"mightily" poems
Eat plenty of oatmeal.
Sauna every season,
Roll in the snow,
Naked.
Laugh, until you cry,
Cry, until you laugh.
Leave a love note,
For no reason.
Take long, lazy, walks,
Behold Mother Earth.
Hug tightly,
Tease lightly,
Kiss tenderly,
yet mightily.
Listen always,
Heart open.
Forgive quickly.
Love lavishly.
And…
Every day,
Every single day,
Pray,
Pray,
Pray.
~ PE Kaplan
Jan 15, 2012
Jan 15, 2012 at 9:42 AM UTC
Your love is always perfect, it is always real as well.
You have brought me close to some Great poets ever.
In fact I would say the greatest poets that live today.
I appreciate that I can really enjoy their beautiful writes.
So one thing that I am asking you O Saving God tonight.
You are already using them mightily double that portion.
In each of the make their poems twice as beautiful please.
Also make their poems twice as powerful as they were before.
Bless them with doubling their poetry talent in every way now.
Sep 5, 2019
Sep 5, 2019 at 1:56 AM UTC
Music meanders mightily moving my soul seeking songs sung by strings and piano plays purposefully pounding perfectly pretty rhythms running round through thick thought of only one nicely named note.
Sep 23, 2014
Sep 23, 2014 at 12:34 AM UTC
first time my father overheard me listening to
this bit of music he asked me,
"what is it?"
"it's called Love For Three Oranges,"
I informed him.
"boy," he said, "that's getting it
cheap."
he meant ***
listening to it
I always imagined three oranges
sitting there,
you know how orange they can
get,
so mightily orange.
maybe Prokofiev had meant
what my father
thought.
if so, I preferred it the
other way
the most horrible thing
I could think of
was part of me being
what ********** out of the
end of his
stupid *****
I will never forgive him
for that,
his trick that I am stuck
with,
I find no nobility in
parenthood.
I say **** the Father
before he makes more
such as
I.
from ONTHEBUS - 1992
6k
*He makes me smile when
all I want to do is cry at times.
He makes me wonder
how did I become so blessed,
even thou I been
blessed a long time ago,
I just didn't know,
joy burst forth from my lips
as a giggle escape cause of
something he recently did!
He makes me stay on my toes
& he makes me feel so whole,
love isn't ever pose to hurt
but I hurt'ed mightily for him
& for him too,
to think I went through it all
and came out clean,
refreshed & brand
spanking NEW!
He makes me smile
&
He makes me laugh!
The power of children
&
a mothers love can
do wonders
for your soul!
it's a gift God
'can only give-
Twins!
Always me Ayeshah*
Dec 29, 2010
Dec 29, 2010 at 2:30 AM UTC
Loneliness is like those ferns
Which grow in the forest alone
Loneliness is like those flowers
Which dance in the meadow
All by themselves
Loneliness is like a palm tree
Standing--growing on the shore alone
Looking out towards the ocean
Without any other palm trees
Loneliness is like a waterfall
Roaring mightily
All by himself
Loneliness is like a Fairy
Crying all alone
Sitting on a mushroom
All by herself
With no other Fairies
There to sprinkle Fairy dust and cheer
Loneliness is like a path
Without any people to walk upon it
Loneliness is like a butterfly
Flying alone
Sometimes we all tend to get lonely
But we must strive to see
The brighter things in life
Like a butterfly
Dancing with her mate
Like a bird cooing to his lover
Like a path with people to walk upon it
Like a waterfall gushing and flowing
Happily singing to the Creator
Like a Fairy
Dancing in a Fairy ring with all her friends
Like a palm tree growing
Surrounded by other palm trees
Like a flower waltzing with other flowers
~Marian~
Sep 12, 2013
Sep 12, 2013 at 9:07 PM UTC
Billy loved his parsnip
He'd tend it day and night
To keep it safe from prying eyes
He stashed it out of sight
But one eventful morning
He awoke to such alarm
His parsnip had gone from puny
To the size of a baby's arm
Such growth was nigh unheard of
In a vegetable or fruit
So he bore it proud before him
Grasped expertly by the root
When he showed his doting mother
She was mightily impressed
So screamed a lot then swooned a bit
While clutching at her chest
The people at the bus stop
Shared his mother's admiration
But advised him that his tuber
Needed urgent relocation
So he took it in a taxi
Wrapped up in folded gauze
To the Guinness book of records
And he pushed apart the doors
His parsnip held protruding
With a confident advance
Like a knight atop his charger
With a huge organic lance
But security had seen him
They quickly knocked him flat
A policeman saw his parsnip
And he hid it with his hat
Billy served his sentence
For unsavory displaying
He changed his name to Danny
There's no record where he's staying
The moral of this sorry tale
Is far too dull to write
So learn your ****** vegetables
And know their names on sight
**
Dec 19, 2016
Dec 19, 2016 at 7:58 PM UTC
In rows like crumpled paper set,
The way one might design a brooch,
There sets a sparkle down so purely
Capital, beyond reproach and sure
She is the blackest flea who sits
Upon an old green dog, now should
You query, her name's a pond. In Gaelic
It's pronounced: Baile Átha Cliath—
But in Irish she's plain, mightily named,
Dublin. Where broods the dove, linnet
And swan. Now take them pi'jons, they got
Dank habits and linnets lament the silent
Stones. Sure, the goose gave out and took
To the air, but the swans, they've landed,
To roost, enchanted as 'Children of Lir,'
And so becomes a changeling child's
Fair city, for in her anointed proximity,
Gracious white birds do bathe and molt,
Supplied as I can tell, she looks black-
Pooled in clusters, long side her creases.
Stout nectar flows in near every nook
And cranny, but yer man, he's never
Busy, that malty fish, daftly avoids,
Swimming spirals round like buggies
Do on petals, he'd rather grace gardens
By drinking their dew. O Dublin town,
She wends her ways and rows her houses
Round-a-bout on cobbled shores in tribute
To sprite, deary and fey, Anna Livia—
Who like a stem of blood, stabs right
To the heart of Dublin Bay— and proud
As a crowned thorny, who once had reeked,
She's bloomed large, into one grandeous
Beauty, like a céilí so finely fiddled—
A sandy, spirited, bombastic beach-
Flower, she is, a flag so fitting upon
The doons. In dream, I flocked to her
Like the wild geese and saw her coy'd
Repose and there I spied, from mackerel
Skies— one monstrous, Irish rose!
Aug 31, 2013
Aug 31, 2013 at 2:07 PM UTC
**In the shadow of Everest people are dying
Crushed in a chaos embirthed from beneath,
Emerged as destructor of temple and Taos,
Emerged as an innocent killer... bequeathed.
History crumbles as heavens roar mightily
Ghorka is dead in an avalanche of rock,
Beggars and potentates crushed in the brickfall
Dharahara’s fall leaves men gaping in shock.
Shuddering mountains in avalanche of free fall
Wails of the stricken as quaking defiles,
Gold topped pagodas and statue of ancients,
Sculpture of lions now a rubble in piles.
Khathmandu in the clasp of calamity
Nightmarish forces arisen from deep,
Grasping the earth in their grip of profanity
Monstrously tearing the bedrock from sleep.
A techtonic ****** of Asia by India
Nepal’s Himalayas ****** to the sky,
Inconsequential, this plight of humanity
Nature proceeds as poor Nepalese die.**
M.
ANZAC Day 25 April 2015
Apr 26, 2015
Apr 26, 2015 at 5:45 PM UTC
In rows like crumpled paper set,
The way one might design a brooch,
There sets a sparkle down so purely
Capital, beyond reproach and sure
She is the blackest flea who sits
Upon an old green dog, now should
You query, her name's a pond. In Gaelic
It's pronounced: Baile Átha Cliath—
But in Irish she's plain, mightily named,
Dublin. Where broods the dove, linnet
And swan. Now take them pi'jons, they got
Dank habits and linnets lament the silent
Stones. Sure, the goose gave out and took
To the air, but the swans, they've landed,
To roost, enchanted as 'Children of Lir,'
And so becomes a changeling child's
Fair city, for in her anointed proximity,
Gracious white birds do bathe and molt,
Supplied as I can tell, she looks black-
Pooled in clusters, long side her creases.
Stout nectar flows in near every nook
And cranny, but yer man, he's never
Busy, that malty fish, daftly avoids,
Swimming spirals round like buggies
Do on petals, he'd rather grace gardens
By drinking their dew. O Dublin town,
She wends her ways and rows her houses
Round-a-bout on cobbled shores in tribute
To sprite, deary and fey, Anna Livia—
Who like a stem of blood, stabs right
To the heart of Dublin Bay— and proud
As a crowned thorny, who once had reeked,
She's bloomed large, into one grandeous
Beauty, like a céilí so finely fiddled—
A sandy, spirited, bombastic beach-
Flower, she is, a flag so fitting upon
The doons. In dream, I flocked to her
Like the wild geese and saw her coy'd
Repose and there I spied, from mackerel
Skies— one monstrous, Irish rose!
Mar 17, 2013
Mar 17, 2013 at 8:11 PM UTC
#***Blackwater rise up from artesian fountains
Upsurge from the provenance of earthen soul
Mingle unto a river of willow’s bend and sway
Rooted in boulders***
*scattered within
milestones
and*
***riverbed Cornerstones
Gray
As though empowering sown seeds mightily strewn
With intent a higher law's freshet flows
For to stream from silence in a satiating tongue
Rolling currents thickly bestow
A river of simple truth lay bare
A stream of random kindness betides,
Rivulets of unconditional love abounding
Rootstock birthplace coursing passage from whence
Unbounded rivers' silent reverie manifests
Rippling cadence immersing pulsing whispers
Unbounded rivers rushing deep and wide
Blossoming undercurrents gushing,
resounding,
rhythmic ebb and flow
Verve undulating wholly alive
Genesis of soul marrow's enlightened shine ―
Wellsprings arise from bedrock
ancient mother earth
A surmounting light leavens abidingly
From imploring water's flowing river song
To illuminate the beckoning pathway's bearings
divergent from thither and yon
Through which to portage
A way to carry back home in psalm***
h.a. rivers ... November 4th, 2017
Nov 9, 2017
Nov 9, 2017 at 7:59 PM UTC
Torrents of vapor ridden wind, snatched at her hair.
Below, rattled the rapid, riotous and vast, rippling sea.
Churning, like a chewing, charming serpent's lair.
Once long ago I knew her; with time she left me be.
On the edge she was, with will to leap t'wards the horizons.
The brittle cliff would not give way, for even it was curious.
Dare say all of nature reacted for the most prurient reasons.
Even the sky descended to watch, with a lightning so furious.
She beheld no fear and the sky wept with thunderous applause.
Her bare marble-like features glistened in the gleaning of the gloom.
Why she stood there, triumphantly, tempting, terror, for what cause?
It will never be known, for she never was, in a time before this doom.
The earth shook like the hands of a beleaguered, berated old man.
It erected monoliths. Volcanoes, pluming molten magma skyward.
The red glow brought heat; earth thought to please her, or so was its plan.
The elements wrestled for the better view of that beauty stalwart.
Never had a sight been so majestically violent, so mightily tame.
Where she stood, should and would forever more be a sacred place.
The tempest of the elements raged on, though none would win the game.
A silence, softly, settled the rambunctiousness, and halted their race.
The skies parted with a sad and lowly somberness.
Every elated, embittered, element safely put to rest.
As the sun swept aside all their postulated, pettiness.
Rays of the sun showered her with bright white zest.
The lady, she moved with unfathomable grace.
She tilted her perfect head up to the skies.
With the slightest of a smile shook her face.
Like all before, she left them there surprised... and forever, there she stood.
Mar 22, 2016
Mar 22, 2016 at 3:21 PM UTC
In rows like crumpled paper set,
The way one might design a brooch,
There sets a sparkle down so purely
Capital, beyond reproach and sure
She is the blackest flea who sits
Upon an old green dog, now should
You query, her name's a pond. In Gaelic
It's pronounced: Baile Átha Cliath—
But in Irish she's plain, mightily named,
Dublin. Where broods the dove, linnet
And swan. Now take them pi'jons, they got
Dank habits and linnets lament the silent
Stones. Sure, the goose gave out and took
To the air, but the swans, they've landed,
To roost, enchanted as 'Children of Lir,'
And so becomes a changeling child's
Fair city, for in her anointed proximity,
Gracious white birds do bathe and molt,
Supplied as I can tell, she looks black-
Pooled in clusters, long side her creases.
Stout nectar flows in near every nook
And cranny, but yer man, he's never
Busy, that malty fish, daftly avoids,
Swimming spirals round like buggies
Do on petals, he'd rather grace gardens
By drinking their dew. O Dublin town,
She wends her ways and rows her houses
Round-a-bout on cobbled shores in tribute
To sprite, deary and fey, Anna Livia—
Who like a stem of blood, stabs right
To the heart of Dublin Bay— and proud
As a crowned thorny, who once had reeked,
She's bloomed large, into one grandeous
Beauty, like a céilí so finely fiddled—
A sandy, spirited, bombastic beach-
Flower, she is, a flag so fitting upon
The doons. In dream, I flocked to her
Like the wild geese and saw her coy'd
Repose and there I spied, from mackerel
Skies— one monstrous, Irish rose!
Sep 30, 2012
Sep 30, 2012 at 3:36 PM UTC
When you wake in your crib,
You, an inch of experience--
Vaulted about
With the wonder of darkness;
Wailing and striving
To reach from your feebleness
Something you feel
Will be good to and cherish you,
Something you know
And can rest upon blindly:
O, then a hand
(Your mother's, your mother's!)
By the fall of its fingers
All knowledge, all power to you,
Out of the dreary,
Discouraging strangenesses
Comes to and masters you,
Takes you, and lovingly
Woos you and soothes you
Back, as you cling to it,
Back to some comforting
Corner of sleep.
So you wake in your bed,
Having lived, having loved;
But the shadows are there,
And the world and its kingdoms
Incredibly faded;
And you group through the Terror
Above you and under
For the light, for the warmth,
The assurance of life;
But the blasts are ice-born,
And your heart is nigh burst
With the weight of the gloom
And the stress of your strangled
And desperate endeavour:
Sudden a hand--
Mother, O Mother!--
God at His best to you,
Out of the roaring,
Impossible silences,
Falls on and urges you,
Mightily, tenderly,
Forth, as you clutch at it,
Forth to the infinite
Peace of the Grave.
2.4k
Life is a light bulb.
We begin this life as children,
fresh out of the box,
faithful that the light will always shine.
Smiling faces are illuminated
with careless smiles.
As we age,
the flawless glass embarks on a journey
to dusty, ***** darkness.
Flickering on again, off again.
Flicker, flicker, flicker.
The more we grow,
the dimmer life becomes.
Gleamy turns to gloomy.
Bright ideas fade into obscurity.
Slowly but surely it begins to fade to grey.
The warmth gradually dissolves.
We desperately, frantically search for
the childish light we once held,
and shared to mightily with the world.
We soon realize,
there is no more light to be shared.
Flicker, flicker, flicker.
Suddenly,
All too suddenly. . .
The bulb burns out.
We are left in the cold.
My life is a light bulb
and it's flickering away.
Aug 20, 2015
Aug 20, 2015 at 3:18 PM UTC
Calmly the river flows
To many creatures, yet unknown.
A place to drink for those who know,
And a place for many to call their home.
The river meanders through the countryside
Like the veins essential to our lives.
Carrying nourishment on which to feed.
Vital to our daily needs.
An abundance of food for man everywhere
And a bounty of salmon for the hungry bear.
But, do not be fooled by its magnificence
For the hidden reality is far more intense.
The river so powerful yet seemingly steady
Barely a sound echoing in the valley.
So very quiet, yet mightily strong,
Silently waiting for victims to come along,
To the river the victims now belong.
But it's in the nature of the beast,
And man tries to tame it
By putting in place
A huge wall of stone
To slow down it's pace,
And in the end, sadly,
It's life, man will take,
And this wonderful life force
Becomes just a still lake.
Sep 2, 2013
Sep 2, 2013 at 4:56 PM UTC
In rows like crumpled paper set,
The way one might design a brooch,
There sets a sparkle down so purely
Capital, beyond reproach and sure
She is the blackest flea who sits
Upon an old green dog, now should
You query, her name's a pond. In Gaelic
It's pronounced: Baile Átha Cliath—
But in Irish she's plain, mightily named,
Dublin. Where broods the dove, linnet
And swan. Now take them pi'jons, they got
Dank habits and linnets lament the silent
Stones. Sure, the goose gave out and took
To the air, but the swans, they've landed,
To roost, enchanted as 'Children of Lir,'
And so becomes a changeling child's
Fair city, for in her anointed proximity,
Gracious white birds do bathe and molt,
Supplied as I can tell, she looks black-
Pooled in clusters, long side her creases.
Stout nectar flows in near every nook
And cranny, but yer man, he's never
Busy, that malty fish, daftly avoids,
Swimming spirals round like buggies
Do on petals, he'd rather grace gardens
By drinking their dew. O Dublin town,
She wends her ways and rows her houses
Round-a-bout on cobbled shores in tribute
To sprite, deary and fey, Anna Livia—
Who like a stem of blood, stabs right
To the heart of Dublin Bay— and proud
As a crowned thorny, who once had reeked,
She's bloomed large, into one grandeous
Beauty, like a céilí so finely fiddled—
A sandy, spirited, bombastic beach-
Flower, she is, a flag so fitting upon
The doons. In dream, I flocked to her
Like the wild geese and saw her coy'd
Repose and there I spied, from mackerel
Skies— one monstrous, Irish rose!
Apr 13, 2013
Apr 13, 2013 at 12:31 PM UTC
A deep mystery lies within
Equivalent that to meeting a new friend
Are you cold, dark and eerie?
Or do you hold a sense of joy?
Stalactites hold tightly onto the ceiling
Hiding from those below
Stalagmites rise mightily from the ground
Boldly holding their ground to those who pass
There are many different types of caves
There are many different types of people
Apr 4, 2014
Apr 4, 2014 at 12:57 PM UTC
In rows like crumpled paper set,
The way one might design a brooch,
There sets a sparkle down so purely
Capital, beyond reproach and sure
She is the blackest flea who sits
Upon an old green dog, now should
You query, her name's a pond. In Gaelic
It's pronounced: Baile Átha Cliath—
But in Irish she's plain, mightily named,
Dublin. Where broods the dove, linnet
And swan. Now take them pi'jons, they got
Dank habits and linnets lament the silent
Stones. Sure, the goose gave out and took
To the air, but the swans, they've landed,
To roost, enchanted as 'Children of Lir,'
And so becomes a changeling child's
Fair city, for in her anointed proximity,
Gracious white birds do bathe and molt,
Supplied as I can tell, she looks black-
Pooled in clusters, long side her creases.
Stout nectar flows in near every nook
And cranny, but yer man, he's never
Busy, that malty fish, daftly avoids,
Swimming spirals round like buggies
Do on petals, he'd rather grace gardens
By drinking their dew. O Dublin town,
She wends her ways and rows her houses
Round-a-bout on cobbled shores in tribute
To sprite, deary and fey, Anna Livia—
Who like a stem of blood, stabs right
To the heart of Dublin Bay— and proud
As a crowned thorny, who once had reeked,
She's bloomed large, into one grandeous
Beauty, like a céilí so finely fiddled—
A sandy, spirited, bombastic beach-
Flower, she is, a flag so fitting upon
The doons. In dream, I flocked to her
Like the wild geese and saw her coy'd
Repose and there I spied, from mackerel
Skies— one monstrous, Irish rose!
Sep 17, 2014
Sep 17, 2014 at 2:49 PM UTC
Discontent and boredom battle mightily
To see which owns my addled wit.
Rain streaks down the kitchen windows
Making worm-like shadows on the floor.
The need to move nips at my torpor
And reads my dictionary of excuses
As I stare at crumbs on the tablecloth
And wish I had another biscuit.
What’s gone wrong, I can’t make right.
I’m stuck here with no options
And I don’t care which way it goes;
I’m too busy being grumpy.
There’s a cricket hidden in the hallway
Nine days now and it just won’t die.
The muted chirping stops and starts,
Loud enough to be annoying
But not enough to be a mask and hide
The thunder of my disappointment
When clouds and rain refuse to leave
And I am left with only empty musings.
My hands aren’t pretty any more.
They used to pose so gracefully
But time has bruised and twisted them
And they no longer reach out to be seen.
That’s just another loss to ponder:
Take a number - stand in line.
Everything depresses me, and then...
There’s that ************* cricket!
ljm
Mar 12, 2017
Mar 12, 2017 at 3:25 PM UTC
.
In rows like crumpled paper set,
The way one might design a brooch,
There sets a sparkle down so purely
Capital, beyond reproach and sure
She is the blackest flea who sits
Upon an old green dog, now should
You query, her name's a pond. In Gaelic
It's pronounced: Baile Átha Cliath—
But in Irish she's plain, mightily named,
Dublin. Where broods the dove, linnet
And swan. Now take them pi'jons, they got
Dank habits and linnets lament the silent
Stones. Sure, the goose gave out and took
To the air, but the swans, they've landed,
To roost, enchanted as 'Children of Lir,'
And so becomes a changeling child's
Fair city, for in her anointed proximity,
Gracious white birds do bathe and molt,
Supplied as I can tell, she looks black-
Pooled in clusters, long side her creases.
Stout nectar flows in near every nook
And cranny, but yer man, he's never
Busy, that malty fish, daftly avoids,
Swimming spirals round like buggies
Do on petals, he'd rather grace gardens
By drinking their dew. O Dublin town,
She wends her ways and rows her houses
Round-a-bout on cobbled shores in tribute
To sprite, deary and fey, Anna Livia—
Who like a stem of blood, stabs right
To the heart of Dublin Bay— and proud
As a crowned thorny, who once had reeked,
She's bloomed large, into one grandeous
Beauty, like a céilí so finely fiddled—
A sandy, spirited, bombastic beach-
Flower, she is, a flag so fitting upon
The doons. In dream, I flocked to her
Like the wild geese and saw her coy'd
Repose and there I spied, from mackerel
Skies— one monstrous, Irish rose!
Feb 15, 2016
Feb 15, 2016 at 3:48 PM UTC
Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya;[email protected])
I wonder what makes up the landlord’s heart
For it is merciless, capricious and poisonous in fibre
It manufactures terror like a Chinese toy factory
For only to be administered where none is needed,
Most selfish and mightily crafty in primal setup
It is the heart of the landlord all over world
It derives pleasure from agony of the tenants
It is maximally sadistic to no match of creation,
It derives joy from harms like rent hike
And terrible evils as lien on beggar’s property
Where misfortune of tenant brews such all
The wine of the land is the blood of the poor
Cursed be the womb which sired the landlord
And yes be it the milieu that nurtured him
For they gave the world a gnome of generations
Feeding on human sweat like vampire of vampires.
Feb 28, 2014
Feb 28, 2014 at 9:51 AM UTC
Bruised and battered egos:
Retaliations –
Flaming tornadoes spiral up to stormy skies.
Mixed metaphors of caviar and custard
Maelstrom mightily around the mountains of Hell.
Trolling is appalling
And flaming burns.
Let go of that ego
Is my advice.
Be humble from the start.
No-one is great enough
To be beyond reproach
Or criticism.
Who cares how good or otherwise I am?
Who cares what anyone says
About my work?
I am what I am,
End of story.
To Describe what I am is fine:
See those metres, verses, rhymes
And metaphors.
Dismantle me if you wish,
But (please) put me back together.
No-one should stand in judgement,
Except maybe God,
With His bright wide wings.
So stop the abuse,
And sourceless insults.
Cease the condemnation,
Or stand to be IGNORED.
Paul Butters
Aug 1, 2016
Aug 1, 2016 at 6:44 AM UTC
~for SPT~
whose poems transform with lovingness
~~
*distinguishing, extinguishing,
the knowledges to retain,
reuse daily, mightily,
pleasures insights beloved,
honored with the stripes of daily use
then there are,
the knowledges to retrain,
non-removable, rising up from your
edges
of the very fine line
tween
pain and experience
they must Main Street remain,
be thankful for that,
for love regained,
needs the benchmark
of having lived love,
the loss of loss when recalled,
when new gets a turn, reinstalled,
is now twice sweeter*
Nov 1, 2015
Nov 1, 2015 at 8:19 AM UTC