"morns" poems
The older we grow
the faster life goes,
priorities change
quality of living
and loving takes
precedent, over
self-indulgence
and material things.
Nothing as important
as family and friends.
It is racing now,
these fleeting days
and years, reflected
most in my grandsons
growing too soon from
children to young men.
Along with Steller parents
our little farm provides
a learning ground for the
kids, teaching life lessons
that inspire character and
self discipline, with Cows
and pigs to show at fairs,
pride earned with accomplishments
and Blue Ribbons to share.
So lucky am I having a ringside
seat, watching yet another family
generation ascend and grow,
Football and basket ball
games to attend, Christmas
morns of excited children
clamoring down the stairs,
many birthday celebrations
with ever more candles aglow.
Memories all, retained and shared.
Perhaps the best part is,
these grandsons of mine,
still are up for hugs and
good night kisses, genuine
affection received and given.
Families are a true blessing
and a privilege, the only
real reason we are here.
All these things, remain the
sweet frosting on my aging
Grandfather's cake of life.
I sometimes wonder where
I would be without all these,
my reasons for being?
Aug 14, 2018
Aug 14, 2018 at 3:11 PM UTC
The Grey
On slow-light morns
I meet the grey,
An absent sky,
It’s light, afraid.
It heralds the bleak
The tired, mundane,
Most loathsome, most
Despairing of days.
And yet this day, though bleak,
Though vision frayed
And blue sky strangled
By the 'gulfing grey,
After a shower and an eye-shut shave
The bleakest day,
Is realised.
I am awake.
Jan 15, 2013
Jan 15, 2013 at 6:46 AM UTC
Your hair was full of roses in the dewfall as we danced,
The sorceress enchanting and the paladin entranced,
In the starlight as we wove us in a web of silk and steel
Immemorial as the marble in the halls of Boabdil,
In the pleasuance of the roses with the fountains and the yews
Where the snowy Sierra soothed us with the breezes and the dews!
In the starlight as we trembled from a laugh to a caress,
And the God came warm upon us in our pagan allegresse.
Was the Baile de la Bona too seductive? Did you feel
Through the silence and the softness all the tension of the steel?
For your hair was full of roses, and my flesh was full of thorns,
And the midnight came upon us worth a million crazy morns.
Ah! my Gipsy, my Gitana, my Saliya! were you fain
For the dance to turn to earnest? - O the sunny land of Spain!
My Gitana, my Saliya! more delicious than a dove!
With your hair aflame with roses and your lips alight with love!
Shall I see you, shall I kiss you once again? I wander far
From the sunny land of summer to the icy Polar Star.
I shall find you, I shall have you! I am coming back again
From the filth and fog to seek you in the sunny land of Spain.
I shall find you, my Gitana, my Saliya! as of old
With your hair aflame with roses and your body gay with gold.
I shall find you, I shall have you, in the summer and the south
With our passion in your body and our love upon your mouth -
With our wonder and our worship be the world aflame anew!
My Gitana, my Saliya! I am coming back to you!
6.6k
27
Morns like these—we parted—
Noons like these—she rose—
Fluttering first—then firmer
To her fair repose.
Never did she lisp it—
It was not for me—
She—was mute from transport—
I—from agony—
Till—the evening nearing
One the curtains drew—
Quick! A Sharper rustling!
And this linnet flew!
4k
12
The morns are meeker than they were—
The nuts are getting brown—
The berry’s cheek is plumper—
The Rose is out of town.
The Maple wears a gayer scarf—
The field a scarlet gown—
Lest I should be old fashioned
I’ll put a trinket on.
3.3k
Swoon to a tearful night, unknown to its grief
Dialogue of peace, and those of plight
Ringing of morphology, raindrops on the roof.
Such things heard from the peasants’ seat
In the many wet heads sopping
In the sonorous waves, upright in the city clime
Untending to their beds.
At the bottom of that something
All told are destined they will find
Be pliable to the ills they’ve dealt
To carry on, to work, admonishments
Said once to justify these red romances
That in every rain storm melt
As pity through the night, forever unclasped
From shackles of their blame
Since life and ideology somehow are the same.
‘Tis destiny for abating storms
As some will rose from their thickened thorns
These nights deliver their gentle morns
All the same as hemlock grows as poison
And is best to be avoided.
How—this, I fear only rain my know—
Can we still bathe in fraternal glow
When some still heal from Death himself
Each breath that enters is quickly prayed to leave
High on seated thrones
Those mean so quick to thieving, the poor
The lazy deserve no quarter
Those dusty pockets afford not one
So steal the heart upon his sleeve.
May we help man wrought our kin and kind
By common tongue, free, as we are ought?
Since another may make my world
He is mine to protect, not throw to bytes
So ludicrous and feeding back upon themselves
For destiny can be remade
If hatred weren’t so blind.
Aug 14, 2014
Aug 14, 2014 at 8:36 AM UTC
1418
How lonesome the Wind must feel Nights—
When people have put out the Lights
And everything that has an Inn
Closes the shutter and goes in—
How pompous the Wind must feel Noons
Stepping to incorporeal Tunes
Correcting errors of the sky
And clarifying scenery
How mighty the Wind must feel Morns
Encamping on a thousand dawns
Espousing each and spurning all
Then soaring to his Temple Tall—
2.8k
And the sun will rise with you in morns
Tulips would dance through your way
The birds would sing their best tunes
The blue ocean, your aisle today!
Highlands would bend and kiss your feet
Vineyards would grow when you lay
I can see how the nights fall for you
they silently conspire that you to stay
My pretty darling ,trust me when I say ,
Everything would be pretty on a wrong way
Trust the woods ,all dark and lone
Let’s be rebels for once today.
Between the fear of wolfs and ghosts
Across the rainbows of tears and smiles,
If you don’t see any footsteps ahead,
I’m sure there your treasure awaits.
Now tell me pretty darling,
Aren’t you in love with the stretched ray of dusk?
Dec 30, 2014
Dec 30, 2014 at 1:33 PM UTC
510
It was not Death, for I stood up,
And all the Dead, lie down—
It was not Night, for all the Bells
Put out their Tongues, for Noon.
It was not Frost, for on my Flesh
I felt Siroccos—crawl—
Nor Fire—for just my Marble feet
Could keep a Chancel, cool—
And yet, it tasted, like them all,
The Figures I have seen
Set orderly, for Burial,
Reminded me, of mine—
As if my life were shaven,
And fitted to a frame,
And could not breathe without a key,
And ’twas like Midnight, some -
When everything that ticked—has stopped—
And Space stares all around—
Or Grisly frosts—first Autumn morns,
Repeal the Beating Ground—
But, most, like Chaos—Stopless—cool—
Without a Change, or Spar—
Or even a Report of Land—
To justify—Despair.
2.6k
I am from daydreams,
from roast beef Sundays,
and bichon frises who sniff for crumbs.
I am from swinging in the park Dad helped to build,
from walking in the back paths and yelling at the geese.
I am from sitting atop the coach’s shoulders,
from grasshopper and “do great things."
I am from home videos with epic battles and dramatic deaths,
from my nose buried in a book,
and drinking in Tamora’s words.
I’m from spending hours in the studio with its wall of mirrors
and experts spilling out corrections and wisdom.
I am from Big Red, and Little Black A Pony,
and from the chicken place.
I am from driving with my feet,
from making dinner,
and playing Sly Cooper.
I am from being too young to understand, from being too young to know what to say,
and to have known them well.
I’m from crying because I didn’t know that her ghostly figure would be my last memory of her.
I am from the teacher who shed a tear and believed,
from keeping secrets,
and leaving it all behind.
I’m from drowsy morns, grumpy afternoons, and engaging evenings.
I am from a head full of photos,
lost memories,
and dreams.
I am from a heart with experience,
in sorrow and joy,
that holds me together,
and keeps everything else.
Aug 24, 2012
Aug 24, 2012 at 3:38 PM UTC
There was no one...
So I spoke as if a secret
into the wind.
I told it,
*“You may blow your skeptic tune.
Your quiet whistles of doubt.”
“Exhale if you must,
upon the countenance of her face.
Run your invisible fingers
through her hair...
Taste her lips like you would
the surface of the lake in the sun-shy morns.”
“Then you would dispel all disbelief.
You would take these words I say,
and know why confide in you.
You would know why I had fallen.
And you would know why
you would then be my messenger...”
“So that you could word the song
I could never sing.
You could caress her face
when my fingers could not.
You could kiss and fill her lungs
with all that she needs when I am gone.”*
.
Jul 15, 2018
Jul 15, 2018 at 10:58 AM UTC
Wake: the silver dusk returning
Up the beach of darkness brims,
And the ship of sunrise burning
Strands upon the eastern rims.
Wake: the vaulted shadow shatters,
Trampled to the floor it spanned,
And the tent of night in tatters
Straws the sky-pavilioned land.
Up, lad, up, 'tis late for lying:
Hear the drums of morning play;
Hark, the empty highways crying
"Who'll beyond the hills away?"
Towns and countries woo together,
Forelands beacon, belfries call;
Never lad that trod on leather
Lived to feast his heart with all.
Up, lad: thews that lie and cumber
Sunlit pallets never thrive;
Morns abed and daylight slumber
Were not meant for man alive.
Clay lies still, but blood's a rover;
Breath's a ware that will not keep.
Up, lad: when the journey's over
There'll be time enough to sleep.
2k
Donor of precious breath and dappled miracles;
'Tis virtuous Lord that sends the kissy graces---
Those which we pride fully see here in blessing hues,
Of florets that primly spring the sweet daughter's eyes.
When Saves the sinless face of her; the mirthful thought-
So watchful is purity in cheerful weightless hours,
And nestled above the innocent columns of bright-
Radiance, which are seen on growth's careful corners.
Once you held the esteem when you have watched-
The birds with surprising eyes, your baby feet crept
Silently on the corridor and wind a song tuned,
As softly murmur’d on your own balmy ears to apt.
O' a real bead of ruby, that marks parents proud,
On those starry glances that quench any a thirsty mind
So as your humble nods and tiny frame allowed-
Them to seek those tender hands, where I, kisses find.
Like a flower that spring up early above the leaves,
To spread the fragrance so peacefully to fill the air,
Where the morns latest star,that shines to active lives,
Will throw his pointed beam to enlighten you fair.
Life can teach you a success, by nature you must grow;
If Divine that your eyes can see, and divine will,
Be ears can hear, to show you how to love and sow,
The seeds of compassion and mutual respect still~
What else I compare with those smiles to be adored-
For she has to the world so happy-happy love.
O' precious little girl--- crawl to your sleeping bed,
And mother will tell you a moral story, so motive.
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 1:08 PM UTC
Live all thy sweet life through
Sweet Rose, dew-sprent,
Drop down thine evening dew
To gather it anew
When day is bright:
I fancy thou wast meant
Chiefly to give delight.
Sing in the silent sky,
Glad soaring bird;
Sing out thy notes on high
To sunbeam straying by
Or passing cloud;
Heedless if thou art heard
Sing thy full song aloud.
O that it were with me
As with the flower;
Blooming on its own tree
For butterfly and bee
Its summer morns:
That I might bloom mine hour
A rose in spite of thorns.
O that my work were done
As birds' that soar
Rejoicing in the sun:
That when my time is run
And daylight too,
I so might rest once more
Cool with refreshing dew.
1.8k
his fluid being mimics that of cigarettes;
death chopped up and rolled
into a curious little thing
i could hold him in my hands
but that is a mere only;
his wonderment insufficient
my soul too mammoth
my lips crave the grim reaper's touch
my skin detests the flawlessness of
staged idiosyncrasy
this world has seen enough
of those
you yell misanthrope,
but you do not understand
i seek
the intertwining of
precariousity
intimacy marked by fluttering thumbs
tracing specks of golden
on his cheeks
galaxies splashed across the
bridge of his nose
he is everything i yearn
yet;
everything i cannot be
he is my exotic morns
and my sunday siesta
fingertips outline
connect-the-dot maps
i could only ever get lost in
freckles.
like a lacklustre silence
the end of sentences pinpointing areas
chipped fingernails have lusted to memorise
you only crave what you know cannot be.
Jun 7, 2014
Jun 7, 2014 at 12:46 AM UTC
Petunia petal’d tear drops
on saffron colored morns
fall deep in the shadows
where sunshine is only a reflection
of the beauty once shared
~
Clouded days sing dreary sonnets
and all other butterflies are sad,
for those cherished wings
of brilliant colors
are gone from this field
~
Now a misty shade of gray
lingering in the thoughts
of one so missed…
finds the garden gates locked,
never to open again
~
Where rainbows once shared blue hydrangea skies
and daffodil promises carried our smiles,
sorrow now gathers in shapeless corners,
missing this butterfly
all had so come to adore
~
and the earth weeps…
Sep 21, 2018
Sep 21, 2018 at 1:06 PM UTC
in loving memory of my mother
Three simple cello notes answered by horns,
rising and falling winds
shine like the dawn of a luminous day.
Emergent violins wash the hall
with mystic Austrian radiance.
Looking across the stage
I meet the eyes of my Philharmonic friends
uniting in affirmation
of the matchless largesse
of the Brahms' second -
our collective soul vaulting the Atlantic
to the azure Danube's shore.
*It's 40 Christmas morns ago
and I am "20-ish" tearing floral paper
from a large green book and lean
to give my Mom a thank you hug.*
Three quarters of an hour
brush by like an autumn breeze
and I close that same green book
and turn to greet the audience -
searching beyond the walls
for that sacred somewhere
where Mom smiles down
from her eternal resting place.
August, 2013
Aug 13, 2013
Aug 13, 2013 at 11:59 AM UTC
Amorous sunlight touches water.
Romantic ballerina.
Rhythm of pointed tips,
Swirling in sparkling pirouettes.
Kissing morning.
Bouncing ripples.
Surface bubbles,
Breaching each day.
Reaching skywards.
Always dancing.
Eternal beauty.
Gifts of nature's full grown maternity.
The birth of another lovely day.
(C) LIVVI
Jan 8, 2016
Jan 8, 2016 at 8:08 AM UTC
Sitting around the patchy tree stumps at Sagar’s Cafeteria,
Campus was not solitaria*.
Listening to songs saved on our tiny phones, decade ago,
We devoured the sound of silence and the fields of athenrye
Together.
We lit mary jane and made merry singing along to ***** Gun
in broad daylight without the purview of uni cam puns.
Who cared if it was just a five-minute break from Hemangadutta
Or Sheeba’s hungry call for relief,
we made it seem wakeable in the dewy morns.
Sagar’s had the tastiest samosa, chicken puff
and Tiger biscuits so cheap we could fudge it in the lassi whuff.
Days and months went by hovering around Sagar than classes.
We never saved pennies, we spent bills on choora
from our pocket monies for bura.
May 11, 2019
May 11, 2019 at 1:38 AM UTC
Give me
new morns of splendid sunshine
and clear blue skies with soft wind
humming sweetly to the timeless rhythm
Give me
fresh air with gentle whispering of breeze
to be kissed passionately and tickled playfully
Give me
quiet days sans the bustle of hectic crowds
each promising new wonders and joyous tidings
Give me
country sides with luxuriant vegetation
and rich plantation to feel partitioned off
the soot and dirt of roaring cities
Give me
woodlands of varied flora and fauna
so rare and rich that nowhere else are seen
Give me
gardens and brick laid pavements
where there grow such lovely blooms, nodding amorous
to flirting dandies on colorful wings
Give me
running brooks and rushing streams
upon whose fertile banks tall trees and bushes green,
in singles and files grow
Give me
orchards, beautiful and fair
with fruit laden trees, so wonderful and rare
Give me
vast fields of ripening corn and paddy
where farmers joyfully gather to harvest their year’s toil
Give me
vineyards of trellised vine
with hanging clusters of grapes, green and maroon
Give me
ponds and wells of crystalline water
to quench the thirst and turn fallows into fecund lands
Give me
woods and forest tracks
where spring lingers all the year round and beyond
where birds on tree tops merrily sit and sing
whose harmonious notes in every nook and corner ring
Oh! Give me
Nature in all ‘its primal sanities’
And souls with nicety of hearts, free of all affectations!!
Aug 5, 2016
Aug 5, 2016 at 6:02 AM UTC
~
Posy petal’d tear drops
on saffron colored morns
fall deep in the shadows
where sunshine is only a reflection
of the beauty once shared
~
Clouded days sing dreary sonnets
and all other butterflies are sad,
for those cherished wings
of brilliant colors
are gone from this field
~
Now a misty shade of gray
lingering in the thoughts
of one so missed…
finds the garden gates locked,
never to open again
~
Where rainbows once painted blue hydrangea skies
and daffodil promises carried our smiles,
sorrow now gathers in shapeless corners,
missing this butterfly
all had so come to adore
~
and the earth weeps…
Aug 10, 2014
Aug 10, 2014 at 7:32 AM UTC
she is like a chinese vase
(i do not know which dynasty from)
most probably of Min one
with the course of time
the smithereens
have broken
(almost invisibly)
you can understand
only
if you pass a finger
on the mouth
on the neck
on
but only if it is bare
without a glove
(velvet or of tulle)
i do not know if i am doing it
but sometimes
in the morns
a light fog
is spreading
then i change my slip cover
it is light
and usually white
китайска ваза
тя е като китайска ваза
(не знам от коя династия)
по вероятно от Мин
с хода на времето
парченца
са се отчупили
(почти невидимо)
можеш да разбереш
само
ако прокараш пръст
по устието
по шията
по
но само ако е гол
без ръкавица
(кадифена или от тюл)
не зная дали го правя
но понякога
в утрините
се стеле
светла мъгла
тогава си сменям калъфката
тя е лека
и обикновено бяла
Translator Bulgarian-English: Vessislava Savova
rarebird
© bogpan - all rights reserved
Apr 26, 2011
Apr 26, 2011 at 7:20 AM UTC
O Lord, Abba Father,
Forsake me not,
Hear my anguished cry!
How long will i wait?
Before You...
See the crater
That is my heart?
Feel its jagged
edged agony?
Taste the bitter bile?
Engulfed in depression,
Drenched in
the Gulf of Grief,
I stare at the
Abyss of Hopelessness,
Contemplating
a Chasm of Sorrow
too wide to cross.
My sleeplessness witnesses
Moonless nights,
Starless skies.
Scorching morns,
Rainless noons,
Song less days.
Deafened by the clamour,
Prayers and Praise
elude me,
Silhouettes of Hope
seem distant.
Soothe away
my heart scars,
Seal my bleeding wounds
Send away this void!
Fill me with the
Balm of Your Grace,
Kiss of Your Mercy,
Gift of Your Peace,
Ecstasy of
Your Presence!
Touch me!
Heal me!
Make me whole!
Oct 18, 2016
Oct 18, 2016 at 10:58 AM UTC
I compose to you the following from the darkness of a room.
I inhale a deep breathe filling my lungs, releasing it out with an anguish as I mouth of thee.
He who turned this reality into a dreaming state.
Who taught my heart to dance to tip-toeing beats, synchronizing with his.
Who set fire to a friendship and gave meaning to the music I love.
Who raised the bar high and portrayed perfection.
I compile these few words for you from the darkness of a room that once witnessed the rays of the sun.
For he struck a lighting beam the day he entered; and warmth ran through my entire body.
Yet, I shiver now from freezing winds and my thoughts never fail to recall thee.
He whom I said my farewells to and guided outside the room
Who was steered elsewhere as I claimed it was charcoal and not a heating flame. Never knowing, it was the passion that gave blood to my cheeks, curves to my smile, and music to my beating heart.
And it was time to wake up once more from the land of dreams to a bitter reality.
Back to a world with watery eyes resisting to surrender, lungs gasping for each breath he once took away, and a heart that morns over thee.
He who turned me into a poet; writing for the freedom of a stolen heart.
He who parted me with a flare that's now there resulting burn marks; scarring me with memories.
He who embodied my "The One".
He who granted me the taste of perfection; who can ever match up to thee??
He who turned me into a poet... & I shall forever write about thee.
Jan 6, 2014
Jan 6, 2014 at 1:35 AM UTC