"mays" poems
Since you've been away
I've trailed the wake of the clouds
Just crumbling clay...
That lay in the shade that enshrouds
Depending on the ifs and mays.
Wake up, my love...
Since you haven't been here
The sky did nothing but only sang
Ambient translations of mocks and jeers
As the green blades of earth bared their fangs
Mischievous songs that I've held dear.
Wake up, my love...
Since you've been gone
I've realised that I'm not moving
And you too, haven't moved since last dawn
A reality all too disheartening
Bits of me all cut up and sawn.
Wake up my love...
Since you've been missing
I am never whole, and never will
A lifetime of endless chasing
Bottomless jar without a seal
Void clustered emptiness in need of filling.
Wake up, my love...
Since you've been absent
I could only hope for this lungful
To lead me to subsequent
Ones that taste like bitter pills encapsuled.
Mind full of drugs running rampant.
Wake up, my love...
Since you wouldn't have known
What these days are like...
Time induced tumours have grown
The hours impale with temporal spikes...
Inseminating malignant thoughts soon to be sown.
Wake up, my love...
Since you've been away
I'm a player hoping for a fair game
Nonetheless still crumbling clay...
That lay in the dark just the same
Choking on the what ifs and what mays.
Oct 28, 2014
Oct 28, 2014 at 12:16 PM UTC
The dawn is smiling on the dew that covers
The tearful roses; lo, the little lovers
That kiss the buds, and all the flutterings
In jasmine bloom, and privet, of white wings,
That go and come, and fly, and peep and hide,
With muffled music, murmured far and wide.
Ah, the Spring time, when we think of all the lays
That dreamy lovers send to dreamy mays,
Of the fond hearts within a billet bound,
Of all the soft silk paper that pens wound,
The messages of love that mortals write
Filled with intoxication of delight,
Written in April and before the May time
Shredded and flown, playthings for the wind's playtime,
We dream that all white butterflies above,
Who seek through clouds or waters souls to love,
And leave their lady mistress in despair,
To flit to flowers, as kinder and more fair,
Are but torn love-letters, that through the skies
Flutter, and float, and change to butterflies
12.9k
some may say a man
with a beard
has something to hide
some may say a bearded man
is a lonely man
let me tell you a law
of the known universe
all great influential men
had beards
Consider this: The Soul is set aflame by the constant ruminations of the mind that venture beyond one’s stagnant self. This leads to great inspiration and ultimately inspiring others greatly.
so you see
only the bearded man can
transcend himself
List of Great Bearded Men: Frederick Douglas, Ulysses S. Grant, Ernest Hemingway, Jesus, Abraham Lincoln, Confucius, Karl Marx, Sigmund Freud, John Lennon, Vincent Van Gogh, Albert Einstein, King Leonidas, Zeus, Poseidon, Billy Mays, Most notable Pirates.
Dec 2, 2011
Dec 2, 2011 at 1:02 AM UTC
Tell me not here, it needs not saying,
What tune the enchantress plays
In aftermaths of soft September
Or under blanching mays,
For she and I were long acquainted
And I knew all her ways.
On russet floors, by waters idle,
The pine lets fall its cone;
The cuckoo shouts all day at nothing
In leafy dells alone;
And traveller's joy beguiles in autumn
Hearts that have lost their own.
On acres of the seeded grasses
The changing burnish heaves;
Or marshalled under moons of harvest
Stand still all night the sheaves;
Or beeches strip in storms for winter
And stain the wind with leaves.
Posses, as I possessed a season,
The countries I resign,
Where over elmy plains the highway
Would mount the hills and shine,
And full of shade the pillared forest
Would murmur and be mine.
For nature, heartless, witless nature,
Will neither care nor know
What stranger's feet may find the meadow
And trespass there and go,
Nor ask amid the dews of morning
If they are mine or no.
2.9k
--To W. H.
With a ripple of leaves and a ****** of streams
The full world rolls in a rhythm of praise,
And the winds are one with the clouds and beams--
Midsummer days! Midsummer days!
The dusk grows vast; in a purple haze,
While the West from a rapture of sunset rights,
Faint stars their exquisite lamps upraise--
Midsummer nights! O midsummer nights!
The wood's green heart is a nest of dreams,
The lush grass thickens and springs and sways,
The rathe wheat rustles, the landscape gleams--
Midsummer days! Midsummer days!
In the stilly fields, in the stilly ways,
All secret shadows and mystic lights,
Late lovers murmur and linger and gaze--
Midsummer nights! O midsummer nights!
There's a music of bells from the trampling teams,
Wild skylarks hover, the gorses blaze,
The rich, ripe rose as with incense steams--
Midsummer days! Midsummer days!
A soul from the honeysuckle strays,
And the nightingale as from prophet heights
Sings to the Earth of her million Mays--
Midsummer nights! O midsummer nights!
Envoy
And it's O, for my dear and the charm that stays--
Midsummer days! Midsummer days!
It's O, for my Love and the dark that plights--
Midsummer nights! O midsummer nights!
2.8k
(From a Persian Carpet)
Ash and strewments, the first moth-wings, pale
Ardour of brief evenings, on the fecund wind;
Or all a wing, less than wind,
Breath of low herbs upfloats, petal or wing,
Haunting the musk precincts of burial.
For the season of newer riches moves triumphing,
Of the evanescence of deaths. These potpourris
Earth-tinctured, jet insect-bead, cinder of bloom—
How weigh while a great summer knows increase,
Ceaselessly risen, what there entombs?—
Of candour fallen from the slight stems of Mays,
Corrupt of the rim a blue shades, pensively:
So a fatigue of wishes will young eyes.
And brightened, unpurged eyes of revery, now
Not to glance to fabulous groves again!
For now deep presence is, and binds its close,
And closes down the wreathed alleys escape of sighs.
And now rich time is weaving, hidden tree,
The fable of orient threads from bough to bough.
Old rinded wood, whose lissomeness within
Has reached from nothing to its covering
These many corymbs’ flourish!—And the green
Shells which wait amber, breathing, wrought
Towards the still trance of summer’s centering,
Motives by ravished humble fingers set,
Each in a noon of its own infinite.
And here is leant the branch and its repose
of the deep leaf to the pilgrim plume. Repose,
Inflections brilliant and mute of the voyager, light!
And here the nests, and freshet throats resume
Notes over and over found, names
For the silvery ascensions of joy. Nothing is here
But moss and its bells now of the root’s night;
But the beetle’s bower, and arc from grass to grass
For the flight in gauze. Now its fresh lair,
Grass-deep, nestles the cool eft to stir
Vague newborn limbs, and the bud’s dark winding has
Access of day. Now on the subtle noon
Time’s image, at pause with being, labours free
Of all its charge, for each in coverts laid,
Of clement kind; and everlastingly,
In some elision of bright moments is known,
Changed wide as Eden, the branch whose silence sways
Dazzle of the murmurous leaves to continual tone;
Its separations, sighing to own again
Being of the ignorant wish; and sways to sight,
Waked from it nighted, the marvelous foundlings of light;
Risen and weaving from the ceaseless root
A divine ease whispers toward fruitfulness,
While all a summer’s conscience tempts the fruit.
2.6k
i am trying to take care of my body
nurture it as if it were a newborn
cherish its hills and valleys, winding channels and perpetual rainfall
trying to help it move and sit and walk
and perhaps someday it will dance again
i am trying to take care of my mind
gather it up into my arms, tenderly
push away the clouds that gather and threaten to obscure the sun
throw open the curtains, unleash the riotous day
flood its rooms with light and the inevitability
of unwavering hope
i am trying to take care of my soul
nurse it carefully, puckered lips towards the sky
awake in anticipation for all the things that are yet to happen
the may-nots, the mays, the possibilities, the junes
and all of the beautiful days
that are sure to follow
as i push away the fury in my heart.
Sep 9, 2021
Sep 9, 2021 at 1:43 PM UTC
Arapaho Bride, Chieftains Dearest.
Early Fortnight, Gros Ventre Headdress.
Indian Jubilee, Kindred Lavishment.
Mornings Noontide Oluksak Pulls Quiet River Streams, Terrapins.
Unabated Vas deferens Wedding Xyris Young-begetting, Zea mays rugosa.
Sep 17, 2012
Sep 17, 2012 at 10:28 AM UTC
Maggie was my mother, my emotional mother.
She came into my life when I was in third grade.
She and her husband, Floyd, lived in the apartment
on the third floor of our house. My biological
mother was too depressed to be my emotional mother.
She spent every afternoon taking a nap from 1 to
4:30 and watched TV by herself in the living room
from 7 p.m. to 1 a.m., then went upstairs to her own
bedroom and read detective paperbacks until about
3 a.m. So Maggie always fixed breakfast--two poached
eggs, grits, and two toasted and buttered slices of
wholewheat bread--for me every morning as I grew up.
Maggie also washed my ***** clothes, spanked me
when I need a spanking, and hugged me when I
needed a huge. I have never forgotten the time when
Maggie (I have no memory of my biological mother
ever being in my bedroom when I was in it) brought
me lunch when I was sick in bed with a cold, along with
an ice-cold bottle of Squirt. I remember loving the taste
of Squirt, which, for some unknown reason, I had never
tasted it before, nor was I ever going to taste it again.
Many, many times I would go up to the apartment around
dinner time when Floyd had gotten home from working
at the Santa Fe shops, knock on their door, and invariably
Maggie would say "Come in," even as she was cooking
dinner for Floyd and herself, because she knew it was
Tod. I sat with Floyd at their small kitchen table and
talked to him about, among other things, who we each
thought was the better center fielder, Willie Mays or
Mickey Mantle. I felt at home with Maggie and Floyd.
The two took my two sisters and me on occasion to
the drive-in to see a movie in their old car. What fun!
Maggie, a Black who had grown up in racist southern
Texas, was illiterate, but I was not conscious of it when
I was so young, and when I got older and knew Maggie
couldn't read or write, it didn't matter to me at all.
Maggie could love! That was the important thing.
I always felt loved when I was with Maggie. And Floyd,
even though he thought Mays was better than Mantle,
remained my friend for along time after Maggie had
passed away.
TOD HOWARD HAWKS
Apr 24, 2023
Apr 24, 2023 at 12:28 AM UTC
Two friends, two lively runaways
Skin tinted light bulb white-
A vague starched contrast to pistachio Mays
So many tides of turquoise fears
Lave rooted feet in flight unseen thus far
In moon parade resulted earthly years
Few never landing kites are brushed against a shooting star
Wait! Now listen. There he comes.
Vein lianas pierce his pale wrists-
Pan plants steps on earthy lumps -
This straying soul the aging still resists
You may spot him in a forest
Leaving seasoned feral brae
With some berries wild in August,
Sweetening strangers' welcomed stay
"Have you seen my Darling, boys?
She wears ribbons in her hair
Darns old lovely teddy toys
Pray this life to her is fair."
"No, but say the author tells the truth
Lives your Wendy in a city
And her children know the sooth
They are little, yet so gritty"
Peter smiled :"Well, then I will bring them all
They'll attend the fairies' ball!
Now close your eyes and let us fall
If muffled in a fairy dust no harm will ever you befall
Onward, over a forgotten cave
Peter's flute in silence lays
Upward for a foggy cradle crave
Three flying figures in ablaze
Apr 8, 2019
Apr 8, 2019 at 12:28 PM UTC
Sasha Milivoyev
BLACK STONE
Mecca, Saudi Arabia
Translated by Ljubica Yentl Tinska
By the Black Stone
Sinful, on my knees,
with tears in my eyes,
I'm pleading,
begging for forgiveness,
when blood-red turned the skies,
the stone grew darker,
blacker than night,
and it used to be white,
as luminous as the daylight,
when from the Garden above,
it fell many a warm Mays ago,
when it fell from Jannah,
far, far down below,
it was whiter than milk
and whiter than snow,
blackened from within,
from human malice and sin.
Never let it slip away,
the dushman came from far away,
tried bringing Kaaba to its knees,
killing Muslims,
the desert still bleeds,
covered in corpses,
devoured by rodents and beasts.
The Judgement Days are dawning soon.
The Sun will stop,
merge with the Moon,
Into the particles
the hills will be shattered,
spill like the honey that is melted,
Allah will be a righteous judge to everyone,
To the fires of hell, the monsters will succumb,
The stone will shine
with whiteness of dazzling purity,
The stone will be singing eternally,
The songs of joy, love and harmony.
Saša Milivojev
Translated by Ljubica Yentl Tinska
www.sasamilivojev.com
Copyright © by Sasha Milivoyev, 2022
Sep 7, 2022
Sep 7, 2022 at 3:18 AM UTC
I've seen suns go down,
and rise again.
I've suffered cold winters,
and felt warm Mays.
I've fallen to repetition,
broke the chain.
I've felt total heart break,
new love came.
I guess what I'm trying to say is,
don't be so down.
Everything eventually,
turns around.
Had no one to talk to,
made new friends.
Got lost in my own maze,
found the end.
Fell into a darkness,
found light around the bend.
Thought my life was over,
but love was sent.
I guess what I'm trying to say is,
when all seems wrong,
just wait because soon,
the bad will be gone.
There's always a bright side,
that will come along.
Jun 2, 2014
Jun 2, 2014 at 5:19 PM UTC
*Oh Sally,
on the day you "disturb me,"
the messiah will, must have come,
anything else, but a minor inconvenience,
a foolish distraction
Lola! Grandmother!
the things we say with out thinking,
quick retorts that boom an
instantaneous, say hey Willie Mays,
mutual concern cognitive proposition,
and you foresee the child conceived within*
"should be a poem in there somewhere"
*in the handed pen, drawing heated inspiration,
from the confluent patty platelets of the
shared single river
of heart lungs eyes flowing as one into this
busy subgle poetry pointer finger @ 4:18am
your secret safe well hid within this writ,
you, mother laureate to a thousand at minimum
so many secret lovers and children in your posses,
the eloquence of your kindness world renown
your behind the scenes presence,
I am smiling, stupified, amazed discerning,
and stand awed,
the global Amazon store of only good
so late nite/early morn the clarity rises with sun
so many secrets lay before me in plain sight - prior unrecognized,
what was obvious, delayed, as sometimes I hear,
messiahs are
one more, maybe two, perhaps as many/few as a minyan ten
of grandmother queens raising up the children,
poets all, such as yourself
then, Messiah will be choice-less, compulsed, compelled
to return and bless us all
course, even when that happens
you still won't be disturbing me,
for you will be right-sided beside him
but not to worry for at this continental crossover hour,
most are sleeping, others feeding the babes,
some returning from church or mosque,
no one looking here at ShePo,
a secret of glory disclosed,
revealed,
only you will see,
so as promised Lola,
your key to a certain stairway,
safe tween
just us three
no tears please,
for this but just,
a just confession, an overdue library book,
a poem resting on my night table
awaiting reading, composition, completing,
arrival?
and that's between
just us three*
May 21, 2017
May 21, 2017 at 5:03 AM UTC
Worship dies on Sundays
Companionship claims no more days
Hardship wins over all the days
And on these days everyone prays
Prays for less tomorrows and more todays
For less Decembers and more Mays
For less to burn and more to graze
They pray in greed
And not in grace
Jul 12, 2013
Jul 12, 2013 at 12:37 PM UTC
I spit promise
I pinky swear
I cross my heart hope to die, stick a needle in my eye
That I will bookmark my love for you
doggy ear the scenes of our story played true
Count and recount the ways I will love you in this life and next
And When words fail
And actions fall short
I will custom tailor hugs for you
pause and rewind my way back to you
harmonize to the 'c' flats of your life
dig graves for your scariest fears
And flash flood, uproot, straight up drown any doubts of my love for you
Because I spit promise
I pinky swear
I cross my heart hope to die, stick a needle in my eye
That I will love you through the what ifs and come what mays
From spring, summer, winter, and fall will I love you
and I will love you
And love you
And love you
And love you until seconds cease to exist
And infinite is not as infinite as we thought
Because I found the beginning
The very beginning
The moment where love approached infinity by degrees
Simply in awe of you...
Aug 19, 2014
Aug 19, 2014 at 8:38 PM UTC
Starlit seeking waves against a summer's blow
meet a shallow shore on a midnight of May.
A day dreamer grazes white lights of a night sky
with twinkled gazes-she wished for a touch,
bare feet tickles wet sand,
heartbeats skips a harmony,
a longing desire locks and loads
firing wanderlust into star-soot boots
on and upwards she goes
becoming breathing breaths
of a dream, that wished to live,
and live it did
10 Mays later-
amidst violent radiance
a contrail climbs- through earth's window
and into a void of shadowed dawn
she goes.
The End.
Dec 31, 2016
Dec 31, 2016 at 12:34 AM UTC
Take wings of fancy, and ascend,
And in a moment set thy face
Where all the starry heavens of space
Are sharpen'd to a needle's end;
Take wings of foresight; lighten thro'
The secular abyss to come,
And lo, thy deepest lays are dumb
Before the mouldering of a yew;
And if the matin songs, that woke
The darkness of our planet, last,
Thine own shall wither in the vast,
Ere half the lifetime of an oak.
Ere these have clothed their branchy bowers
With fifty Mays, thy songs are vain;
And what are they when these remain
The ruin'd shells of hollow towers?
1.1k
the things im willing to let go,
just so you can know
my feelings and how I desire
to be with you, I would not tire
I tried so many ways
despite the mights and mays
so that we could look eye to eye
won't you ask me why?
i know you have somebody
I know its her body
I know its not me
and it will never be
May 20, 2021
May 20, 2021 at 10:22 PM UTC
April showers bring May flowers,
yes this is true,
but what do Mays’ flower filled days bring?
June.
And what is June to me an you?
June is Summer.
June has that one single day where the bell finally rings,
and you swear you hear angels sing,
but really
its everyone's insane screams.
June is all those wonderful sticky hot days.
Sticky hot days that you can’t possibly seem to get enough of.
June is sunny
sleep overs,
sprinklers,
and
summery goodness.
Summery goodness, how can you explain that vibrant feeling?
I don't think there is a real experience in life
that could equal up to that feeling.
If i had to guess,
It’d be exactly like dancing on a rainbow
It’d be just like flying in a room with a thousand fire flies.
We all know that feeling
of unforgetful, fascinating fun.
Everyday is like a new book, just waiting to be written in.
And every Summer is like a lifetime,
try and look back on one single day,
you know its impossible.
Your mind soon fills with
every other day there has been
and every other day there will be.
Sure, you may have stacks of pictures,
and you may have written in your diary
about that one moment of pure bliss,
or a special kiss.
but those summer days,
no matter how special they may be
could never possible be explained.
and that's what makes those days so special to you.
So, April showers bring May flowers.
Yes this is true,
but what does May bring?
Its way too wondrous to explain.
Dec 24, 2012
Dec 24, 2012 at 6:08 PM UTC
i write from the 1st of october. i write from cold air and turning seasons. from hazy days and lazy days and 'maybe things will be okay's. i write from stale bread and cold tea cause id made it at half past three, and the wind is blowing.
and i want to wear my dads big old fairisle jumper because somehow, it always smells of him. and the wind is blowing.
i write from the 1st of october. i write from endless evenings and too many cigarettes and a craving for my mothers supermarket box wine. i write from tired eyes and floaty songs and i write because im feeling fine. and time is passing before my eyes and it makes me feel uneasy because these are the years i want to remember. the 1st of octobers and 6th of februraries and 27th of mays. and all the other days.
i write from the 1st of october. i write from awful poetry and laddered tights and dreams about boys that got lost in the city. in more ways than one.
i write from the 1st of october, and the wind is blowing.
Oct 1, 2016
Oct 1, 2016 at 7:35 PM UTC
I pay my ticket to enter the giant
concrete staircase on the periphery
of the bay of San Francisco.
***** Mays and other boyhood
heroes would do their magic
along this shore for so many years.
Now that I no longer feel the
baseball enthrallment–
because my body cannot see
itself moving with such speed and grace–
I dream of a different crowd.
Homer pitching the ball,
as someone must start the play;
Lao Tsu striking with wood
at what moves so fast it
can barely be seen.
Such hollow sound as ball
is soul-bound into the ether
of the Psalms. Emily
Dickinson snags the high hit.
The onomatopoeiac crowd
lifts its unified heart to
the resounding cheer of
Walt Whitman on grassy
outfield of bliss.
This warm day in the concrete
hang-out, I see in the concrete
dug-out such heavy hitters
lined up for a quick swat at glory.
Maybe something soothing
in between the innings–
an oriole or an Indian foot dance,
while I dream of dancing in my sox.
Apr 19, 2015
Apr 19, 2015 at 11:16 AM UTC
In the mercy caul of night,
Where time is frail as memory,
In the technicolor film of ocean salt,
With eyes of yearn and mute wonders,
There, I saw you once more.
We walked through the rushes green
Of warmth, broke into dreams dawning
Meadows of casting light, where winged
Creatures, colourful as we, lilting in midair
Spiraled, drifting through the gleaming
Thoroughfares of endless Mays, of tingle
And flame, where once before, we found
Ourselves at the misty plateaus reflection
Of star shine and flight, nary silhouetted,
Yet, framed in the snow melted tarns
Of golden, glorious, Olympus.
Apr 14, 2013
Apr 14, 2013 at 11:15 AM UTC
Loose clothes
I’m restricted within
hanging to my knees
my own cocktail party dress
Your attention served on a platter of horderves
small, insufficient to fill
feeding off finger sandwiches
I wouldn’t dare
touch with bare hands
unable to unbutton
oh, boys and girls,
it’s so easy to undress each other;
buttons line up on opposite sides
clothes caught in the line of fire
hung out to dry
Billy Mays can’t save your slip
oxiclean, oxycodone
I’ll hide my ****** braisers
in a creaking chest
while mine lies open
pandora’s box
I can’t find the lid to
I’ll break
worn out hairbands
I can’t contain
what chains my cotton
mouth too dry, pressed
dried tulips
cracked, two lips
Heat & moisture of a summer day
iron-released steam
I’m burning the clothes
you can’t get me out of
One day,
I’ll be able to walk outside
a naked moon dangling
one eye to see
all that my bedroom shirts
conceal
Jan 30, 2015
Jan 30, 2015 at 12:27 PM UTC
The ink revealed all my sealed joys
"I love you like the sea loves the shore."
But waves were drowing the shore,
And then the midnight moon comes into play
They say drowning is blind,
Little do they know
Blind are those, who never drown
If and mays come into play
"May I drown in the sea of your love?"
"What if the waves drown you?"
But...
What if I really want to swim in
What if I want to get pulled in
To the deepest parts
What if the current of those waves
Take me somewhere
A complete else where
From the real world
Where it can be just you and me.
Apr 16, 2019
Apr 16, 2019 at 2:50 PM UTC
In the mercy caul of night,
Where time is frail as memory,
In the technicolor film of ocean salt,
With eyes of yearn and mute wonders,
There, I saw you once more.
We walked through the rushes green
Of warmth, broke into dreams dawning
Meadows of casting light, where winged
Creatures, colourful as we, lilting in midair
Spiraled, drifting through the gleaming
Thoroughfares of endless Mays, of tingle
And flame, where once before, we found
Ourselves at the misty plateaus reflection
Of star shine and flight, nary silhouetted,
Yet, framed in the snow melted tarns
Of golden, glorious, Olympus.
Sep 16, 2013
Sep 16, 2013 at 2:22 PM UTC