"misgiving" poems
1331
Wonder—is not precisely Knowing
And not precisely Knowing not—
A beautiful but bleak condition
He has not lived who has not felt—
Suspense—is his maturer Sister—
Whether Adult Delight is Pain
Or of itself a new misgiving—
This is the Gnat that mangles men—
24k
We made all possible preparations,
Drew up a list of firms,
Constantly revised our calculations
And allotted the farms,
Issued all the orders expedient
In this kind of case:
Most, as was expected, were obedient,
Though there were murmurs, of course;
Chiefly against our exercising
Our old right to abuse:
Even some sort of attempt at rising,
But these were mere boys.
For never serious misgiving
Occurred to anyone,
Since there could be no question of living
If we did not win.
The generally accepted view teaches
That there was no excuse,
Though in the light of recent researches
Many would find the cause
In a not uncommon form of terror;
Others, still more astute,
Point to possibilities of error
At the very start.
As for ourselves there is left remaining
Our honour at least,
And a reasonable chance of retaining
Our faculties to the last.
7.8k
it was on a hill of a clever neighborhood
the errant flow well guised beneath the clay
upon reach of the summit
she is all that can be held
her pull far too magnetic
her skin, akin to milk poured by Luna
her hair is the black of midnight
on the eve of the new moon
she sits facing inquiry with her injured one facing her
on a rounded copper colored chair
placed curbside
Sophia speaks then
a monotone misgiving
that pours out
as a sly pompous
indifference
Apr 2, 2015
Apr 2, 2015 at 12:47 AM UTC
What was I thinking wasting my time with you
I can’t wait to shed my skin
I can’t wait to give to it to the wind
You ****** my soul and left me thin
I can’t wait to shed my skin
What was I thinking letting you in
You took my heart and left my head to spin
I can’t wait to shed my skin
Seventeen years wasted, gone like the wind
Just like a scorpion it hurts, when you sting
I can’t wait to shed my skin
No more tears I won’t give in
You’re a Narcissist, I won’t let u win
I just can’t wait to shed my skin
Filled with feelings of misgiving
I won't fall for your gas-lighting
God please help me to shed me skin
I Pray, I Pray for a new beginning
Mar 1, 2019
Mar 1, 2019 at 9:29 AM UTC
He toils all day and all year.
He takes each misgiving
and gives them momentary life,
through one lamentable tear...
Before he carries on digging.
He gets his hands *****
as he digs through soil, earth and sweat.
No end in sight,
or he'd rather not see.
No solace he'd find,
no peace he'd let.
He only sees this expanse of land...
Of which he diligently keeps.
Tales told by dishevelled sand,
covering secrets
which he has been burying deep.
He has made this
his past, present and future.
He'd make sure that each would fit.
Tied to this grounds,
he is the worn-out keeper.
He never tells but he buries hatchets.
Feb 20, 2017
Feb 20, 2017 at 6:52 AM UTC
Jam non consilio bonus, sed more eo perductus, ut non tantum
recte facere possim, sed nisi recte facere non possim
(Seneca, Letters 130.10)
Stern Daughter of the Voice of God!
O Duty! if that name thou love
Who art a light to guide, a rod
To check the erring, and reprove;
Thou, who art victory and law
When empty terrors overawe;
From vain temptations dost set free;
And calm’st the weary strife of frail humanity!
There are who ask not if thine eye
Be on them; who, in love and truth,
Where no misgiving is, rely
Upon the genial sense of youth:
Glad Hearts! without reproach or blot;
Who do thy work, and know it not:
Oh! if through confidence misplaced
They fail, thy saving arms, dread Power! around them cast.
Serene will be our days and bright,
And happy will our nature be,
When love is an unerring light,
And joy its own security.
And they a blissful course may hold
Even now, who, not unwisely bold,
Live in the spirit of this creed;
Yet seek thy firm support, according to their need.
I, loving freedom, and untried;
No sport of every random gust,
Yet being to myself a guide,
Too blindly have reposed my trust:
And oft, when in my heart was heard
Thy timely mandate, I deferred
The task, in smoother walks to stray;
But thee I now would serve more strictly, if I may.
Through no disturbance of my soul,
Or strong compunction in me wrought,
I supplicate for thy control;
But in the quietness of thought:
Me this unchartered freedom tires;
I feel the weight of chance-desires:
My hopes no more must change their name,
I long for a repose that ever is the same.
Stern Lawgiver! yet thou dost wear
The Godhead’s most benignant grace;
Nor know we anything so fair
As is the smile upon thy face:
Flowers laugh before thee on their beds
And fragrance in thy footing treads;
Thou dost preserve the stars from wrong;
And the most ancient heavens, through Thee, are fresh and strong.
To humbler functions, awful Power!
I call thee: I myself commend
Unto thy guidance from this hour;
Oh, let my weakness have an end!
Give unto me, made lowly wise,
The spirit of self-sacrifice;
The confidence of reason give;
And in the light of truth thy Bondman let me live!
2.4k
*Mirror! Mirror! On the wall
Though art the cause of many a fall
What with them endless hours adjusting and re-adjusting
Visages to desired perfection mindless of the misgiving.
Wearing masks in a variety of color
In a bid to entice a bachelor
With whose heart she’ll most disconcertingly hold ransom
Anticipating a blossom
Of a methodically engineered relationship
Minding her speech lest a Freudian slip
Nips at the bud
Her good “fortune” exposing her as a fraud.
Perfect imperfections, perfectly mirrored
By an imperfect mirror…*absurd.
Dec 11, 2013
Dec 11, 2013 at 9:11 AM UTC
our thoughts are the ribbons
wrapped around the words like a bow
like a present of misgiving
that only the giving could bestow
it's hard to live with the living
when we die with what we know
it's the wit of the unwitting
it's the only gift we show
Nov 13, 2015
Nov 13, 2015 at 11:55 AM UTC
Ban the burka or the bomb?
Ban the turban or the gun?
Ban the Bible or the gore?
Ban the Torah or the war?
Ban religion, ban belief
Ban San Frontièrs, ban relief
Ban the poets, ban free speech
Ban the people born to teach
Ban the children, ban the old
Ban the meek and ban the bold
Ban the weakest, ban the strong
Ban the music, ban the song
Ban the freedom of the sea
Ban ideals of liberty
Ban your birthright, ban free will
Ban excitement, ban the thrill
Ban all things with no misgiving
Ban the joyous gift of living.
Feb 1, 2017
Feb 1, 2017 at 5:54 PM UTC
HARLEM BLUES
Lingering perfumes float through the night air,
Life was a drudgery for him and no one cared!
With neon lights blinking and flashing every-
where!
The jazz band in the saloon played a soft tune,
And the lady there sang the Blues and also
crooned!
Now the solitude of the night gets to him,
As he drops down into a corner seat where lights
are rather dim!
Signals the waiter as he lights his cigar,
And orders a large whiskey and soda, having
come down so far!
He remains enthralled by the lone singer’s
voice,
He must spend this ‘blue night’ all alone, -
since he had no other choice!
The singer now comes pretty close to him,
And he could see her white teeth dazzle and
gleam!
But when he looked into those dark eye lashes, -
Sad memories from the past before his eyes
flashes!
He had been a clarinet player of some renown,
But his wife couldn’t tolerate its piping sound!
His habit of playing the pipe at mid-night hours,
Made her to desert him for their marriage had
gone sour!
The 'blue notes' in the saloon soon comes to an
end,
But the music goes on simply to entertain!
The singer now invites this loner to her room,
He accompanies - trying to forget his loneliness
and gloom!
She pours out two drinks in her upstairs room,
And places his head gently between her ***** -
Which makes him to swoon!
The ‘blue notes’ still plays on in his mind,
It is then when she pulls out a clarinet from
behind!
Seeing him surprised - she laughs out loud;
He stares at the clarinet with misgiving and doubt!
“Don’t worry darling I had met you wife,
She had shown me your picture and told me about
your life!
From my childhood days I had loved the clarinet,
It turns me on before I go to bed!
So play the pipe gently as I get into my slip-on,
And we shall make love right into the morn! ”
He picked up the clarinet and played it so
tender and so light, -
The music echoed through the lonely Harlem night!
-By Raj Nandy, New Delhi.
(While reading up the History of Jazz for composing my Jazz Story Part Two, I received an inspiration for writing this fictional poem for you! For reading thank you!)
Sep 15, 2014
Sep 15, 2014 at 12:44 AM UTC
Live like an unappreciated stranger
in your own house.
Become the careless talk at family dinners
about the disappointing child
and pretend like it was all a joke
and slowly lose yourself with every
echo of drunken laughter.
Look into the eyes of someone you love
and realize how you can't feel anything
other than dread.
Become the lustful thoughts of someone
you can't love
and watch them cut themselves
into pieces for you, when
in the end
all you can say is a pitiful "thank you,
but I'd rather be a lonely wreck
drifting across the sea."
Ask yourself to be found
in a map with no direction
and with nothing but your
faulty heart to guide you away
from home.
Pretend like the music
disappears into the background
of the screenplay your life has become
and the screen slowly turning black.
Find the dread
in your own heartbeat.
Take off your clothes
and see how you sewed every misgiving
into your skin like a story you
never want forgotten
and marvel at how bad your stitching is-
can't even hold yourself together.
Hear the sound of the rain
and wonder why
the grey clouds of your heart
never go away with the same.
Oct 4, 2014
Oct 4, 2014 at 12:20 PM UTC
Silhouettes of perfection
mirrored in the moon's reflection
As they dance across the plain.
Sheets of grass are crisp with dew
From the condensation
caused by the concentration
of their gaze.
Blind to the life they draw
they are stopped only by thunderous applause
from the voyeurs of their strain
Horns shattering the silence of an intimate exchange.
Excited by the very motion of the living.
The color of their exsistance change.
Any misgiving and the other will find where fury preys.
Nov 24, 2012
Nov 24, 2012 at 2:35 AM UTC
I fell inwards into the shards of my inner self,
My thoughts cut upon the reflections of what
Was once full but worn parts fractured.
My soul was a rainbow of tainted emotions,
Gleaming off the spectrum what had been
Whole, now falling deep into oblivion.
Landing in shallow thought, I waded till all
Was still. I saw myself as only I envision, fists
Glanced upon the impression and i sank in.
I looked into the reflection that was my own,
Seeing inside, I threw pity upon it reflecting
Back I saw that my misgiving were a waking dream.
Oct 3, 2015
Oct 3, 2015 at 1:47 PM UTC
I had a little headache yesterday
But "little" headaches leave me in ill humor
because I know (and very often say:)
"I don't get headaches! It must be a tumor!"
When I get aches, it fills me with misgiving.
For any symptom, even though it's vague,
I've known this much: as long as I've been living:
Each little pain must be bubonic plague.
I never had a tiny ailment yet
But I was sure was going to cause my death,
And every case of pimples that I get
will shortly make me end up like Macbeth.
A doctor said the malady I fight is
Called terminal acute dramaticitis
dag 11/10/2013
Sep 3, 2015
Sep 3, 2015 at 9:20 PM UTC
Or afterlife I can't remember
*Let's take a trip
Just go for a stroll
Down this hellhole
Old ravaged soul
Fear not my friend,
For lo and behold
You've been here before
Time after time,
Spent breaking the mold
Value of life cajoled
Blindfolded by fool's gold
Then a jolt
of electricity
jots down your spinal chord
Now you're on the threshold
About to enter a portal of some sorts,
No?
Only to discover
You're living the life of another
And the sum of every misgiving
makes you suffer in discomfort
Living the dream
To wake and repeat
Routinely existing
One day at a time
Feel it yes shudder
Over your head pull the covers
Dream of a place elsewhere
But beware your worst nightmares
As a slaughter is awakening
Pharm entrapment for mass brainwashing
It's one global chess-game
While pawns are laid to waste
Archons duplicate an assumed fate
Deception whispers into the hearts of the wicked
For certain they're rendered
by men lurking
shadily behind curtains unspoken of
I'm ashamed
Prayers fall on deaf ears
when a reckoning is ravenous
Assuredly glimmering in extravagance
Whilst you traipse about like savages
Poisoning our brains
Tainting the terrain
Reign supreme putrid filth
For bloodstained money &
Squandered wealth
Lengthening our debts
Molesting children
Who'd like to place their highest bet?
Just stay conditioned
For the daily grind
The hustle and bustle
Stick with consistence
And reminisce of better times
You're dead inside
Is the end just contingent?
Why won't society just crumble
Keep living the lie
Greener pastures
lay just beyond the hillside
Am I right?*
Oct 29, 2015
Oct 29, 2015 at 9:37 AM UTC
I used to eye her more than books.
She had good looks
and for me
in the library
she killed the dullness of patience
the stifled air of silence
with her lips' hidden smile
that was quite a diversion
from pouring over yellowed pages
all the while.
In the garden I sought my chance
but she resisted any advance
telling me it's not her
I needed to be in my mind
but a job I must find
for couldn't be raised a family
merely loving in the library.
I think she gave me love
when I needed a job
but by the time I earned the bread
she was already married.
Once I thought of her as Miss Giving
but now as I look back
I have serious misgiving.
Jan 25, 2017
Jan 25, 2017 at 8:26 AM UTC
Each past fortifying moment
tends
to be concluded
by a bitter fall.
Once I awoke
from my
empty dreams.
Standing there,
you were in the distance
with your will
to pervade
all areas of my life.
as I dwelled,
you descended yourself
close
to my reach
as I clasped at
only the amount
of which I could
apprehend.
I was fully aware of
your strong inclinations.
Believe I wanted
nothing more than to
emulate every touch
your heart felt.
But mine was so
incapable of
saturation.
My tender attraction
to torment
fastened me in my
chair of
possessiveness
I was
so faithful to.
My dawdling
from confusion
was so misgiving
until
everything was falsely led.
Your hostile anguish
I comprehend now
so clearly.
So time faded what
was unwanted and
I have this memory
relaying a
message
I am too aware
of now to discount.
Days are just numbers and
distance can
dispose in the past.
And it’s this second chance
I can’t do without.
And this devotion I’ve recovered
from the deep depths
that’s been with me all along:
My subconscious hope was the epitome of you.
Oct 23, 2009
Oct 23, 2009 at 11:14 AM UTC
Problems solved
Pills to swallow
Skills evolved
Soul is hollow
Defy the odds
Keep on living
Blame the gods
For misgiving
Take a drink
Brief escape
Begin to sink
Self date ****
Take a puff
Float away
Call my bluff
Stray or stay?
Nostril snort
Eyes awakened
Time is short
Moments taken
Eat your veggies
Long strange trip
Brain pain wedgies
Sail with the ship
Last meal,
A sip of wine?
A waif of bread?
Bargain deal
Friends to dine
A beautiful spread
Ability to feel
Final sunset"s shine
Fully satisfied and fed
Last movie reel
Last grape on the vine
This raisins finally off to bed
Aug 21, 2013
Aug 21, 2013 at 3:39 AM UTC
You gave us this world with opportunity and every ability to build paradise,
Yet we blame You for all tragedy , evil, pain, and unnecessary suffering;
You are the culprit, we charge, and dare imagine you with heart as cold as ice,
With never a glance in the mirror to reflect upon our failures with any misgiving.
So we shake our fist, trample Your words of wisdom and the help You offer,
Content to live as our own gods in the self-made illusion of human grandeur,
While our world careens toward disaster, as in foolish rebellion we take cover;
Your tears falling in the rain for Your children and creation in immortal danger.
How is it the fool says in his heart, “Surely, there is no God, no higher power,”
When with lost divine likeness and shattered image, truer it is there is no human?
More like empty shells with vacant eyes, we walk this earth enslaved by the hour,
Ever too proud to turn to You in the light of Your Love, redemption to summon.
Jan 27, 2014
Jan 27, 2014 at 10:59 PM UTC
As the green fields of desire turn to dust,
And the shining armor is covered in rust,
Cynicism catches reality with her embrace,
While hope takes one last bow in grace.
All that is left is a harsh, crooked grin,
Served by despair who knows he’ll win.
Though his diamonds will leave you shivery,
He is now your finest piece of jewelry.
When taking that frightening leap in tears,
You hear the cries of devotion so near.
In the dark, misgiving cradles your head,
They are dying, these words you left unsaid.
Faith is the light trying to break through,
Yet the choir of doubts still leaves you blue.
Anger and bitterness will claim what’s yours,
Forcing patience to leave these shores.
Looking upon someone you wish you were,
You turn your head away from the blur.
Sweet affection held your hand for a while;
Now regret will walk you down the aisle.
But you request oblivion to stroke your mind,
Yet his stubborn being is not too kind.
Emptiness however is such a fine gentleman,
In him you find your trust to be genuine.
Feb 13, 2013
Feb 13, 2013 at 12:24 PM UTC
it's a misgiving feeling the thought of you leaving
An airport terminal stretch of time
between the metaphor in my head
and the rhyme of your feet
stepping quietly on up ahead.
You said you'd be back within weeks,
business takes days, it's a climb
to the highest peak, you said
whilst walking through the gates.
It's a misgiving feeling
the sight of you leaving
you bag in tow down terminal's row
passport control, doors out,
disappearing
Jul 10, 2013
Jul 10, 2013 at 3:53 PM UTC
Perhaps it was her voice itself, clear and simple,
Unalloyed by any classically trained fol-de-rol,
Or possibly the nature of her faith
Displayed with such clarity, such transparency
By that very instrument,
But in any case, she had utterly bewitched the populace
Of the place known as Ahwaga by her distant cousins,
And when she stood on the Delaware & Hudson platform
The next morning, they had cheered her lustily,
All but begging her You must return to us,
But the train had lost its footing on a sharp grade
Mere hundreds of yards before making the station at Deposit,
And she was lost in the carnage and conflagration.
The townspeople she had said her farewells to that morning
Were distraught, their feelings a mix of grief
And an odd sense of culpability, a nagging misgiving
That perhaps this was an omen, some augury
Denoting that their own faith was not up to scratch,
And so they had taken her back to their own burgh
To bury her in a manner befitting her piety
(She had been travelling with siblings,
But they acquiesced to the plan, though how willingly
Not wholly apparent at the time,
And made no clearer through the ramble of time)
And so she was laid to rest in a plot
Surrounded by ornate fencing, her grave marked
By an obelisk pointing unambiguously to her Heaven,
And it is said that, on autumn evenings
When the breeze rustle the dying leaves just so,
You can hear the spirits of her Mohawk brethren
Come down from Quebec, murmuring songs
Telling of the spirits living in the trees and hedgerows,
Spoken in the ancient tongue
Of the languid, unhurried Susquehanna far below.
Jan 29, 2018
Jan 29, 2018 at 8:37 PM UTC
I often wonder if you know the stars of my heart shine for you.
The golden trees shimmer as the sun sets gently underneath the horizon.
You pull on my heart strings much like that of your bass guitar.
There is an orchard in the meadow behind my house and seeing the drooping flowers, I am sorry I did not water them like Mother told me to
Your smile could illuminate New York during a black out, much like you illuminate my soul.
My past is a dark cloud that threatens rain, and I long for a day when an umbrella will not be a permanent accessory
The winter winds are frigid, but you roll past like a smooth, summer breeze.
I laugh away my misgiving when inside, they eat up my last bits of happiness
Nov 15, 2013
Nov 15, 2013 at 10:06 AM UTC
i wanted to be more than life stuck in these bones,
but they're intent on running.
i thought i'd be content with settling down
but i think they are hunting for something.
i can see myself moving from city or town
though its hard to feel more than motionless
when about a month maybe more
is all you'll make an appearance for.
i'd like to feel more than simply life in these bones
but right now they're only good for aching.
matching socks hide away my weak feet for a while
but it doesn't take long for the absence of skin--
reminding me my brittle feet are breaking,
creaking, wary under the weight of heavy bones.
my hands feel empty.
but doctor's say nothing's missing...
i know i'm losing something to distance
you can hear it if you listen.
i keep replaying the sound of your whole life splitting
its way from mine
a misgiving sound for a while i'd been wishing
not to listen to, but i
decided to make it into an alarm clock instead
to keep me from dreaming too big, because
nothing scares me quicker from sleep.
i'm relearning how ferocious
your memory could be.
and only when you look you will see
inside your reflection--half of what you should be
not a would-be, but a could've-been
stuck with fuckin' half-life personalities
singing for their expiration dates,
cracking under your empty gravity.
breaking, fading, floating away from reality.
it took too many broken bones
to realize how unbroken we weren't supposed to be.
myself personally, i think there's no sense in
looking in the mirror
when i see no more beauty there.
i could let loose these slippery bones
and collapse on the floor.
and i figure to stay here a while, because
i can't sleep inside silence anymore.
city sounds don't cut it, so
i let your memory whisper faintly to me
but not so gently, more in line with a taunt
composed of words like,
"you are the thing that carved the me
out of me
so of course i had to set myself free."
but you can keep talking to me
and choke out all the mystery
this is near to death--
it's half misery, half meant to be.
it's all left me.
you haven't been living the right way
and it's left my body empty,
boneless.
it's let my body empty-out;
crooked tendons pining towards you.
a sorry skeleton, crawling,
unable to keep it in the ground.
Nov 5, 2016
Nov 5, 2016 at 10:13 PM UTC
When we find ourselves
bewitched
by the once-again
betwixt a barest bare
season (of not-there)
and the rock-hard
reason (for there-is), let’s
Place the lemon-sour wedge,
where it can be tasted
with expectantly peppered
peeks and the snowy soft pines
for a gifted we we’ve been
too white-elephant
wary to unwrap.
There’s a transplant
future. We pretended
it (to-be
forever sutured to our bristly back-
then), and it meets the it
it was beneath a scrub-brush
Christmas tree we’ve stowed
Carelessly in the cramped space
where our sameness
lets crawl the other. Tinseled,
pre-assembled, past-
their-prime-time specialty
brands of static
clinginess have diminished,
But not-enough,
as the persistence of any-man
attraction shows,
would if it could bring
Whitman’s samplers
of sentimentality
to cuddly bear on a leftover
Choice (What’s-next,
warmed over and over). We
will stick to it,
fuzzy ornaments
on the crackly loud, paper-
thin present. We didn’t give
up but we did give away
Boxed-up angels
in exchange for one red-ribbon
day, its frilly bow tying us
so tightly to
the pressed-down rule
of our highest of highly
evolved thumbs.
Nov 22, 2010
Nov 22, 2010 at 5:51 AM UTC