"morrows" poems
PENCILS
telling where the wind comes from
open a story.
Pencils
telling where the wind goes
end a story.
These eager pencils
come to a stop
.. only .. when the stars high over
come to a stop.
Out of cabalistic to-morrows
come cryptic babies calling life
a strong and a lovely thing.
I have seen neither these
nor the stars high over
come to a stop.
Neither these nor the sea horses
running with the clocks of the moon.
Nor even a shooting star
snatching a pencil of fire
writing a curve of gold and white.
Like you .. I counted the shooting stars of a winter
night and my head was dizzy with all
of them calling one by one:
Look for us again.
4.8k
Was it not yesterday when we fell in love?
Was it not that night in summer just me and you?
Oh dear, have I reclaim'd my lost lover-bug?
Another poem for my dear sweet you:
Miss Lover Lady, where travels you now?
And what woman or man have you embold'?
And brown hair, so beautifully brown,
A brown that seeps into parts of my soul:
Ah, everything! Everything that is there
In the world will match not up with your eyes:
And Lady, when great universes stare
They too would get lost where the green flares lie.
But gone Lady is, by morrows of time;
And falls lover's truth withal lover's rhyme.
Mar 10, 2021
Mar 10, 2021 at 12:31 AM UTC
We shall launch our shallop on waters blue from some dim primrose shore,
We shall sail with the magic of dusk behind and enchanted coasts before,
Over oceans that stretch to the sunset land where lost Atlantis lies,
And our pilot shall be the vesper star that shines in the amber skies.
The sirens will call to us again, all sweet and demon-fair,
And a pale mermaiden will beckon us, with mist on her night-black hair;
We shall see the flash of her ivory arms, her mocking and luring face,
And her guiling laughter will echo through the great, wind-winnowed space.
But we shall not linger for woven spell, or sea-nymph's sorceries,
It is ours to seek for the fount of youth, and the gold of Hesperides,
Till the harp of the waves in its rhythmic beat keeps time to our pulses' swing,
And the orient welkin is smit to flame with auroral crimsoning.
And at last, on some white and wondrous dawn, we shall reach the fairy isle
Where our hope and our dream are waiting us, and the to-morrows smile;
With song on our lips and faith in our hearts we sail on our ancient quest,
And each man shall find, at the end of the voyage, the thing he loves the best.
2.7k
Behind,
the season of snows and sorrows.
Bygone are its long frozen nights.
Spring brings
the promise of brighter morrows
and wonder to everyday sights.
I watch
as beautiful cherries blossom.
With them,
a light in my heart ignites.
Apr 7, 2021
Apr 7, 2021 at 3:59 PM UTC
plied playful pied piper oh puppeteer dream writer of a wonder and future so bright,
oh tell pray chance the grand wonders in morrows to come a stored store for the wondering fools of this world tonight.
casting, the irons so hot, malleable, tender in the hearts delights, here in this awkwardly worded flight, of fearless tendency, oh **** necromancy?
**** yeah, that, that can stay far from sight. now, lets lead with the fixxen to wack the mole of ridiculous vixxen and fiction so true, so true the crookedly made house, rousted clout, for he is an ego far too large this alley mouse, pretending to be a cat without a house, oh wait that's me, scratch that last part, before someone figures out i was only a silly little roustabout, and hoping to rooster, and goose the calling of mine own loud *** mouth out. crap. this ***** but we are far from done, oh almost forgot you standing there, will you do us all a solid and tell us the way out? or at least what horse to bet on in the triple crown and the powered ***** all hanging out? your a Daisey if ya do.
SuperStar
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m1EreTOvelQ
Oct 13, 2015
Oct 13, 2015 at 1:30 AM UTC
Foggy morrows alluding to the rest of day,
a grand mystery of what will be,
enshrouded in mists mans mystery motivates,
it calls upon our curiosity to investigate
and pursue misty shadows lurking and lingering.
What new mysteries shall be in this new day?
What marvels may be obliged to see?
Ah, this fabulous foggy morrow holds such marvellous,
deeply seeded, and enshrouded in curiosity, mysteries.
Oh the Foggy Morrows such relevance to life
I see in you, despite the foggy nature of your being.
Tho’ only temporary, your mystery shall reveal things
later becoming old, that is what you do,
Oh dearest Foggy morrows.
Apr 28, 2012
Apr 28, 2012 at 12:23 PM UTC
Let us fall,
Fall into a satin-sheeted bed,
As our passions push us into an intertwine,
As each touch waivers away our ornaments,
That are nothing but a bother,
So that our skins may kiss,
Let my lips caress upon you,
And caress I shall,
Till the roses of desire that blossom on your cheeks,
Grows and spread to all points intimate,
As the garnered juices of intimacy between your thighs,
Waterfalls down your legs,
Shall our hearts pound as hard as the bed rattles,
As we feast upon our lusts, as if there were no more morrows.
Feb 26, 2021
Feb 26, 2021 at 12:12 AM UTC
My own dear love, he is strong and bold
And he cares not what comes after.
His words ring sweet as a chime of gold,
And his eyes are lit with laughter.
He is jubilant as a flag unfurled--
Oh, a girl, she'd not forget him.
My own true love, he is all my world,--
And I wish I'd never met him.
My love, he's mad, and my love, he's fleet,
And a wild young wood-thing bore him!
The ways are fair to his roaming feet,
And the skies are sunlit for him.
As sharply sweet to my heart he seems
As the fragrance of acacia.
My own dear love, he is all my dreams--
And I wish he were in Asia.
My love runs by like a day in June,
And he makes no friends of sorrows.
He'll tread his galloping rigadoon
In the pathway of the morrows.
He'll live his days where the sunbeams start,
Nor could storm or wind uproot him.
My own dear love, he is all my heart--
And I wish somebody'd shoot him.
2k
shukraan, for showing selflessness in a land of selfishness; and self wants. Thou art a soul, wandering alone, with the blood of a friend who seeks the unknown. As sadly woe constructs thy face.
Shukraan, mayest God almighty send thee his grace; when thou feelest no taste of love in thy mouth.
Shukraan, wherever mine friend thou shalt go, please know an ear thou hath here; to always lend it's hearing, and a soul to connect to for
Grasp and understanding.
Shukraan, thou art a ray from the wonderful creator, let not the world hook thee in its filth and vague papers, for the beauty is not outside; but in.
Shukraan, Shukraan mine poetic friend, show affection to woman and man, be thee the best thou canst; let not dark overtake thee, but let the light be thy own shadow.
Shukraan, dear Sarah, if seek God he shalt win all thy battles, none more tears or the morrows wherein fears art the normal; but where mercy, peace, joy, and happiness art the new.
Shukraan, mine friend;
Shukraan to thou O'
ploome.
©Brandon nagley
©lonesome poets poetry
©Sarah ahmed birthday dedication (aka Thepoet)
Feb 13, 2017
Feb 13, 2017 at 7:23 PM UTC
Racing through the canyon,
gaining speed at every turn,
two outlaws and companions,
never again will they return
to a little town called Seco,
tucked away within the hills,
a little place to get low,
tucked away from hidden thrills.
Dead Man’s Creek once filled with cries,
now the river bed runs dry.
Vultures deeply flood the skies,
Whiskey Joe rolled his snake eyes.
Said we made it to Arroyo,
good place to drown your sorrows.
His left pocket held a photo,
forever livin’ in his morrows.
The vortex in the valley,
out in the sun in Cali.
In a land that feels free,
though it’s stolen country.
The devil’s talkin’ in your dreams,
blood line red wine controls.
If you try hard you can leave,
before they seize your soul.
Oct 22, 2014
Oct 22, 2014 at 6:43 PM UTC
Under the bridge, a once again
Tranced by the rhythm of a river
Chaos culminated to calm strains
Crucified and paraded in clarity
A push and I pushed deeper to sink
Your eyes lighted with a remedy
A redemption of persisting ache
A depth tucked and hidden in a mast
Unclaimed and reared, purely untainted
An essence delivered by a spirited past
Cocoon to a parameter of perception
A scent delicately brewed in aged truce
Under a bridge in a moment called now
Blocks scented with nitrogen spurred *****
A depart from the swan hypnotic dreams
A renegade of mottos, hollows of morrows
Apr 4, 2016
Apr 4, 2016 at 4:54 AM UTC
The fearless instraction.
The love of things, willow.
The newness of strings in a row.
A topic injusted,
A fated carnation.
Lapelled in your silkiest glow.
I want you not nearly.
Horizoning sunburst.
You're the fewest that I'll ever know.
I'll meet you on morrows.
With clumsiest wordings.
You're the seeds that I've not seen to sow.
Jan 27, 2011
Jan 27, 2011 at 10:43 AM UTC
Faith is a funny tale,
Banging!, on no ones thought of what door,
Humming and cooing and my window jail,
and trudging at my pondering floor
To quicksand it desolates -suddenly-
from titular crown of metals to pallid birch,
All cones of mono roll down on a trolley
with the tetra floss that burns the torch,
Fate is a formidable foe,
Descend itself to morrows fort,
discriminating as it comes and goes
to what it justifies at court,
Stepping to festive cascades,
lying faintly on the tomb of beds
Where the harbinger harvest withering fades,
there it cuts the echoing threads
So we alone stroll at chrono's fraud,
Brooming dust into makers state,
Sack of pennies nods; smirks at prudent gestures sad,
That is when and then we go back to old date
Feb 6, 2015
Feb 6, 2015 at 5:23 AM UTC
He pulls a feather from her bodice
She laughs and turns a coy cheek.
The boa, all but bare, looks ragged.
Like her smile when she's feeling anxious.
She feels the heat of his eyes, feels his intensity.
Her fears belie her desires. She wishes she could see.
See what he sees. See this thing that he calls beautiful.
He seems to look to look right through her skin.
But all she can focus on is the curves and the scars.
The strange shape of her body. The embarrassment.
The awkward turn of her mouth. The knit in her brow.
Her conflicts with pleasure, her repulsion for needing to submit.
The memories that bite at the back of her moans.
The shadows of abuse crawling out of the seams.
Ugly, twisted devils that sought to steal her innocence.
Returning to feed again, to taint the morrows of adulthood.
All of these things color the love she makes.
Tar and feather it. Blacken it with shame.
He senses her discomfort. Internalizes it. Confuses it.
He shrinks back, recoiling from the slap of rejection.
But it isn't him at all. Him, she craves. Salivates for.
But like the ringing of Pavlov's bell, they've built a deeper path.
Men she never knew; Can't even remember. Faces obscured.
Yet she can trace the footprints they've left on her mind.
Tracks set with iron spikes running through the bedrock,
Through the deepest layers of her psyche. Below the surface.
To where thoughts exist without consciousness, without effort.
The symphony of tragedy continues to play on.
She has no words to express this to him.
She can only hope that he senses it.
Senses the murky bubbles of awakening as they arise.
Senses her need for him. Her need for his patience.
Senses her need for silence, for distance and recollection.
Senses her need for his quiet embrace. For understanding
For her troubled state of mind and damaged sense of self.
For a self that she has barely even begun to understand.
Sep 27, 2015
Sep 27, 2015 at 8:43 AM UTC
I call you beautiful,
not because of fact or hopeful lies,
but because its who you are.
I say to you I love you, I mean it.
I don’t say you’re my favourite,
because you’re not comparable,
I listen to you in the morrows,
and try to take away your sorrows,
I watch carefully your eyes,
to see if I can comfort your cries.
You see, here’s one important fact,
it’s true and I try and not let slack,
You are beautiful, simple as that,
its not just appearance,
it not just a consequence,
its your name,
Beautiful.
Beautiful is the name I call you,
not for righteous appearance,
not for coddling affection,
not for the wishful thinking,
but for you are beautiful.
It’s as much apart of you as every drop
or crimson rosy blood.
You are beautiful.
You, are so beautiful,
its more than just a name,
its… its… and identity of truth,
a banner to rally behind,
a truth that says your beautiful,
I believe it.
God calls you beautiful,
ordained with holy hands,
woven as so,
God says you are so,
who am I to try and contradict?
Well, I’m your biggest advocate,
your barracking fan,
the loving hand at the fall,
the one who cries to see you free,
and in freedom hear you cry out this one name;
“Beautiful!!!”
What is the day worth without hearing the truth?
Next to nothing,
but hear is the truth,
You’re beautiful,
not just in appearance, being, or in flesh,
But in the beauty of your true Identity.
Your Name is beautiful,
its why I say it to you all the days,
because I want to gain attention,
and bring a neglected thing to light,
You are beautiful,
You are beautiful,
You are beautiful,
this is a truth, I hope you believe it
as I believe it!
For my love wishes you to know it
all of your days, to live in beauty,
since its your name,
and loving identity.
Aug 12, 2012
Aug 12, 2012 at 6:15 AM UTC
for every thing, there is a time
for every song, there is a fitting moment
for every angel, a wee devil lurks
for every spring, its autumn
for every taste, there is a canvas blank
for every brush, there is a stroke unfinished
for every soul, there is a soul to spark
for every universe, a mind undiminished
for every beating heart, there is a dream to dream
for every happy day, there is a week of sorrow
for every wicked game, there is a sumptuous scene
for every yester-day, a million of to-morrows
for every tear you cry, there is a genuine smile
for every doubt you shed, there is a triumph to follow
for every faux pas, there's a saving grace
for every second gone, a million of to-morrows
Oct 11, 2024
Oct 11, 2024 at 6:04 AM UTC
“oh, how they will all bet on morrows that strain rills after dark,
and yet the Game, unpitying, regains its lordly behest at dawn;
lean back and feel the turn of things, the chance, the risk, the almost...
ante!”
⋮
this mania!
when it wreathes,
the imperceptible of myself,
it drains through me, sedulously,
hands aquiver, sight fretful,
and the bath of wanting (and not, ergo),
spewing and fusing
inside the etna of my inlying.
you are, then, obedience itself,
long before the grapevine,
before the Cards;
rails tarnishing, yet begrimed steel,
rather ossein, or thew,
turning to a suttee so pale, it forgets its ills.
and the trains;
yes, they were gushing, though not afore;
“did you think they would arrive for you?”
they smelt into clag,
into a mist of faces, barren,
swelling and shrieking of throe,
snaking, snaking down the spine of
the Stake.
slaves betting with their ilk of ardor,
when a match struck, belatedly,
but already it is leaning toward cinders,
its shine no more
than a laugh of people,
leaving the hall shivery in its bleat,
charcoals sighing their waning,
others honing their exit.
bitterly, bitterly, i am
left with nothing to hold but smoke.
but time, ah, time,
the nimble Host,
old trickster with his cuffs of lithe,
shuffling cloaks for loose change.
he and i,
always at the same table,
and i know his favorite sleight:
to grant the boastful player
a losing hand,
and winning eyes.
the coin is tossed,
to the Parlay; so soon cast,
so soon swallowed by the piker.
the crowd, they clap for a name,
but it is never genius they are crowning,
only luck,
foremost Dealer,
with that last word,
smiling as he lays it down:
only the blind Card turned upward.
~~~
and i,
sitting with my empty cup,
still growing a taste for losing
foolish, surely,
but the loss only deepens the greed,
doubles it, whets it past the reach of will.
so ring then, coin,
dull as you are, tattered,
clattering against the floorboards.
it tells me i am counted,
measured,
already spent.
yes, yes, it is only a caprice,
but it hews, it digs,
it laughs where no mouths are,
and i laugh back;
ante!
Sep 13, 2025
Sep 13, 2025 at 6:33 PM UTC
Breathe brought in, with it sickness
Cause enough, it can all crumble
two pieces, more, four exponential
Onto the ruined floor of morrows
There they get ground down finer
by the ones that through words like love around
So very, very off are the scenes
Of a life, of first tries, of smoking puddles
Far off now is that guy, that person,
just but now only a reminder of poor choices
And it can and will crumble
cracking and falling away, into voids
much like the need, and want of breathing
sitting so close to the smoke that rises
each breath feeding and igniting
Foolish are the eyes that believe and abuse
salty water, vinegar for the wine we waste
when all of life crumbles around you
and you find the endless, unlit labrynth
fed by bridges burnt down just after your crossing
until no exit, No route, No saviors are found
the sickness comes in shards that turn to puddles
and this then burns to smoke, and ruins
Feb 20, 2014
Feb 20, 2014 at 6:49 AM UTC
carrying the sky
on lilting wings,
our love, melting
like a candle,
yearning to
be set free,
the grey dome
of the sky
promising rain,
whispering to
the cardboard
streets where
the gold leaves sink,
flavoured by the
colours of autumn,
that love is a
wondrous bird of
the skies,
is all of our morrows,
is the happiness in
our lives.
Nov 27, 2017
Nov 27, 2017 at 1:56 PM UTC
Of what lies the fate of being One? The aspirations of a paradise fast forgone.
Peers that flux to tame tide. Dreams of Heroes they far together glide. Morrows they lived to prosper in love. Affections that glow, no one needs to plough.
Rustic although was dark. ***** although civilisation was lack.
Yet! Still yet!!!
The bluntness of the spear cuts through many hearts.
Her invincible hand drops inventions of it kind to dirts.
A long journey into the wood is what draws nearer.
Moonlight folklores, dominating smell of affection in d air. Hopefulness of hopeless tomorrow’s meal a Dear.
Sounds of the storm, through pavorated doors, roofs left ajar.
The storm of life rages to scatter the sands.
Erosion into throats wanders fleshes into pounds.
Everyone, many one, all one soughts to touch what brains now serve as it grows. Big houses, bigger pockets, a good life as it goes.
Exodus of now, without a Moses of now into a promised land that Joshua never belonged. Pillars of light, Amalekites in all ways with many Yawehs.
Now! All is touched, many is known except a paradise that used to be. Crowds are made, Banks now a pocket, and so are Devils that flux as Bee.
Nostalgia haunts like nightmare. Ways back summons with all lyrics.
All ways looks like that fare. Heart longs, threatens to pieces.
I set back to trace all tunnels.
All tunnels that lead to paradise far forgone.
A Granny that gets all into her without funnel.
An uncle that treats all for one.
Journey that used to b an epic now concave. Rural that reminds paradise now like the hell forgone.
All I long to see now gone with the wave. Things are no more the way it used to be while we were one.
Jun 23, 2013
Jun 23, 2013 at 10:31 AM UTC
There comes a time of day where I must put
my electronic and ink pens away, for another day.
I could write well into the night, in the west it is,
after all only eleven, but I am spent, stars out in the Heavens.
Oh to write so there is no malice and no spite,
to rise with the 'morrows ball of gas and orange fury.
Hope...for a different start.
But I am merely a man,
solo or in soliloquy, I cannot do it or
make it alone, but that is what I try to do.
Hope...does not lie in jest.
Everyday we live to breath is a test?
For the real race which is far away or near
to our heart's place?
Hope... is fleeting take a chance.
I will.
That is where I err.
I f'ward sail while
looking aft, I see not the rocks,
foaming at the bow.
Hope... is less without you.
I am less without you.
Not that I am all that you can
hope for.
Inattentive, I missed your leaving,
you found a lifeboat as I was
only finding rocks and the
press of the unfriendly waves.
Hope... left me grounded.
But the shores sharp spires eroded
my hull, my ship, my soul
so I was left and hope
was no longer on my lips or keeping
me afloat.
Even the brightest stars faded,
mouth open in a cry,
as I drank deeply and sank into my
selfish depths.
Goodbye hope.
As my darkest thoughts
await me, no
dragged me down.
Waking no more.
Feb 17, 2013
Feb 17, 2013 at 2:19 AM UTC
Fascinating in technicality
Are the nuances of the human mind.
A field of strange flowers inviting
The observer to delve into its' fragile psyche.
The hungry audience retires for
The night, riveted by the days find.
Their sleep restful and undisturbed,
The field will wait for the morrows next pry.
The flowers roots run deep,
In search of another of its kind.
Not noticing the deadened leaves
Left in its path, as it hides from the airless sky.
The field sprouts its foliage,
Another being of comfort for which to bind.
The field so lonely,
Sheds a tear as its' flowers die.
Unable or unwilling to let
The spectators irrigate the dying mind.
The field resolves itself
To forever remain lonely and dry.
Jun 3, 2013
Jun 3, 2013 at 10:16 AM UTC
Away ye tempests rising
the songs of life fall short
the faded images of the morrows sun
shall dim afore these eyes once bright
there is no longer a song to carry
nor a drifting phrase to brighten this mind
only pastures of endless countless wishes
that e'er now but longs to hide.
I have heard the chambers roar
triumphant he comes and brings
to these ears that final mirth
to this soul its long abide
These eyes of mine dim and worn
to the bitter step and paths arrayed
I lay back in my final glory to
the ancestral calls and faded halls
the bygone lands where they my fathers be.
I cry O' winds but e'er one last time
and thunder to the heavens e'er sweet glory
My bardic drift shall fade sweetly away
into a Celtic Gaels soft story.
Alisdaire O'Caoimph
Mar 21, 2011
Mar 21, 2011 at 7:59 AM UTC
The neon sign spills its gawdy giggle
Into the city’s dark inclination,
piercing sometimes but more often creating
rainbow shadows hiding and highlighting the ***** street.
casting an embrace on dross strewn
of the day’s measure ended,
a smirk, a smile, a guffaw.
The ***** of the city’s life, residuals cast, spent
Nursed by the light’s smile
The ***** street humors, suckled
Tis morrows sunrise’s offerings.
Feb 25, 2017
Feb 25, 2017 at 8:23 PM UTC