Hello Poetry
Submit your work and get some sparkles! Create free account
Words
"matron" poems
A hymn to paired planethood: Venus hits Pluto as death, in cold orbit, collides with biology smashing to fragments: demonic astrology (more a black hole than a love-star, it’s true though). Cynical cure for Eve’s womanly grievance Concupiscent consequence: lust’s bitter fruit – ah the thought… changing Sin into mere inconvenience. Margaret sang her seductive refrain about weeding the garden and progress and light. Her sisters should view her with scornful disdain but instead have adopted her murderous rite. With sang-froid she promoted her racist eugenics (as if she had never herself been a fetus), condemning her heirs to postmodern polemics while nurturing ardent desires to defeat us. Suppressing the lives that she flushed down the drain she would liberate Death – and resistance was vain. As a midwife to modern life (though on the “anti” side) Old Matron Margie racked up quite a legacy singing the praises of sanctioned infanticide calling the shots for the coming sick century. Planning, quite calmly, to “cleanse” certain races her zeal was empowered by murderous graces. She labored to bring us such pearls of subduction: “dilation and curettage”, “women’s autonomy” “viable fetus”, “procedure”, a “suction” Hippocrates retches to hear the taxonomy; words that turn Life into mere reproduction. She enters the realms of the ****** and the motherless roundly condemned by her feminine otherness. Man’s first protection: the God-given womb which no infant should have to regard as their tomb. Dismembered dark cherubs, assembling, greet her as demons (in scrubs) holding baby-parts meet her. Long may she burn with the medical cynics this mother of Moloch, this founder of clinics. Convenience is king when abortion’s the Queen and the profits swell big with each nubile teen… yet the fruit of such carnage remains to be seen. I send her this song as a funeral wreath and a card inked in blood. You may read what is there: “To the Matrix Supreme of our culture of death from the souls of the infants you slew on the earth. May your torment increase with the children you bear.”
0
Sep 10, 2015
Sep 10, 2015 at 9:09 PM UTC
connecthook
Margaret Sanger’s Entry Into Hell
A hymn to paired planethood: Venus hits Pluto as death, in cold orbit, collides with biology smashing to fragments: demonic astrology (more a black hole than a love-star, it’s true though). Cynical cure for Eve’s womanly grievance Concupiscent consequence: lust’s bitter fruit – ah the thought… changing Sin into mere inconvenience. Margaret sang her seductive refrain about weeding the garden and progress and light. Her sisters should view her with scornful disdain but instead have adopted her murderous rite. With sang-froid she promoted her racist eugenics (as if she had never herself been a fetus), condemning her heirs to postmodern polemics while nurturing ardent desires to defeat us. Suppressing the lives that she flushed down the drain she would liberate Death – and resistance was vain. As a midwife to modern life (though on the “anti” side) Old Matron Margie racked up quite a legacy singing the praises of sanctioned infanticide calling the shots for the coming sick century. Planning, quite calmly, to “cleanse” certain races her zeal was empowered by murderous graces. She labored to bring us such pearls of subduction: “dilation and curettage”, “women’s autonomy” “viable fetus”, “procedure”, a “suction” Hippocrates retches to hear the taxonomy; words that turn Life into mere reproduction. She enters the realms of the ****** and the motherless roundly condemned by her feminine otherness. Man’s first protection: the God-given womb which no infant should have to regard as their tomb. Dismembered dark cherubs, assembling, greet her as demons (in scrubs) holding baby-parts meet her. Long may she burn with the medical cynics this mother of Moloch, this founder of clinics. Convenience is king when abortion’s the Queen and the profits swell big with each nubile teen… yet the fruit of such carnage remains to be seen. I send her this song as a funeral wreath and a card inked in blood. You may read what is there: “To the Matrix Supreme of our culture of death from the souls of the infants you slew on the earth. May your torment increase with the children you bear.”
Continue reading...
44
Sustenance for friends and clients; state your case – come one, come all. The matron arms of Social Service will not let you fall. Food stamps make our nation stronger, licked, then stuck on the public roll. Social programs last much longer adding recipients on the dole… Like the Ephesian Diana many are my benefits! Mine the matriarchal manna; latch and suckle at my teats. Yours the client’s right to nurture. Mother will supply your need; Child, you must not fear the future – feed, my baby, feed. Call me nanny, call me Lord just make sure you’re calling on me. Mine are the gifts you can afford they’re taxpayer-funded, worry-free! Once you are latched I’ll keep it flowing like an intravenous habit. Keep that ****** situated where your will can never grab it Let it never cross your mind that there’s an end to all lactation. Cloward-Piven have refined this titillation. Love me.  Need me.  I’m the State. Your well-being is my affair. With your consent I’ll dominate, because I care.
0
Sep 9, 2015
Sep 9, 2015 at 9:07 PM UTC
connecthook
Licked, Stamped, Undelivered
Sustenance for friends and clients; state your case – come one, come all. The matron arms of Social Service will not let you fall. Food stamps make our nation stronger, licked, then stuck on the public roll. Social programs last much longer adding recipients on the dole… Like the Ephesian Diana many are my benefits! Mine the matriarchal manna; latch and suckle at my teats. Yours the client’s right to nurture. Mother will supply your need; Child, you must not fear the future – feed, my baby, feed. Call me nanny, call me Lord just make sure you’re calling on me. Mine are the gifts you can afford they’re taxpayer-funded, worry-free! Once you are latched I’ll keep it flowing like an intravenous habit. Keep that ****** situated where your will can never grab it Let it never cross your mind that there’s an end to all lactation. Cloward-Piven have refined this titillation. Love me.  Need me.  I’m the State. Your well-being is my affair. With your consent I’ll dominate, because I care.
Continue reading...
32
all day long, their banging disturbed me at my work startling me from my reverie, lost deep in the world of I Wish I Had A Heart Like Yours, Walt Whitman the birds, returned early from wherever it is they hide during the long winter, have come to fling themselves against the over-sized picture window in my living room, songbird pitch themselves into my poet's dull daytime so that i am moved to rise from my desk, to look out, to seek a bird flying away, or peer down to search for the tiny body maybe roosting among the stalks of the overgrown hydrangea, which captured  autumn’s maple leaves, worn like a Chicago matron's mink to keep the winter chill at bay and, as the spring surrenders to the warmer days, i mow the brightly greened grass, innocently cutting row after row, to turn finally to the narrow strip nearest the picture window, a mixture of grass, dried leaves and tiny twigs, all mulched by the power mower, where i discover these dessicated bodies   exhumed from shallow graves at the base of the newly leafed hydrangea, their stiff, dry feathers bristly, colored a washed out grey, tiny feet tightly balled, with all the soft parts missing and the beaks a startling white, as though bleached, bright against the dullness of the little corpses which seem to have sunk into the mosses of the yard, so that they lay preserved below the blade for the first late-spring chore -- mowing the bird bone garden i sleep with the bedroom window ajar despite the overnight chill and dream of the memory of birds, their shapes, their white beaks and, still, the bird songs wake me in the cool green spring morning
0
May 18, 2012
May 18, 2012 at 8:56 AM UTC
john-mahoney
mowing the bird bone garden
all day long, their banging disturbed me at my work startling me from my reverie, lost deep in the world of I Wish I Had A Heart Like Yours, Walt Whitman the birds, returned early from wherever it is they hide during the long winter, have come to fling themselves against the over-sized picture window in my living room, songbird pitch themselves into my poet's dull daytime so that i am moved to rise from my desk, to look out, to seek a bird flying away, or peer down to search for the tiny body maybe roosting among the stalks of the overgrown hydrangea, which captured  autumn’s maple leaves, worn like a Chicago matron's mink to keep the winter chill at bay and, as the spring surrenders to the warmer days, i mow the brightly greened grass, innocently cutting row after row, to turn finally to the narrow strip nearest the picture window, a mixture of grass, dried leaves and tiny twigs, all mulched by the power mower, where i discover these dessicated bodies   exhumed from shallow graves at the base of the newly leafed hydrangea, their stiff, dry feathers bristly, colored a washed out grey, tiny feet tightly balled, with all the soft parts missing and the beaks a startling white, as though bleached, bright against the dullness of the little corpses which seem to have sunk into the mosses of the yard, so that they lay preserved below the blade for the first late-spring chore -- mowing the bird bone garden i sleep with the bedroom window ajar despite the overnight chill and dream of the memory of birds, their shapes, their white beaks and, still, the bird songs wake me in the cool green spring morning
Continue reading...
27
Broken beyond repair Time passing rips at the pieces Too late for absolution Danger, tears and lies Flow like rivers Anger and hatred abound Unbridled despair Fear of words Cutting deeper than a blade Reflections in the mirror lie Tears stinging with reality Matron lost Seeking refuge from the eyes Losing self to loathing Here you are: Welcome home
0
Oct 20, 2011
Oct 20, 2011 at 3:52 AM UTC
sherry-clark
**Family**
Broken beyond repair Time passing rips at the pieces Too late for absolution Danger, tears and lies Flow like rivers Anger and hatred abound Unbridled despair Fear of words Cutting deeper than a blade Reflections in the mirror lie Tears stinging with reality Matron lost Seeking refuge from the eyes Losing self to loathing Here you are: Welcome home
Continue reading...
15
fifty years to the day since she walked down this aisle; The aisle of this church where he stood with a smile. The ***** swells now as the ***** swelled then but the music is played now by a different hand. The Saints and the angels; they still look the same. They've been cleaned and restored, each one,frame by frame. Her matron of honor this time can't attend. She moved down to Florida when Sandy blew in The best man back then was her brother in law but he died in the desert in the first Iraq war. As she moves to the altar, her grown son has her arm He is tall like her Father was, but Dad is long gone. Her love waits at the Altar, dressed in his best clothes in a bronze colored casket, in eternal repose. On this anniversary of the day they were wed this day she will hear a requiem instead. Then later, instead of the bouquet, she knows she's going to be tossing a single red rose.
0
Dec 12, 2015
Dec 12, 2015 at 8:41 AM UTC
john-f-mccullagh
The Anniversary
fifty years to the day since she walked down this aisle; The aisle of this church where he stood with a smile. The ***** swells now as the ***** swelled then but the music is played now by a different hand. The Saints and the angels; they still look the same. They've been cleaned and restored, each one,frame by frame. Her matron of honor this time can't attend. She moved down to Florida when Sandy blew in The best man back then was her brother in law but he died in the desert in the first Iraq war. As she moves to the altar, her grown son has her arm He is tall like her Father was, but Dad is long gone. Her love waits at the Altar, dressed in his best clothes in a bronze colored casket, in eternal repose. On this anniversary of the day they were wed this day she will hear a requiem instead. Then later, instead of the bouquet, she knows she's going to be tossing a single red rose.
Continue reading...
18
The crew of ****** all hide their own secret loneliness. At every port the deserted dance halls beckon, and there they dance with familiar ghosts. At twelve midnight sharp the spirits disappear along with the tuxedoed band and the music dies leaving red white and blue tinsel, miniature plastic flags, and balloons that glide and bounce to a solitary, prolonged note. The sailors cease spinning and their arms drop to their sides. They drown in bottles of *** in search of solace. They rarely find barely a taste. And so, in frustration they fight and draw first and last bloods. Now, in scuffed shoes and torn clothes, with damaged pride, they stagger arm in arm back to ship. The water laps and licks it’s tongue like a cat at cream and the crew whisper breath rings in the chilly air. Master Chief Petty matron mother waits on deck, rolling pin in hand, kicking backsides into cabins. The ship bobs and dips in rhythm to sailors heaving snoring chests, and there they sleep, fly catching open mouthed, hugging their pillows in desert island dreams. Copyright Marc Hawkins 2009
0
Sep 11, 2017
Sep 11, 2017 at 3:24 PM UTC
Marc_Hawkins
AB
The crew of ****** all hide their own secret loneliness. At every port the deserted dance halls beckon, and there they dance with familiar ghosts. At twelve midnight sharp the spirits disappear along with the tuxedoed band and the music dies leaving red white and blue tinsel, miniature plastic flags, and balloons that glide and bounce to a solitary, prolonged note. The sailors cease spinning and their arms drop to their sides. They drown in bottles of *** in search of solace. They rarely find barely a taste. And so, in frustration they fight and draw first and last bloods. Now, in scuffed shoes and torn clothes, with damaged pride, they stagger arm in arm back to ship. The water laps and licks it’s tongue like a cat at cream and the crew whisper breath rings in the chilly air. Master Chief Petty matron mother waits on deck, rolling pin in hand, kicking backsides into cabins. The ship bobs and dips in rhythm to sailors heaving snoring chests, and there they sleep, fly catching open mouthed, hugging their pillows in desert island dreams. Copyright Marc Hawkins 2009
Continue reading...
6
NAY! swear no more, thou woman whom I called Star, Empress, Wife! Were Dian's self to lean From her white altar and with goddess lip Swear thee as pure as her pale breast divine, I could not deem thee purer than I know Thou art indeed. Once, when my triumphs rolled Along old Rome and blood of roses washed The battle-stains from off my chariot-wheels, And triumph's thunders round my legions roared, And kings in kingly ******* golden bound Shook at my charger's foot, past the hot din Of Victory-whose heart of golden pride in wound Most subtly through with fire of subtlest pain- My soul on prouder pinion rose above The Roman shouting, to an air more clear Than that Jove darks with hurtling thunderbolts, Or stains with Jovian revels-that separate sphere, Unshared of gods or man, where thy white feet Caught their sole staining from my ruddy heart, Blazing beneath them; where, when Rome looked up, 'Twas with the eyes close shaded with the hand, As at some glory terrible and pure,- For no man being pure, a terror dwells Holy and awful in a sinless thing- And Caesar's wife, the Empress-Matron, sat Above a doubt-as high above a stain. Nay! how know I what hell first belched abroad Tall flames and slanderous vomitings of smoke, Blown by infernal breathings, till they scaled Thy throne of whiteness, and the very slaves Who crouched in Roman kennels wagged the tongue Against the wife of Caesar: 'Ha! we need not now And opal-shaded stone wherewith to view A stainless glory.' In that day my neck Was bound and yoked with my twin-Caesar's yoke- Man's master, Sorrow. I know thee pure- But Caesar's wife must throne herself so high Upon the hills that touch their snowy crests So close on Heaven that no slanderous Hell Can dash its lava up their swelling sides. I love thee, woman, know thee pure, but thou No more art wife of Caesar. Get thee hence! My heart is hardened as a lonely crag, Grey granite lifted to a greyer sky, And where against its solitary crown Eternal thunders bellow.
0
3.7k
Isabella Valancy Crawford
Caesar's Wife
NAY! swear no more, thou woman whom I called Star, Empress, Wife! Were Dian's self to lean From her white altar and with goddess lip Swear thee as pure as her pale breast divine, I could not deem thee purer than I know Thou art indeed. Once, when my triumphs rolled Along old Rome and blood of roses washed The battle-stains from off my chariot-wheels, And triumph's thunders round my legions roared, And kings in kingly ******* golden bound Shook at my charger's foot, past the hot din Of Victory-whose heart of golden pride in wound Most subtly through with fire of subtlest pain- My soul on prouder pinion rose above The Roman shouting, to an air more clear Than that Jove darks with hurtling thunderbolts, Or stains with Jovian revels-that separate sphere, Unshared of gods or man, where thy white feet Caught their sole staining from my ruddy heart, Blazing beneath them; where, when Rome looked up, 'Twas with the eyes close shaded with the hand, As at some glory terrible and pure,- For no man being pure, a terror dwells Holy and awful in a sinless thing- And Caesar's wife, the Empress-Matron, sat Above a doubt-as high above a stain. Nay! how know I what hell first belched abroad Tall flames and slanderous vomitings of smoke, Blown by infernal breathings, till they scaled Thy throne of whiteness, and the very slaves Who crouched in Roman kennels wagged the tongue Against the wife of Caesar: 'Ha! we need not now And opal-shaded stone wherewith to view A stainless glory.' In that day my neck Was bound and yoked with my twin-Caesar's yoke- Man's master, Sorrow. I know thee pure- But Caesar's wife must throne herself so high Upon the hills that touch their snowy crests So close on Heaven that no slanderous Hell Can dash its lava up their swelling sides. I love thee, woman, know thee pure, but thou No more art wife of Caesar. Get thee hence! My heart is hardened as a lonely crag, Grey granite lifted to a greyer sky, And where against its solitary crown Eternal thunders bellow.
Continue reading...
48
pansy's screws weren't loose, they were missing, all of them, leaving gaping holes of unpredictable insanity in her manic life only 22, and built like haya, the mistress of desire and lust, every male nurse and a certain shrink at the nut house couldn't wait to ****** a missing ***** or two into her ~ psychotherapy with a turgid twist ~ so mum the matron gave her a protective room at our crib only 13, and built like *** wee the hermit of lore, I sat at the dinner table opposite ***** she played footsie with my naked toes then gave me the crazy eye as her lazy tongue slid in...and out... of her crazy mouth ~ she needed some pee-wee therapy ~ seed planted, *** wee fed the fantasy until it bore fruit: a succulent apple in his prurient mind ~ ready to be ...reaped ~ *** wee knocked on the door ~ silence ~ knock.....knock.... ~ silence ~ *** wee turned the **** and there she was... ~ en el desnudo ~ curves, ***** legs open and inviting, vacuous eyes staring at me, daring me... then she started screaming.... ~ P (Pablo) (7/28/2013)
0
Jul 29, 2013
Jul 29, 2013 at 8:58 AM UTC
james-g-paul-sr-aka-pablo
Beautifully Insane...
pansy's screws weren't loose, they were missing, all of them, leaving gaping holes of unpredictable insanity in her manic life only 22, and built like haya, the mistress of desire and lust, every male nurse and a certain shrink at the nut house couldn't wait to ****** a missing ***** or two into her ~ psychotherapy with a turgid twist ~ so mum the matron gave her a protective room at our crib only 13, and built like *** wee the hermit of lore, I sat at the dinner table opposite ***** she played footsie with my naked toes then gave me the crazy eye as her lazy tongue slid in...and out... of her crazy mouth ~ she needed some pee-wee therapy ~ seed planted, *** wee fed the fantasy until it bore fruit: a succulent apple in his prurient mind ~ ready to be ...reaped ~ *** wee knocked on the door ~ silence ~ knock.....knock.... ~ silence ~ *** wee turned the **** and there she was... ~ en el desnudo ~ curves, ***** legs open and inviting, vacuous eyes staring at me, daring me... then she started screaming.... ~ P (Pablo) (7/28/2013)
Continue reading...
50
I dwelt alone In a world of moan, And my soul was a stagnant tide, Till the fair and gentle Eulalie became my blushing bride— Till the yellow-haired young Eulalie became my smiling bride. Ah, less—less bright The stars of the night Than the eyes of the radiant girl! And never a flake That the vapor can make With the moon-tints of purple and pearl, Can vie with the modest Eulalie’s most unregarded curl— Can compare with the bright-eyed Eulalie’s most humble and careless curl. Now Doubt—now Pain Come never again, For her soul gives me sigh for sigh, And all day long Shines, bright and strong, Astarte within the sky, While ever to her dear Eulalie upturns her matron eye— While ever to her young Eulalie upturns her violet eye.
0
2.9k
Edgar Allan Poe
Eulalie
I dwelt alone In a world of moan, And my soul was a stagnant tide, Till the fair and gentle Eulalie became my blushing bride— Till the yellow-haired young Eulalie became my smiling bride. Ah, less—less bright The stars of the night Than the eyes of the radiant girl! And never a flake That the vapor can make With the moon-tints of purple and pearl, Can vie with the modest Eulalie’s most unregarded curl— Can compare with the bright-eyed Eulalie’s most humble and careless curl. Now Doubt—now Pain Come never again, For her soul gives me sigh for sigh, And all day long Shines, bright and strong, Astarte within the sky, While ever to her dear Eulalie upturns her matron eye— While ever to her young Eulalie upturns her violet eye.
Continue reading...
22
I lay on the ground below the curved hips of the hills at sunset The aperture of my eyes, my *** my eyes and the narrow escape of mind from body I am ten again and they’re calling me falsey “Big **** No bra!” Shoving them into the lockers of Holy Name’s pool My eyes? Brown. My hair? Brown My body? Invisible, lean and “Leave me alone! or I’ll punch your lights out!” Meanwhile, Mom is mortified but not cause I’m banned from the stupid pool All I want— is to run bare to the waist Ride my bike, maniacal   Be a bird Swipe ice from the milk truck Marvel over maggots in garbage Catch toads, caterpillars, pollywogs in jars Later, sell lemonade— get rich! …and pretend…pretend… till the litany of our names, hollered from the porch till the street lights come on…. ***** “This is for something you haven’t got yet” says the matron of the fitting room Bones in a bathing suit? What I haven’t got? or they haven’t got? will never get— in their worlds of curtained cubicles Cause of death: Strangulation by measuring tape! ***** In my plaid two-piece sunburned shoulders, wind-wild hair By sweat and the afternoon’s imaginings I built a fortress of sand and stones to endure forever…. But she— shook the blanket at the tide’s full reach Peppered the air with an epoch Clouds darkening the wind-torqued sea Finding my flip-flops, we—     trudged off…     into the changing… changing
0
Aug 24, 2016
Aug 24, 2016 at 9:45 PM UTC
elizabeth-balise
Adolescent Afternoon
I lay on the ground below the curved hips of the hills at sunset The aperture of my eyes, my *** my eyes and the narrow escape of mind from body I am ten again and they’re calling me falsey “Big **** No bra!” Shoving them into the lockers of Holy Name’s pool My eyes? Brown. My hair? Brown My body? Invisible, lean and “Leave me alone! or I’ll punch your lights out!” Meanwhile, Mom is mortified but not cause I’m banned from the stupid pool All I want— is to run bare to the waist Ride my bike, maniacal   Be a bird Swipe ice from the milk truck Marvel over maggots in garbage Catch toads, caterpillars, pollywogs in jars Later, sell lemonade— get rich! …and pretend…pretend… till the litany of our names, hollered from the porch till the street lights come on…. ***** “This is for something you haven’t got yet” says the matron of the fitting room Bones in a bathing suit? What I haven’t got? or they haven’t got? will never get— in their worlds of curtained cubicles Cause of death: Strangulation by measuring tape! ***** In my plaid two-piece sunburned shoulders, wind-wild hair By sweat and the afternoon’s imaginings I built a fortress of sand and stones to endure forever…. But she— shook the blanket at the tide’s full reach Peppered the air with an epoch Clouds darkening the wind-torqued sea Finding my flip-flops, we—     trudged off…     into the changing… changing
Continue reading...
49
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.
0
2.1k
Anna Lætitia Barbauld
Hymn To Content
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.
Continue reading...
54
Zebra-striped cushion covers on soft-white chairs, cream topped calorie delights, inviting - this patisserie in Nairobi: "you're welcome" the smartly outfitted African girl spoke in flawlessly accented English as I pore over the menu - a posh girl dressed in haute denim and a sleeved top walks in and spoke French in pouted lips as she found her corner spot, reading; an Asian couple walk in, wife in hijab and baby in tow, as the man sneers at me and answers 'assalamu alaikum' on phone as I ponder on identity when the French matron in Yoga tops walks in saying namaste to me, and calls out for Henry - her outfitted and bespectacled pomeranian oh don't we all want to be someone else
0
Jun 4, 2016
Jun 4, 2016 at 10:45 PM UTC
prabhu-iyer
Yoga tops
Zebra-striped cushion covers on soft-white chairs, cream topped calorie delights, inviting - this patisserie in Nairobi: "you're welcome" the smartly outfitted African girl spoke in flawlessly accented English as I pore over the menu - a posh girl dressed in haute denim and a sleeved top walks in and spoke French in pouted lips as she found her corner spot, reading; an Asian couple walk in, wife in hijab and baby in tow, as the man sneers at me and answers 'assalamu alaikum' on phone as I ponder on identity when the French matron in Yoga tops walks in saying namaste to me, and calls out for Henry - her outfitted and bespectacled pomeranian oh don't we all want to be someone else
Continue reading...
17
Push me through the avenue of trees Anne said I’m ****** off with the kids asking how I lost my leg and so you pushed the wheelchair along the avenue out of sight of others away from their childish chatters and ball games and cries of want and woes go on you skinny **** push push she muttered and you pushed on the handles with all your might over the dry grass and she rocked up and down and side to side until she bellowed this will do small fellow rest me here and you let go of the handles and puffed for breath and looked at her sitting there in the wheelchair with her bright eyes and black hair and she pulled your hand towards her and laid it on her one leg and said that’s your reward for pushing me and she rubbed your hand over the red skirt the soft texture warming the skin you watched her hand holding yours her other hand holding the side of the chair sensing her softness beneath the hardness and brashness but saying nothing just taking in the sensations and newness and she said just as well Matron hasn’t seen this or it’d give her such a flush and she laughed and let go of your hand and your hand lingered over her thigh like a bird set free waiting to take to the sky.
0
Mar 20, 2012
Mar 20, 2012 at 3:03 AM UTC
terry-collett
PUSHING ONE LEG ANNE.
Push me through the avenue of trees Anne said I’m ****** off with the kids asking how I lost my leg and so you pushed the wheelchair along the avenue out of sight of others away from their childish chatters and ball games and cries of want and woes go on you skinny **** push push she muttered and you pushed on the handles with all your might over the dry grass and she rocked up and down and side to side until she bellowed this will do small fellow rest me here and you let go of the handles and puffed for breath and looked at her sitting there in the wheelchair with her bright eyes and black hair and she pulled your hand towards her and laid it on her one leg and said that’s your reward for pushing me and she rubbed your hand over the red skirt the soft texture warming the skin you watched her hand holding yours her other hand holding the side of the chair sensing her softness beneath the hardness and brashness but saying nothing just taking in the sensations and newness and she said just as well Matron hasn’t seen this or it’d give her such a flush and she laughed and let go of your hand and your hand lingered over her thigh like a bird set free waiting to take to the sky.
Continue reading...
64
I wish you were a pleasant wren, And I your small accepted mate; How we'd look down on toilsome men! We'd rise and go to bed at eight Or it may be not quite so late. Then you should see the nest I'd build, The wondrous nest for you and me; The outside rough, perhaps, but filled With wool and down: ah, you should see The cosey nest that it would be. We'd have our change of hope and fear, Small quarrels, reconcilements sweet: I'd perch by you to chirp and cheer, Or hop about on active feet And fetch you dainty bits to eat. We'd be so happy by the day, So safe and happy through the night, We both should feel, and I should say, It's all one season of delight, And we'll make merry whilst we may. Perhaps some day there'd be an egg When spring had blossomed from the snow: I'd stand triumphant on one leg; Like chanticleer I'd almost crow To let our little neighbors know. Next you should sit and I would sing Through lengthening days of sunny spring: Till, if you wearied of the task, I'd sit; and you should spread your wing From bough to bough; I'd sit and bask. Fancy the breaking of the shell, The chirp, the chickens wet and bare, The untried proud paternal swell; And you with housewife-matron air Enacting choicer bills of fare. Fancy the embryo coats of down, The gradual feathers soft and sleek; Till clothed and strong from tail to crown, With ****** warblings in their beak, They too go forth to soar and seek. So would it last an April through And early summer fresh with dew: Then should we part and live as twain, Love-time would bring me back to you And build our happy nest again.
0
1.9k
Christina Rossetti
Child's Talk In April
I wish you were a pleasant wren, And I your small accepted mate; How we'd look down on toilsome men! We'd rise and go to bed at eight Or it may be not quite so late. Then you should see the nest I'd build, The wondrous nest for you and me; The outside rough, perhaps, but filled With wool and down: ah, you should see The cosey nest that it would be. We'd have our change of hope and fear, Small quarrels, reconcilements sweet: I'd perch by you to chirp and cheer, Or hop about on active feet And fetch you dainty bits to eat. We'd be so happy by the day, So safe and happy through the night, We both should feel, and I should say, It's all one season of delight, And we'll make merry whilst we may. Perhaps some day there'd be an egg When spring had blossomed from the snow: I'd stand triumphant on one leg; Like chanticleer I'd almost crow To let our little neighbors know. Next you should sit and I would sing Through lengthening days of sunny spring: Till, if you wearied of the task, I'd sit; and you should spread your wing From bough to bough; I'd sit and bask. Fancy the breaking of the shell, The chirp, the chickens wet and bare, The untried proud paternal swell; And you with housewife-matron air Enacting choicer bills of fare. Fancy the embryo coats of down, The gradual feathers soft and sleek; Till clothed and strong from tail to crown, With ****** warblings in their beak, They too go forth to soar and seek. So would it last an April through And early summer fresh with dew: Then should we part and live as twain, Love-time would bring me back to you And build our happy nest again.
Continue reading...
45
Maybe it was fate in the threads of that skirt as short as temper and temperance that ended the ellipsis breathing. A dancer needs an answer on life enhancers, dear romancer. Your smile was more than good enough. I drank of it, the cup of Christ that turned my blood into whining moments of insecurity. Call security, you say, making the call on what I am because I am transparent, transdimensional, traversing the bridge of your nose with my high-risk eyes. You say that I am, and they cry. As your hands ticked at your clock-click keyboard, I waited, passed the time wondering the difference between naive and navel. Harm came like rain in winter, the words of Zephyrus slipping from between those amber lips, lithe on naked fingertips. You take the names of gods in vain, into your veins, let them convert only the white blood cells. You'd crucify me for vanity. You accuse the recluse of abuse, and it suits you, tailored because hatred sized you up the moment you met. The orchestra disbanded, the buds of May have yet to burst, yet to blossom like you say you always will, but the spring in your step when you walk away from the last word tells me more than the chirping birds nesting in your hair. You remind me of Paris on the walls of Troy, thief of hearts and fool indeed. Bringer of fire, brander of hell, but only because you were already the Tartarus Employee of the Month and enjoying Elysium. This is the beautiful mystery undone as her clothes and naked as the day Rosemary Matron gave her to the world. This is the beautiful mystery returned to voids as tangled as her hair, the nonspace between the curls hiding secrets and conviction. This is the beautiful mystery concluded, all the movements of her symphonic body no longer to allure. This is the beautiful mystery answered, the riddle of the Sphinx leaping from the pillar, a killer not quite so strong as her eyes. This is the beautiful mystery laid to rest, buried alive in a life discarded. This is good-bye.
0
May 2, 2014
May 2, 2014 at 9:42 AM UTC
brendan-watch
Beautiful Mystery Undone
Maybe it was fate in the threads of that skirt as short as temper and temperance that ended the ellipsis breathing. A dancer needs an answer on life enhancers, dear romancer. Your smile was more than good enough. I drank of it, the cup of Christ that turned my blood into whining moments of insecurity. Call security, you say, making the call on what I am because I am transparent, transdimensional, traversing the bridge of your nose with my high-risk eyes. You say that I am, and they cry. As your hands ticked at your clock-click keyboard, I waited, passed the time wondering the difference between naive and navel. Harm came like rain in winter, the words of Zephyrus slipping from between those amber lips, lithe on naked fingertips. You take the names of gods in vain, into your veins, let them convert only the white blood cells. You'd crucify me for vanity. You accuse the recluse of abuse, and it suits you, tailored because hatred sized you up the moment you met. The orchestra disbanded, the buds of May have yet to burst, yet to blossom like you say you always will, but the spring in your step when you walk away from the last word tells me more than the chirping birds nesting in your hair. You remind me of Paris on the walls of Troy, thief of hearts and fool indeed. Bringer of fire, brander of hell, but only because you were already the Tartarus Employee of the Month and enjoying Elysium. This is the beautiful mystery undone as her clothes and naked as the day Rosemary Matron gave her to the world. This is the beautiful mystery returned to voids as tangled as her hair, the nonspace between the curls hiding secrets and conviction. This is the beautiful mystery concluded, all the movements of her symphonic body no longer to allure. This is the beautiful mystery answered, the riddle of the Sphinx leaping from the pillar, a killer not quite so strong as her eyes. This is the beautiful mystery laid to rest, buried alive in a life discarded. This is good-bye.
Continue reading...
60
Strangely induce By a lovely matron Instantaneous Gaiety While defrayal Skeptical to various reasons Which I try to figure To a woman whom I hardly knew A smirk that only a whisper can tell Who is she? A gracious beauty Meander misdirection I pause Masquerading my persona She uncovers Challenges that I arrange with deception Bewilder Her magnificent grassroots How elegantly her friendliness is shrewd? I am perch For her liquid perfection Which cannot be quench As my throat dries My language to her will be lost
0
Dec 7, 2009
Dec 7, 2009 at 1:18 PM UTC
diverseman2020
The Invigorating Rosabella
Strangely induce By a lovely matron Instantaneous Gaiety While defrayal Skeptical to various reasons Which I try to figure To a woman whom I hardly knew A smirk that only a whisper can tell Who is she? A gracious beauty Meander misdirection I pause Masquerading my persona She uncovers Challenges that I arrange with deception Bewilder Her magnificent grassroots How elegantly her friendliness is shrewd? I am perch For her liquid perfection Which cannot be quench As my throat dries My language to her will be lost
Continue reading...
24
Red-stained fingers match the Taste of rust. I wipe my mouth again.           The fire rises in my cheekbones And descends upon my throat; Lower sanctums, beware— Forehead ripple lava pits, Eyes like San Andreas. The only way out is through Sky blue inundation. I drink. Matron jar, round And cool to the Touch Dripping life From her hands To mine. Embers dwindle. One last cough to push the Smoke from my breath— My ribs are paper bag empty.
0
Jun 1, 2011
Jun 1, 2011 at 11:19 PM UTC
rachel-altvater
Hungry
Red-stained fingers match the Taste of rust. I wipe my mouth again.           The fire rises in my cheekbones And descends upon my throat; Lower sanctums, beware— Forehead ripple lava pits, Eyes like San Andreas. The only way out is through Sky blue inundation. I drink. Matron jar, round And cool to the Touch Dripping life From her hands To mine. Embers dwindle. One last cough to push the Smoke from my breath— My ribs are paper bag empty.
Continue reading...
21
on a hillside facing north into an infinite blue Jersey sky Sarah was laid to rest on a brilliant crisp Monday morning she was surrounded by loved ones and friendly Highland Peaks gathered together this Thanksgiving week to praise, honor and give thanks for the the life of a beloved transfigured soul Sarah entered the world with nothing yet departs on wings filled with an abundance of riches garnered from a well lived life she nurtured generations of family and fostered a bounty of diverse friendships all who count themselves fortunate to have experienced the grace of her love Sarah was a strong loving matron of a vibrant clan her home filled with laughter and the chatter of children guests found a hearty welcome and genuine hospitality her door, ear hearth and heart always open to anyone in need of refuge, understanding, a good laugh or a loving embrace Sarah's legacy bequeaths an extended lineage of flourishing children blessedly assuring her presence remains a vital life force in the spirit of future descendants as Sarah was committed to a final earthly embrace to rejoin her beloved husband George white wisps of gentle cirrus clouds gathered to anoint the brow of reverent Highland crests Well done Aunt Sally God bless you and Godspeed Fleetwood Mac: Landslide Sarah C. Lundberg Born: August 01, 1933 Died: November 18, 2015
0
Feb 2, 2016
Feb 2, 2016 at 1:32 PM UTC
james-bradley-mccallum
Sarah
on a hillside facing north into an infinite blue Jersey sky Sarah was laid to rest on a brilliant crisp Monday morning she was surrounded by loved ones and friendly Highland Peaks gathered together this Thanksgiving week to praise, honor and give thanks for the the life of a beloved transfigured soul Sarah entered the world with nothing yet departs on wings filled with an abundance of riches garnered from a well lived life she nurtured generations of family and fostered a bounty of diverse friendships all who count themselves fortunate to have experienced the grace of her love Sarah was a strong loving matron of a vibrant clan her home filled with laughter and the chatter of children guests found a hearty welcome and genuine hospitality her door, ear hearth and heart always open to anyone in need of refuge, understanding, a good laugh or a loving embrace Sarah's legacy bequeaths an extended lineage of flourishing children blessedly assuring her presence remains a vital life force in the spirit of future descendants as Sarah was committed to a final earthly embrace to rejoin her beloved husband George white wisps of gentle cirrus clouds gathered to anoint the brow of reverent Highland crests Well done Aunt Sally God bless you and Godspeed Fleetwood Mac: Landslide Sarah C. Lundberg Born: August 01, 1933 Died: November 18, 2015
Continue reading...
80
For Alice (Who used to be me) I have believed in fairy tales Once I walked in worlds of rosy hue I lived in Wonderland and Counterpane dreaming dreams I knew would all come true Morning turns to noon day to evening all too soon Oz can turn to ashes in just a day Princes return as frogs to their lily pads Wonderlands Alice is a matron growing grey No one comes to kiss the princess as she sleeps, Knights in shining armor ride no more. Tinker bell is dying with no one to believe. The Mad Hatter is laughing at the door. The dragon is not slain but lives in glory Roxanne always marries Christian after all Cinderella sits forever midst the ashes Too late for Alice the door is much to small The Emerald City's walls are bottle glass And reality has crushed them neath its heel The yellow brick road leads nowhere very quickly And Alice knows that lonely is the only thing she'll feel oh! let alice return to Wonderland again, Away from the mud and slime outside the looking glass. Life is much to large without that tiny door, And she would seek the March Hares party where time will never pass.
0
Jun 19, 2014
Jun 19, 2014 at 2:51 AM UTC
orlagh-lafricain
For Alice (Who used to be me)
For Alice (Who used to be me) I have believed in fairy tales Once I walked in worlds of rosy hue I lived in Wonderland and Counterpane dreaming dreams I knew would all come true Morning turns to noon day to evening all too soon Oz can turn to ashes in just a day Princes return as frogs to their lily pads Wonderlands Alice is a matron growing grey No one comes to kiss the princess as she sleeps, Knights in shining armor ride no more. Tinker bell is dying with no one to believe. The Mad Hatter is laughing at the door. The dragon is not slain but lives in glory Roxanne always marries Christian after all Cinderella sits forever midst the ashes Too late for Alice the door is much to small The Emerald City's walls are bottle glass And reality has crushed them neath its heel The yellow brick road leads nowhere very quickly And Alice knows that lonely is the only thing she'll feel oh! let alice return to Wonderland again, Away from the mud and slime outside the looking glass. Life is much to large without that tiny door, And she would seek the March Hares party where time will never pass.
Continue reading...
25
♠ ♠ ♠ Pseudo-Oriental visions Haiku, Tanka, exotic terms Vapid New Age vibe-transmissions proliferating eastern germs… Anarchistic thought collages Existential lacerations Nihilistic heart-massages Incoherent lamentations, Communism on a mission, grievance-mongering, stewed in hate; pounding Fascist fusion/fission chanting harshly “ours the state”, Hymns to Gods who choked on ***** undertaken in overdose; rocks that never rose to comet rolling – but ending comatose, Hipster ironies, tongue in chic Metro-wimps who feign the normal, Redneck rantings up the creek semaphoric,  semi-formal, matron’s maudlin observations, motivational hypnosis, (sentimental medications offered prior to diagnosis), coldly abstract neo-nonsense read (by dullards) as cutting edge, letters void of correspondence; well-trimmed words’ linguistic hedge. Climate whining (tried untrue) with eco-prophecies warning doom, Wiccans and tree-sprites trying to undo the curse and lift the gloom, Feministic tribal ranting, Race-complaining, agitation, GLBT gallivanting – all are blights upon our nation. Boring modernist excess, (no longer daring  –  formulaic) confounds –  yet never can address what’s wrong, and so becomes prosaic. Lists like this are perhaps  the worst; another symptom of our times: we who are woefully unversed in rhythmic complaining that rhymes.
0
Sep 12, 2015
Sep 12, 2015 at 11:58 AM UTC
connecthook
Stuff Poetry Hates:
♠ ♠ ♠ Pseudo-Oriental visions Haiku, Tanka, exotic terms Vapid New Age vibe-transmissions proliferating eastern germs… Anarchistic thought collages Existential lacerations Nihilistic heart-massages Incoherent lamentations, Communism on a mission, grievance-mongering, stewed in hate; pounding Fascist fusion/fission chanting harshly “ours the state”, Hymns to Gods who choked on ***** undertaken in overdose; rocks that never rose to comet rolling – but ending comatose, Hipster ironies, tongue in chic Metro-wimps who feign the normal, Redneck rantings up the creek semaphoric,  semi-formal, matron’s maudlin observations, motivational hypnosis, (sentimental medications offered prior to diagnosis), coldly abstract neo-nonsense read (by dullards) as cutting edge, letters void of correspondence; well-trimmed words’ linguistic hedge. Climate whining (tried untrue) with eco-prophecies warning doom, Wiccans and tree-sprites trying to undo the curse and lift the gloom, Feministic tribal ranting, Race-complaining, agitation, GLBT gallivanting – all are blights upon our nation. Boring modernist excess, (no longer daring  –  formulaic) confounds –  yet never can address what’s wrong, and so becomes prosaic. Lists like this are perhaps  the worst; another symptom of our times: we who are woefully unversed in rhythmic complaining that rhymes.
Continue reading...
45
#…a threefold cord is not quickly broken. (Ecclesiastes 4:12) A pastoress once bore a name which merits neither guilt nor shame; Pentecosta Charismania (biblical in megalomania). Worthy of poetic fame, a brilliant if unstable flame. Sincere she was, yet volatile, she brought it down, revival-style. At altar calls, she could inspire tongues of glossolalian fire. The Devil she would oft rebuke with lines from John, or Paul, or Luke; a prophetess on holy crack was Pentecosta on the attack… Her nemesis was prudent, able doctrinally dull—but stable: Patriciana Presbyteria. Less given to divine hysteria, wisdom did adorn her table. And her soul bore well the label. No prophecies escaped her lips nor prone to divinating slips; this sensible reformed young maid was made to have and have it made Elect, correct in doctrine, wit invested in no counterfeit her pop’s portfolio lent her worth: not less than heaven cashed on earth. Mocking these unseemly heretics swayed by neither sects nor politics was Maria Della Romana Faithful matron, primadonna, loyal to her Papal rite, she grieved her sisters by candlelight; fingered furious rosaries stormed the gates with St. Peter’s keys beseeching Jesus that they turn from devil’s doctrines fit to burn, rejoin the holy Mother Church rather than their souls besmirch with further Antichristian sin. (She genuflected fit to win.) God is known in Trinity but less through femininity: His three adherents, flamed by One like braided gold reflecting sun are Christian fates: three tendencies or triplicate analyses, tripartite in judgemental grace each one assumed, with zealous face that the other two could not be saved as sure as Heaven’s roads are paved with wisdom’s gold and Christ’s pure light. (They made a most amusing sight.) Since threefold cords cannot be broken, let my punchline rest, unspoken.
0
Apr 24, 2016
Apr 24, 2016 at 8:19 PM UTC
connecthook
Church-o-Rama3
#…a threefold cord is not quickly broken. (Ecclesiastes 4:12) A pastoress once bore a name which merits neither guilt nor shame; Pentecosta Charismania (biblical in megalomania). Worthy of poetic fame, a brilliant if unstable flame. Sincere she was, yet volatile, she brought it down, revival-style. At altar calls, she could inspire tongues of glossolalian fire. The Devil she would oft rebuke with lines from John, or Paul, or Luke; a prophetess on holy crack was Pentecosta on the attack… Her nemesis was prudent, able doctrinally dull—but stable: Patriciana Presbyteria. Less given to divine hysteria, wisdom did adorn her table. And her soul bore well the label. No prophecies escaped her lips nor prone to divinating slips; this sensible reformed young maid was made to have and have it made Elect, correct in doctrine, wit invested in no counterfeit her pop’s portfolio lent her worth: not less than heaven cashed on earth. Mocking these unseemly heretics swayed by neither sects nor politics was Maria Della Romana Faithful matron, primadonna, loyal to her Papal rite, she grieved her sisters by candlelight; fingered furious rosaries stormed the gates with St. Peter’s keys beseeching Jesus that they turn from devil’s doctrines fit to burn, rejoin the holy Mother Church rather than their souls besmirch with further Antichristian sin. (She genuflected fit to win.) God is known in Trinity but less through femininity: His three adherents, flamed by One like braided gold reflecting sun are Christian fates: three tendencies or triplicate analyses, tripartite in judgemental grace each one assumed, with zealous face that the other two could not be saved as sure as Heaven’s roads are paved with wisdom’s gold and Christ’s pure light. (They made a most amusing sight.) Since threefold cords cannot be broken, let my punchline rest, unspoken.
Continue reading...
58
We never saw eye to eye, you and I. Me with my growth spurts and eclipse of hair, you with high-buttoned shirts, cravat-ensnared. We took turns to overlook each other. Like your birthday on Valentine's: I, aged nine, ate with open flies. You mocked until I begged you cease. You told me boys don't cry, but smile and grit their teeth. Callous, Clements, but I've ground on since. And ten years on, your white flag got snagged, when your lesson on how to heat one's whisky in one's crotch landed you at Matron's feet, and I revelled as I watched. Maybe we should have been friends. There's a lot of you in me, D.V.C. but a pinch of salt for each trait. So let's bury the hatchet where you died and let's put it down to fate that I wasn't by your side, with a handful of earth.
0
Sep 21, 2011
Sep 21, 2011 at 6:49 AM UTC
damian
Donald Valentine Clements
We never saw eye to eye, you and I. Me with my growth spurts and eclipse of hair, you with high-buttoned shirts, cravat-ensnared. We took turns to overlook each other. Like your birthday on Valentine's: I, aged nine, ate with open flies. You mocked until I begged you cease. You told me boys don't cry, but smile and grit their teeth. Callous, Clements, but I've ground on since. And ten years on, your white flag got snagged, when your lesson on how to heat one's whisky in one's crotch landed you at Matron's feet, and I revelled as I watched. Maybe we should have been friends. There's a lot of you in me, D.V.C. but a pinch of salt for each trait. So let's bury the hatchet where you died and let's put it down to fate that I wasn't by your side, with a handful of earth.
Continue reading...
28
Whene’er I view those lips of thine, Their hue invites my fervent kiss; Yet, I forego that bliss divine, Alas! it were—unhallow’d bliss. Whene’er I dream of that pure breast, How could I dwell upon its snows! Yet, is the daring wish represt, For that,—would banish its repose. A glance from thy soul-searching eye Can raise with hope, depress with fear; Yet, I conceal my love,—and why? I would not force a painful tear. I ne’er have told my love, yet thou Hast seen my ardent flame too well; And shall I plead my passion now, To make thy bosom’s heaven a hell? No! for thou never canst be mine, United by the priest’s decree: By any ties but those divine, Mine, my belov’d, thou ne’er shalt be. Then let the secret fire consume, Let it consume, thou shalt not know: With joy I court a certain doom, Rather than spread its guilty glow. I will not ease my tortur’d heart, By driving dove-ey’d peace from thine; Rather than such a sting impart, Each thought presumptuous I resign. Yes! yield those lips, for which I’d brave More than I here shall dare to tell; Thy innocence and mine to save,— I bid thee now a last farewell. Yes! yield that breast, to seek despair And hope no more thy soft embrace; Which to obtain, my soul would dare, All, all reproach, but thy disgrace. At least from guilt shall thou be free, No matron shall thy shame reprove; Though cureless pangs may prey on me, No martyr shall thou be to love.
0
1.4k
Lord Byron
To M. S. G.
Whene’er I view those lips of thine, Their hue invites my fervent kiss; Yet, I forego that bliss divine, Alas! it were—unhallow’d bliss. Whene’er I dream of that pure breast, How could I dwell upon its snows! Yet, is the daring wish represt, For that,—would banish its repose. A glance from thy soul-searching eye Can raise with hope, depress with fear; Yet, I conceal my love,—and why? I would not force a painful tear. I ne’er have told my love, yet thou Hast seen my ardent flame too well; And shall I plead my passion now, To make thy bosom’s heaven a hell? No! for thou never canst be mine, United by the priest’s decree: By any ties but those divine, Mine, my belov’d, thou ne’er shalt be. Then let the secret fire consume, Let it consume, thou shalt not know: With joy I court a certain doom, Rather than spread its guilty glow. I will not ease my tortur’d heart, By driving dove-ey’d peace from thine; Rather than such a sting impart, Each thought presumptuous I resign. Yes! yield those lips, for which I’d brave More than I here shall dare to tell; Thy innocence and mine to save,— I bid thee now a last farewell. Yes! yield that breast, to seek despair And hope no more thy soft embrace; Which to obtain, my soul would dare, All, all reproach, but thy disgrace. At least from guilt shall thou be free, No matron shall thy shame reprove; Though cureless pangs may prey on me, No martyr shall thou be to love.
Continue reading...
40
Noon, I’m next in line behind an old man. “I want to withdraw fourteen dollars,” he says. The teller, a young woman with a soft sweater, says “There’s only—let me check—yes—fifty-two cents.” “Are you sure?” “Yes.” She tilts her head. “Sorry.” The sorrow is genuine. He wears a pinstripe suit, frayed, wafting an odor of smoke and earth. A smartly folded handkerchief, breast pocket, has a dark stain. His silver beard is neatly trimmed. On one wall above the safe is a giant mural of teamsters driving a stagecoach. The man says, “There might be—” “No. It’s always the same.” For a moment he closes his eyes, a slow blink while indignities of a lifetime pass. Without a word, the young woman slides a sandwich over the countertop through the teller window. “Blessings on you,” the man says with a nod, and he walks away with a limp. I cash my check, a big one from three days of messy labor for a matron of the horsey set. “He lives by the creek,” the teller says without my asking. “Under a bridge.” Outside the bank, in the parking lot of glistening cars, I look around for the pinstripe suit, the silver beard. I might offer the man something. He might refuse to take it. Anyway, no matter: he has disappeared like the last stagecoach. Only the blessing remains.
0
Nov 2, 2017
Nov 2, 2017 at 12:35 PM UTC
joe-cottonwood
Wells Fargo Bank
Noon, I’m next in line behind an old man. “I want to withdraw fourteen dollars,” he says. The teller, a young woman with a soft sweater, says “There’s only—let me check—yes—fifty-two cents.” “Are you sure?” “Yes.” She tilts her head. “Sorry.” The sorrow is genuine. He wears a pinstripe suit, frayed, wafting an odor of smoke and earth. A smartly folded handkerchief, breast pocket, has a dark stain. His silver beard is neatly trimmed. On one wall above the safe is a giant mural of teamsters driving a stagecoach. The man says, “There might be—” “No. It’s always the same.” For a moment he closes his eyes, a slow blink while indignities of a lifetime pass. Without a word, the young woman slides a sandwich over the countertop through the teller window. “Blessings on you,” the man says with a nod, and he walks away with a limp. I cash my check, a big one from three days of messy labor for a matron of the horsey set. “He lives by the creek,” the teller says without my asking. “Under a bridge.” Outside the bank, in the parking lot of glistening cars, I look around for the pinstripe suit, the silver beard. I might offer the man something. He might refuse to take it. Anyway, no matter: he has disappeared like the last stagecoach. Only the blessing remains.
Continue reading...
34
Anne crutched her way from the large house onto the lawn where you sat with your sister and a girl called Monica recovering from burns can anyone sit here or only two legged freaks? she asked you don’t have to be rude? said Monica shut your mouth Scarface and pull me up a ******* chair Anne said bluntly you mustn’t swear Monica said I shall tell Matron you swore go **** a lemon between you legs Anne replied standing pulling a face Monica and your sister got up from the small white table and ran off towards the swings and left you gawking at Anne and at her flowery dress which came to her knees revealing space where a leg should have been had your look? Anne said looking at you sitting in the chair sorry you replied just realized you’ve only got one leg well stop gawking and pull me up a chair she said you got up and pulled out a chair behind her and she sat down with a sigh and you sat down again still ******* hurts even though its not there she said giving you a stare what happened to your leg? you asked it went for a walk and never came back she replied pour me a glass of juice she ordered and you poured her some orange juice into a tall glass and gave it to her thanks for being a saint she said and drank a gulp of juice then put the glass down on the table and you still stared at her missing leg when she said want to see the stump? And with that she pulled up her dress and showed her stump and the outline of her white underwear you looked at her face and flushed a little she pushed her right hand through her black hair and smiled you should be honoured it’s not everyone I show my stump off to or my ******* either she said in a Mae West imitational voice thank you you muttered softly still carrying the image of her leg stump and white ******* with you as you looked away at the sun coming over the tall trees and gulls flying in the blue morning sky and apart from the sound of the sea there was only her deep painful sighs and you (imagined) her staring deep blue eyes.
0
Mar 9, 2012
Mar 9, 2012 at 1:58 AM UTC
terry-collett
ONE LEG ANNE.
Anne crutched her way from the large house onto the lawn where you sat with your sister and a girl called Monica recovering from burns can anyone sit here or only two legged freaks? she asked you don’t have to be rude? said Monica shut your mouth Scarface and pull me up a ******* chair Anne said bluntly you mustn’t swear Monica said I shall tell Matron you swore go **** a lemon between you legs Anne replied standing pulling a face Monica and your sister got up from the small white table and ran off towards the swings and left you gawking at Anne and at her flowery dress which came to her knees revealing space where a leg should have been had your look? Anne said looking at you sitting in the chair sorry you replied just realized you’ve only got one leg well stop gawking and pull me up a chair she said you got up and pulled out a chair behind her and she sat down with a sigh and you sat down again still ******* hurts even though its not there she said giving you a stare what happened to your leg? you asked it went for a walk and never came back she replied pour me a glass of juice she ordered and you poured her some orange juice into a tall glass and gave it to her thanks for being a saint she said and drank a gulp of juice then put the glass down on the table and you still stared at her missing leg when she said want to see the stump? And with that she pulled up her dress and showed her stump and the outline of her white underwear you looked at her face and flushed a little she pushed her right hand through her black hair and smiled you should be honoured it’s not everyone I show my stump off to or my ******* either she said in a Mae West imitational voice thank you you muttered softly still carrying the image of her leg stump and white ******* with you as you looked away at the sun coming over the tall trees and gulls flying in the blue morning sky and apart from the sound of the sea there was only her deep painful sighs and you (imagined) her staring deep blue eyes.
Continue reading...
100