
In the grand scheme of things
Where one exists amidst seven billion
Working tirelessly to no end
Amid a vast and glorious creation
Which will all draw to an end
Am I worthy?
And I hear in the distance
The one called Worthy seated on the throne
Calls out to me
“From the dust have I fashioned you
Formed you into My image
From the lowliest estate have I given you
Heavenly heritage
My child
Once an outsider, an enemy
have I bought you with my shed blood.
You are made worthy
For I am Worthy
As with all who are Mine.
So define not your worth on futile things
Or others who lack the clarity to see
You are worthy
As I am Worthy
Worry not your worth
Which is found only
in Me”.
Aug 14, 2021
Aug 14, 2021 at 8:24 AM UTC
Was life truly; ever so sweet,
As in the sun-worshipped, One World,
Beneath feathery banners, all unfurled,
Celebrated rhythm of the Mexica beat,
Applauding the gods with dancing feet,
While eagerly anticipating the final breath,
Of the honoured warrior’s, flowery death.
Lost ancient world, carved in stone,
Temples and plaza’s of grandiose plan,
Before the great pyramid of Tenochtitlan,
From lowliest slave to the highest throne,
Gathered before gods to whom they atone,
With obsidian blade priests begin the flood,
Of a sacrificial ceremony sealed with blood.
But do not weep for the ritually slain,
Or condemn this misunderstood race,
This culture both in and out of place,
Who flourished before interference from Spain;
Immoral inquisitions wielding torture and pain,
Led by Cortez’s murderous gold greed,
Condoned by religion’s, fanatical need.
A pyrrhic victory for invading Spanish-whites,
Conquistadors, who murdered, pillaged and *****
A savage slaughter that not even children escaped,
Brave Mexica vanquished in the one sided fights,
A nation revelling no more during hot sultry nights,
A lost civilization weeping for countless lost lives,
And yet, and yet . . . Mexica spirit; forever survives.
©Paul Chafer 2014
Apr 9, 2014
Apr 9, 2014 at 9:45 AM UTC
Jailed with all the other squawking birds
confined, it never flew and barely grew
& never knew the mimicry of words
sanguine, foul molting cockatoo in the corner
lowered, bloodied, the lowliest in a pecking order
his owner's a loner, a collector of tinged newsprint
entombed in brick & mortar - nomad minus footprint
and his birds, perched across wooden dowels
proceeded to empty their millet'd bowels
onto sheets of unfinished poetry
correctivewhiteoutmisery
so, he, being miserly, wouldn't shell out the reader's fee
to the greedy posthumous publishing company, yet
another relic in a mortuary of literacy
he was just another faceless, bearded bard
and with the old coffee grounds
he would discard
piling mounds of compost, broken bound
his compositions decomposing in the attic
warbling hiss, winding tape spool. ghosts
searching for signals amongst the static
he awaited revision of his works
ill, amidst the scattered ruins
red ink, gold leaf & carets^
he, impetuous, slumped further into his doldrums
though, all public grievances were withdrawn
crass, he prattled on to his dolorous birds
still oblivious to his defunct words
He lied dormant, comatose
in the 3rd degree infirmary
there was once a pretty lass
who could exhume the pristine
glass contents of his tinsel'd tomb
His malady, he once named Gamine
lived in a stretched-white canvas room
she eyed his burnt pile of vile-dirge verse
as mayflys & junebugs, & smoggy dirigibles
fluttered gently out of her empty purse
she grew on him like a cancer
for she was God's embellishment
pallid and perfect, and he cursed
her love as it ebbed and flowed
her aureole glowed, safely stowed
in an airship's overhead compartment
she was flying home for
there was no other answer
Mar 19, 2016
Mar 19, 2016 at 4:18 PM UTC
Last Curtain
by Rabindranath Tagore
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
I know the day comes when my eyes close,
when my sight fails,
when life takes its leave in silence
and the last curtain veils my vision.
Yet the stars will still watch by night;
the sun will still rise like before;
the hours will still heave like sea waves
casting up pleasures and pains.
When I consider this end of my earth-life,
the barrier of the moments breaks
and I see by the illumination of death
this world with its careless treasures.
Rare is its lowliest seat,
rare its meanest of lives.
Things I longed for in vain and those I received, let them pass.
Let me but truly possess the things I rejected and overlooked.
Keywords/Tags: Tagore, translation, Hindi, last, curtain, death, eyes, close, sight, vision, night, stars, sun, sea, waves, illumination, treasures, mrburdu
Mar 30, 2020
Mar 30, 2020 at 11:37 PM UTC
Is obviously unsolved to this day.
Is a heavy blizzard subject to drought.
Is a crater in the ground launched into space.
Is the lowliest temperature in a dance hall fire.
Is said to help stem the spread of ceasing to exist.
Critics call it the finest film ever made.
by Rose Linke
Jul 28, 2013
Jul 28, 2013 at 1:51 PM UTC
All criticism
Comes from the illusion of bravery,
From the pedestal
On which the lowliest men sit highest.
All criticism
Is someone’s projected false confidence,
From the pedestal
Upon which those who can do no wrong fall.
All criticism
Is a descent to egomania,
From the pedestal
Above small specks of blinding delusion.
All criticism
Derived from eyes whose lenses are mirrors,
From the pedestal
Elevated by its isolation.
Dec 9, 2018
Dec 9, 2018 at 7:17 AM UTC
Higher animals than ourselves exist, but they cannot breathe our air and they don't come here for that very reason. They do however keep watch and when needed influence our development. Not everything happens for good reason though, and there are certain processes at hand which will ultimately lead to our extinction. With that will be extinct the idea of God or Gods and heaven and hell and all things man made, except for compassion, which is what the higher beings want and are trying to understand. Evolution has always been controlled by them. They have that set of "buttons." We do not. Really, these are not "buttons" at all but something so foreign to the human mind's conceiving, it is simply better relayed to you as "buttons," or "dials," or "switches," if you will. When the "grand machine, extreme and eventual conclusive computer, infinite circuitry board," have you, is complete which the higher ones are fabricating, the time will have come for pain and sorrow to end and with that will end the existence of earth. These things only exist here, as only the animals of this earth own nervous systems and neurological capacities. The higher ones do not. This is why they are void of compassion and seek to understand it. So I implore you for the safety of our race, the human one all inclusive, and even extended to the lower and lowliest creatures, do practice compassion. For until the higher ones are convinced of its good use, there is no hope. And hope is integral for understanding compassion and ultimately essential for us all. Including the higher ones.
Mar 14, 2016
Mar 14, 2016 at 10:56 AM UTC
Remember this moment and hallow it my love
that time taketh it not away. Dote each second of its
serendipity, as fleeting as the close of day.
Regale me with all affection, that even in its conception,
It is our greatest reward.
With mired pity I slave in simplicity as its lowliest steward.
Its height is unassailable,
as a castle built on Moats as foundations, each stone requiring
the strength of nations, to shake.
Yet still I quake,
Trembling with bated tongue in your royal presence.
A fright of such magnificence,
To offer
my fickle heart
as a stepping stone,
To the gates of happiness, My gilded tongue to shoot bolts
of compliment that fall as natures mist in its decent.
But If I am but a mere feather, in thy velvet cap
My duty would not stop.
Till we dance as leaves of grass on a heather.
Dec 16, 2014
Dec 16, 2014 at 10:29 PM UTC
The streets are deserted; the cars are done beeping
It is silent, apart from the willow tree's weeping
And even old Mr. McRoger is sleeping.
(Mr. McRoger, I'm sure you have guessed,
Is a make-believe man who does not like to rest.
Although, when he finally does get to bed,
His sleep is so deep you'd have thought he was dead!
...You'd have thought so,
if not for the sound of his snoring
which some of his neighbors have trouble ignoring.
But back to our story, before it gets boring)
Not one suicidal remains on the bridge!
Not one midnight snacker is left in the fridge!
All are asleep on this side of the lake.
And if all are asleep ...
... why are YOU still awake?
It is dark, which surely you know means it's night
And the thing to be done is to put out the light
And if the thing to be done's not the thing that you do
Then SOMETHING inside must be bothering you!
You're much too mature
and clever, I'm sure
To be frightened of monsters
and things that might **** you
You're not old enough
to be stressed about stuff
Such as taxes, and how much
the grocery might bill you
SO ...
If it's dark and it's night and your age isn't three
And you don't pay for food cause you get it for free
Then there's only one thing it can possibly be
You, my friend, must be the sort of young lad
Who can't fall asleep cause he's simply too sad.
I know how you're feeling; I've seen it before
You feel like you just can't go on anymore
You've sunken so deep and you've fallen so low
That you think,
"Just how low can I possibly go?
Of all the lows, this one's the lowliest spot.
Can I go any lower? Why, no, I cannot."
Well, I'm here to tell you, you can and you will!
In just a few days you will sink lower still!
And lower and lower and lower UNTIL...
THIS low will seem like the top of a hill!
UNLESS ...
Things COULD get better.
They COULD, but they WON'T.
They could and they should and they would,
but they DON'T.
SO ...
Since you must be exhausted
from digging that deep,
You may as well
just go to sleep.
May 16, 2020
May 16, 2020 at 11:20 PM UTC
He was joy.
He was not just a baby born on a manger
born of a ****** and a carpenter.
He was joy.
He left His throne
embrace the lowliest of the lowliest
celebrated by shepherds whose identities matter not.
He was joy.
The angels declared, He'll bring goodnews
of which people will be saved from generations to generations and they will be filled with joy.
He was joy.
And an army of Angels exclaimed, "Glory to the Highest!"
Oh, what a joy He hath bring
for He is the Lord and King
His birth, a joy to all
Forever, I'll indeed treasure!
Dec 24, 2017
Dec 24, 2017 at 8:01 AM UTC
When I'm happy
Nothing can go too bad
It's like I've got sunshine all wrapped up
In a brown paper bag
But when I'm down
I feel broken into splinters and pieces
Of **** that's not even worthy of the lowliest of dung beetles
It's a weird emotional map for me
Everyday either a rising hill or yet another deep valley
But I've cruised through both, not through
Perseverance but through faith
It wasn't easy believing, but that and my family helped keep me straight
Mar 14, 2016
Mar 14, 2016 at 2:53 AM UTC
O eternal father,
I lift my weary eyes to you, for you are the sustainer of my soul.
I come before you with the dirt of the ground permeating my clothes,
Yet you love me.
You accept me as one of your own
And allow me to approach the throne
Of you, my father.
It is truly an act of grace
For me, the worst of sinners, to enter this place.
The Holy of Holy's, where priests would get struck down
And their bodies pulled out by a rope,
And I am able to sit here and revel in your presence.
If eternity is a magnification of this
Then I can't comprehend how my soul will contain the joy
Of sitting with you as a child with his father
Listening to his booming voice
As we grow up we see our fathers as superheroes
Which is an understatement for you
You first allowed us to rebel
And then sacrificed part of yourself
To right our wrong
How could I ever deserve this.
How could I, the lowliest of creation
Deserve a relationship
With you, almighty God
I pray
That I will never allow this salvation to waste
In the grave
For you are the resurrection
I am so susceptible to the strikes of man
And would turn a blind eye to the glory I know
For the chase of the vain lust of the world
Lord, slay this part of me
As you laid your son on that cross in my stead
Don't allow me to go a day without reminding me of the sacrifice that was made
To pay
The debt that I made
In my rebellion to you
I worship you, the great I Am,
For in you I find the provider of my soul.
May 21, 2014
May 21, 2014 at 7:54 PM UTC