"moulder" poems
As night hath stars, more rare than ships
In ocean, faint from pole to pole,
So all the wonder of her lips
Hints her innavigable soul.
Such lights she gives as guide my bark;
But I am swallowed in the swell
Of her heart's ocean, sagely dark,
That holds my heaven and holds my hell.
In her I live, a mote minute
Dancing a moment in the sun:
In her I die, a sterile shoot
Of nightshade in oblivion.
In her my elf dissolves, a grain
Of salt cast careless in the sea;
My passion purifies my pain
To peace past personality.
Love of my life, God grant the years
Confirm the chrism - rose to rood!
Anointing loves, asperging tears
In sanctifying solitude!
Man is so infinitely small
In all these stars, determinate.
Maker and moulder of them all,
Man is so infinitely great!
14.3k
How many
More creative
Ways can I say
I wanna die.
I hear they're
Gonna
Go to
Mars.
While I moulder
In my filth,
Ferment in
My forgetfulness.
And God
Says,
Put in more
Work
Slave.
And,
I do.
But I've gone
Past redemption
Got stuck
In retribution.
And all of this
Torment
Would end.
If I could only
Just disappear
Into
The epilogue
Of an
Obituary.
Sep 7, 2025
Sep 7, 2025 at 3:08 PM UTC
in the middle of a dark night
no moon or street light
and I could hardly see the road in front of me
but it was free
and so we settled
and thus we pedaled
more then 30 winding miles
into this wilderness of isles
or so it seemed
so very mean, just like a dream
he said "continue ,
for it is in you
and we can make it to the place
within an hour, at this pace."
his plan was brutal
I'm not a poodle
but I could truly smell the sweat
and feeling hot and sopping wet
it was no fun. at. all
and like the day y'all
so very done
again not fun
and it is true
that maybe you
would think ahead and plan the weekend
get a room and buy a map
none of this crap
(but I'm a sap
and went along with his idea
for I had hopes for us last year)
and so we learned
the hard way burned.
Well I could barely,
i say just barely
make out the single line white striping
while he's right behind me griping,
"can't you speed up?
we're gonna meet up
and the collision won't be pleasant"
not that pleasant was he were
so very DER!
it's so ironic, perhaps moronic
for there were headlights
coming up the hill in front
and to be blunt
they had to blind me
oh please don't mind me
for I quickly left the scene
right off the road
and with scream
into the blackness of a pitch
which sent me down into a ditch
a steep ravine
so very mean
and then the bike no longer able
to remain beneath my seat
after that drop
the roll to stop
landed on top
and not so sweet
so very beat
I said '"oh sheet"
I was not laughing,
nor was I crying
and but more like " could it be
dear Lord that I am dying?
Oh my God, excuse the curse
so freaking odd, though i've seen worse
and though my body's somewhat shaken
not a bone or tooth was breakin'
and I'm fully wide awake and
not a pain or any ache~
so very odd
it must be God.
and there I lie
perfectly high
my eyes wide open couldn't scope but
in the darkness I could *****
the rock beside my fallen hide
and in a moment not an omen
he said "Gee!"
"Is this your knee?"
I said: " Hey Mr. Moulder,
you've got my shoulder."
"I should have driven in the Bently"
and as he pulled the bike off gently
asking how these things do happen
"nevermind, just lets get snappin"
and we made it to the youth hostel that night.
Sep 14, 2013
Sep 14, 2013 at 10:41 PM UTC
You said: "I'll go to another country, go to another shore,
find another city better than this one.
Whatever I try to do is fated to turn out wrong
and my heart lies buried like something dead.
How long can I let my mind moulder in this place?
Wherever I turn, wherever I look,
I see the black ruins of my life, here,
where I've spent so many years, wasted them, destroyed them totally."
You won't find a new country, won't find another shore.
This city will always pursue you.
You'll walk the same streets, grow old
in the same neighborhoods, turn gray in these same houses.
You'll always end up in this city. Don't hope for things elsewhere:
there's no ship for you, there's no road.
Now that you've wasted your life here, in this small corner,
you've destroyed it everywhere in the world.
3.6k
Pet was never mourned as you,
Purrer of the spotless hue,
Plumy tail, and wistful gaze
While you humoured our queer ways,
Or outshrilled your morning call
Up the stairs and through the hall—
Foot suspended in its fall—
While, expectant, you would stand
Arched, to meet the stroking hand;
Till your way you chose to wend
Yonder, to your tragic end.
Never another pet for me!
Let your place all vacant be;
Better blankness day by day
Than companion torn away.
Better bid his memory fade,
Better blot each mark he made,
Selfishly escape distress
By contrived forgetfulness,
Than preserve his prints to make
Every morn and eve an ache.
From the chair whereon he sat
Sweep his fur, nor wince thereat;
Rake his little pathways out
Mid the bushes roundabout;
Smooth away his talons’ mark
From the claw-worn pine-tree bark,
Where he climbed as dusk embrowned,
Waiting us who loitered round.
Strange it is this speechless thing,
Subject to our mastering,
Subject for his life and food
To our gift, and time, and mood;
Timid pensioner of us Powers,
His existence ruled by ours,
Should - by crossing at a breath
Into safe and shielded death,
By the merely taking hence
Of his insignificance—
Loom as largened to the sense,
Shape as part, above man’s will,
Of the Imperturbable.
As a prisoner, flight debarred,
Exercising in a yard,
Still retain I, troubled, shaken,
Mean estate, by him forsaken;
And this home, which scarcely took
Impress from his little look,
By his faring to the Dim
Grows all eloquent of him.
Housemate, I can think you still
Bounding to the window-sill,
Over which I vaguely see
Your small mound beneath the tree,
Showing in the autumn shade
That you moulder where you played.
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'CONDEMNED' screams the offensive yellow tape
wrapped around my door like an angry snake
I'm a crumbling abandoned city apartment
and the letters of your name can be found carved into my scattered bricks.
The memories we shared were sweet,
but you've moved on now. To a newer part of town,
all gaudy gold and glowing neon and soulless silver.
Even though you're hypnotized by its fraudulent shine
I wonder whether you remember
the love and mortar that once held us together.
For these walls still stand tall
through countless stormy nights, scorching days and freezing evenings.
But I don't know how much longer I can last.
Because my very foundations were made with your smile in mind,
and they are sinking into the mire now that we are forced to stand alone.
But what need to you have for such antiquated architecture?
I have been replaced. Your new home is far prettier.
More efficient.
Even still, I hang on by crossbeams and rotting wooden studs
and hope that you will find your way back
to the home I forged for you here in my arms.
I rot and moulder in solitude
the memories that echo in my hallowed halls
the only comforts that keep me from collapse.
Far too proud to admit, though I'm sure
you see the bitterness of your absence
eating away at me like termites.
The lord only knows how I'd like to feel your feet
upon my wooden floors again,
but who am I to even dare to ask?
For now I am just a house
no longer a home
vacant
and alone
patiently waiting to be made whole again.
- r.j. & m.f.
Nov 19, 2013
Nov 19, 2013 at 1:17 AM UTC
432
Do People moulder equally,
They bury, in the Grave?
I do believe a Species
As positively live
As I, who testify it
Deny that I—am dead—
And fill my Lungs, for Witness—
From Tanks—above my Head—
I say to you, said Jesus—
That there be standing here—
A Sort, that shall not taste of Death—
If Jesus was sincere—
I need no further Argue—
That statement of the Lord
Is not a controvertible—
He told me, Death was dead—
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Crouching in the rotted dust,
Covers covet the light;
Dull, discoloured dust jackets
And wrinkled leather hides
Of the books that moulder and muse,
Ruminate and render themselves
To dust, as everything must,
Upon long-forgotten shelves.
Becomes the perfect breeding ground
For shadows, for sickness, for sin;
The ladies are seen to turn away
With tarnished faces and tattered gowns,
While the hero remains anonymous,
A nobody about the town.
A plot studded with lacunas
And paralysed on page one,
Words grown together in intimate embraces
Never to be undone.
Thin volumes of poetry
Shiver with the poison of years,
As passions freeze and snow falls in May –
The daffodils die a beautiful death,
The clouds are mottled and grey.
A teardrop hits the page.
Jun 19, 2012
Jun 19, 2012 at 2:00 PM UTC
another cool bullet
to the head
a sudden death of
an American dream
the smart uniform
of a young officer
pressed and squared
sharp as a West Point salute
lay blood stained and crumpled
in a lifeless heap on a hospital room floor
the furious efforts of
heroic triage teams comes to naught
trust, respect and idealism
lie victim to an assassins whim
the dreams of another young patriot
prematurely commended to a cold grave
forevermore his body to moulder
returning to earths royal dust
an assassins work speaks
hard blatant truths
we somehow
refuse to hear
leave Afghanistan
to the Afghans
its time to exit
the ungodly places
that betray our dreams
and ****** our children
Music Selection
Tom Jones
Green Green Grass of Home
Oakland
3/1/12
jbm
Mar 1, 2012
Mar 1, 2012 at 12:53 PM UTC
Between the dark and the daylight,
When the night is beginning to lower,
Comes a pause in the day’s occupations,
That is known as the Children’s Hour.
I hear in the chamber above me
The patter of little feet,
The sound of a door that is opened,
And voices soft and sweet.
From my study I see in the lamplight,
Descending the broad hall stair,
Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra,
And Edith with golden hair.
They whisper, and then a silence;
Yet I know by their merry eyes
They are plotting and planning together
To take me by surprise.
A sudden rush from the stairway,
A sudden raid from the hall!
By three doors left unguarded
They enter my castle wall!
They climb up into my turret
O’er the arms and back of my chair;
If I try to escape, they surround me;
They seem to be everywhere.
They almost devour me with kisses,
Their arms about me entwine,
Till I think of the Biship of Bingen
In his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine!
Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti,
Because you have scaled the wall,
Such an old mustache as I am
Is not a match for you all!
I have you fast in my fortress,
And will not let you depart,
But put you down into the dungeon
In the round-tower of my heart.
And there will I keep you forever,
Yes, forever, and a day,
Till the walls shall crumble to ruin,
And moulder in dust away!
2.2k
Cold the day begins in earnest
Gathering the mist at sunrise
Magpie screams as thin beam strikes him
Keen of eye and black of feather
Crow in thicket calls his brethren
Mist arises deep in valley
Fallen petals lie in tumult
Beaten down by squall that shook them
Bramble, precious jewels wearing
Berries black that shine like glory
Blowing over endless hillsides
None may tell the north wind’s story
Dancing in the sighing branches
Casting leaves of oak and willow
Ash and beech and long-shanked rowan
Bough and twig and fallen acorn
Squirrel hoards for bitter future
Whispers tales of coming Winter
Green is now a fading memory
Leaves lie crimson, brown and golden
Ripe and awful apples moulder
Boar lies sleeping fat and sated
Mushroom blooms on rotting deadwood
Nightshade sways on tumbled walling
Fern grows dense by water running
Down by where the gravestones standing
Tell of those whose lives are ended
Clad in moss and superstition
Watching over generations
Bends the old and twisted yew tree
Shakes and laughs with storm-wracked holly
Waiting for the day of reckoning
Biding time through mankind’s folly
Hears All Hallows Eve a-beckoning
Oct 28, 2018
Oct 28, 2018 at 5:16 AM UTC
"CONDEMNED" screams the offensive yellow tape
wrapped around my door like a furious snake.
I'm a crumbling abandoned city apartment
and the letters of your name can be found carved into my scattered bricks.
The memories we shared were sweet,
but you've moved on now. To a newer part of town,
all gaudy gold and glowing neon and soulless silver.
Even though you're hypnotized by its fraudulent shine
I wonder whether you remember
the love and mortar that once held us together.
For these walls still stand tall
through countless stormy nights, scorching days and freezing evenings.
But I don't know how much longer I can last.
Because my very foundations were made with your smile in mind,
and they are sinking into the mire now that we are forced to stand alone.
But what need to you have for such antiquated architecture?
I have been replaced. Your new home is far prettier.
More efficient.
Even still, I hang on by crossbeams and rotting wooden studs
and hope that you will find your way back
to the home I forged for you here in my arms.
I rot and moulder in solitude
the memories that echo in my hallowed halls the only comforts that keep me from collapse.
Far too proud to admit, though I'm sure
you see the bitterness of your absence
eating away at me like termites.
The lord only knows how I'd like to feel your feet
upon my wooden floors again,
but who am I to even dare to ask?
For now I am just a broken house
no longer a home
vacant
and alone
patiently waiting to be made whole again.
Nov 19, 2013
Nov 19, 2013 at 1:13 AM UTC
Some people have an IT that they must face
A beast ahead or demon on the shoulder
For them the IT is writ in upper case.
I fear that many men hide every trace
Of tears and self in masks appearing bolder
Some people have an IT that they must face
And those who gaze transfixed at the sheer pace
Of life's descent to dust, to rust and moulder,
For them the IT is writ in upper case.
My beauty meets her monsters every place.
And though I'm often there to hug and hold her
My darling has an IT that she must face
She battles them with discipline and grace
And lives by dint of detail, file and folder
Each labelled by an IT in upper case.
Though time will always catch us in the chase
It's fear of living true that turns us colder
Some people have an IT that they must face
For them the IT is writ in upper case.
Apr 3, 2015
Apr 3, 2015 at 6:50 AM UTC
Still onward winds the dreary way;
I with it; for I long to prove
No lapse of moons can canker Love,
Whatever fickle tongues may say.
And if that eye which watches guilt
And goodness, and hath power to see
Within the green the moulder'd tree,
And towers fall'n as soon as built--
Oh, if indeed that eye foresee
Or see (in Him is no before)
In more of life true life no more
And Love the indifference to be,
Then might I find, ere yet the morn
Breaks hither over Indian seas,
That Shadow waiting with the keys,
To shroud me from my proper scorn.
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Green grass,under white polished stone
that tells a tale of its own
of far off lands,and other fields
of tears gathered,on broken shields
Each silent,lonely spot
tells,of spirit,that once grew hot
of strong wills,and skilled hands
of adventures,upon those far off lands
Whispers of unheard deeds
of fast moves,and lightening steeds
of spirits soaring,miles high
of days of glory,passing by
So many stones,side be side
tell of those,who just so did ride
in their,brave,proud bands
in those,green,far off lands
On many stones,can be found
the inevitable marks,of sorrowful sound
message stones,and wrinkled flowers
that bloom only,under twinkling stars
Mark of birth ,or mark of choice
to each stone,lends its voice
for the one,in who's place it stands
for the one who wandered,to those far off lands
And though they moulder,and slowly fade
the stones shall always lend their aid
to those who venture,heralding change
to lands where the stars are strange
Under this stone and under grass
are those who have come to pass
immobilized in Time's sands
for their deeds,in those far off lands
Feb 19, 2015
Feb 19, 2015 at 7:28 AM UTC
SALIENT BLESSING
On days like this
My wishes turn sour
Remembering the sound of your laughter
Holding onto the reins your humour threw
Remembering your rants, insecurities and all
Pushing me into a heap that never forms
Ava; forever, together
as turtle doves in Denver
I hold on to the shadow unleft
Cleft, bent, swept
unknown yet renowned
unseen and covered
But like cover stories,
The first pages of magazines
Hold your face, story and all
But do they see this?
as I do or no
Does your name ring bells
In the world as in my heart?
or I'm back with my wordless questions with no audience to listen or nod
Am I this me or it's just you
this inspiration,
Method,
Moment,
Melody,
Music,
That pushes my pen and ignites lines unknown
as you remain unknown
and I ***** endless apologies.
When will this end?
This era of parading filth,
Homes in disarray,
men bound to labour,
Women as men in labour
What will befall the children
The testimonies of God's goodness
Evidence of creation not evolution
facts to hold on to
Moving miracles in torn clothes
When will this truly end?
Leaving this diversion,
I still honour you my grandmother
Silent heroine, moulder and mentor
taking in all the guile
fighting in weakness
holding on in pain
carving out tomorrow's moments
from today's baggage
pleading not with nature
Demanding nothing absurd
but silently unknown
I scream to the world
Wishes never last
as dew they know not when they leave
holding nothing, taking non
leaving the earth neither wet nor dry
But not you
making impacts silently
giving good
Despite the receipts
I hold nothing back as I rant of your good
Nnem ukwu onye efoma
You are blessed among women.
Oct 31, 2015
Oct 31, 2015 at 2:54 PM UTC
I am different
Just like you.
I wear my hair up when I read,
I don't hit the right notes when I sing,
I forget to think before I speak,
And I trust no one,
Just like Moulder taught me.
Every time I want to hurt myself,
I cut my hair,
Everytime I want to cry,
Smoke fills the air,
And when I'm desperate to be heard,
I reach out to notebooks that are tear covered.
I'm different, oh I'm different,
Just like everyone else,
I'll blend in to the crowds,
Just to be tripped over.
Aug 13, 2017
Aug 13, 2017 at 9:54 AM UTC
Coral-black hair
plunging o'er his bold
shoulders,
lilac soft, nectar sweet lips:
which could be a flower moulder.
Dulcet whispers,
like a singing bird bed
And, after a smile
His beguiling, oyster-white teethset.
Two cinnamon-brown jewels melted onto snow
had the sparkle of 'Lueur d'espoir Petillante',
And a pair of his arched eyebrows which eased down gently,
to his black, beetle’s-leg eyelashes.
His dusky complexion would apprise me of
his never limiting sheen,
I just wish I get to visit this till the last blink of my eye:
A humanly divine paradise,
indeed.
May 23, 2018
May 23, 2018 at 12:43 PM UTC
The transience
of everyday events.
The fear
that much experience
will pass me by.
These fleeting concerns
disturb my waking hours
and interrupt my sleep.
I lack a strength
of purpose.
I deplore
the weakness of my mind;
the doubts
that happiness will yet return;
that new growth of spirit
will spring from old;
that I will retain the faith
to go on building
from every death
that decimates my world.
And
I owe a debt.
I have a commitment.
I must maintain the will
to go on fighting.
I must retain the hope
that life and love
may yet be won.
And I must accept the fact
that dogmas may vanish,
that temples may fall,
that ikons may crumble,
and credence
may moulder.
But
Earth Abides
Aug 23, 2017
Aug 23, 2017 at 1:46 PM UTC