"mov" poems
Once it was garbage, refuse, trash.
A jumble of foul-smelling detritus hauled to the curb
And removed by sinewy men
Contributing a harder day's work
Than anyone else in the city.
Our energy now removes its entropy.
Sorted and classified into coloured bins,
We add order to our rejected matter.
Specialized trucks arrive to collect
The date-synchronized bins
Emptying them into functionally compatible mechanisms.
Most desolate is the black box of paper and cardboard.
Brochures and flyers, old magazines and letters.
Annual reports and cereal boxes.
Once these were enameled with crafted sentences,
Painstakingly typed, edited and debated,
On the monitors of copywriters.
Now they are just millions of words printed on flattened fibre substrates,
Jumbled into the bruised and scarred black box,
Entering into the recycling stream.
The nouns and adjectives,
Prepositions and gerunds,
All jumble together.
Fragments of precisely-crafted sentences and paragraphs
Are gradually broken, shredded and pulped.
Incomplete thoughts, broken phrases
Like those of a rejected stranger
In an lonely, unknown country.
Then words without context.
Then just disparate letters
Are all that remain.
Their M ea N inG
G r a Du all y
is re mov
e d
.
Aug 2, 2013
Aug 2, 2013 at 10:26 AM UTC
mov•ie
\ ˈmü-vē \
noun
1.a story represented in motion pictures/motion : noun : mo·tion : \ ˈmō-shən \ : an act, process, or instance of changing place/forward, backward, up, down, pacing, running, crawling/how we flee from our lives, our problems, our responsibilities/instead of focusing on motion we look to pictures/picture : noun : pic·ture : \ ˈpik-chər \ : a design or representation made by various means/click, zoom, import, export/our lives are on a flash drive, on a snapchat, on an instagram, on a memory card/everywhere but on our own memories/we don’t like pictures either/they show moments never to be regained from our past/our solution?/combine them into something better/movie : verb : mov·ie : \ ˈmü-vē \ : an escape from reality/we use movies to deflect the pain of our lives/we think that we watch because we are bored/no/we watch to escape/escape : verb : es·cape : /əˈskāp/ : a recording of moving images that tells a story and that people watch on a screen or television.
Oct 23, 2018
Oct 23, 2018 at 8:55 AM UTC
I
Through vines indeterminate
Red cherry eyes peeped,
And spied two forms,
Fleshy pink and brown
Trees, tangled at the roots,
kissing in the canopy.
II
The garden was our
Discotheque, the sullen
Moonlight reflected
On the Black Beauties,
Twisted black mirrors,
in the garden of joy.
III
O, to again be mov'd
By your heirloom lips,
I'd give it all, the earth,
the sun, and the water.
A sacrifice: my Homesteads,
for a home.
IV
Soil runs dry.
The sun scorches.
Plagues run rampant.
We burn, we are sacked
and pillaged, and destroyed.
Roma, Roma, Roma.
V.
Maybe the rain,
Or sweet shade,
Or gentle sun,
Or simply the need
To be so defiantly
alive, will bring us again,
And I will drink you up again,
Brandywine.
May 12, 2016
May 12, 2016 at 11:18 AM UTC
Hail, happy day, when, smiling like the morn,
Fair Freedom rose New-England to adorn:
The northern clime beneath her genial ray,
Dartmouth, congratulates thy blissful sway:
Elate with hope her race no longer mourns,
Each soul expands, each grateful ***** burns,
While in thine hand with pleasure we behold
The silken reins, and Freedom’s charms unfold.
Long lost to realms beneath the northern skies
She shines supreme, while hated faction dies:
Soon as appear’d the Goddess long desir’d,
Sick at the view, she languish’d and expir’d;
Thus from the splendors of the morning light
The owl in sadness seeks the caves of night.
No more, America, in mournful strain
Of wrongs, and grievance unredress’d complain,
No longer shalt thou dread the iron chain,
Which wanton Tyranny with lawless hand
Had made, and with it meant t’ enslave the land.
Should you, my lord, while you peruse my song,
Wonder from whence my love of Freedom sprung,
Whence flow these wishes for the common good,
By feeling hearts alone best understood,
I, young in life, by seeming cruel fate
Was snatch’d from Afric’s fancy’d happy seat:
What pangs excruciating must ******
What sorrows labour in my parent’s breast?
Steel’d was that soul and by no misery mov’d
That from a father seiz’d his babe belov’d:
Such, such my case. And can I then but pray
Others may never feel tyrannic sway?
For favours past, great Sir, our thanks are due,
And thee we ask thy favours to renew,
Since in thy pow’r, as in thy will before,
To sooth the griefs, which thou did’st once deplore.
May heav’nly grace the sacred sanction give
To all thy works, and thou for ever live
Not only on the wings of fleeting Fame,
Though praise immortal crowns the patriot’s name,
But to conduct to heav’ns refulgent fane,
May fiery coursers sweep th’ ethereal plain,
And bear thee upwards to that blest abode,
Where, like the prophet, thou shalt find thy God.
4.6k
Sweet girl! though only once we met,
That meeting I shall ne’er forget;
And though we ne’er may meet again,
Remembrance will thy form retain;
I would not say, “I love,” but still,
My senses struggle with my will:
In vain to drive thee from my breast,
My thoughts are more and more represt;
In vain I check the rising sighs,
Another to the last replies:
Perhaps, this is not love, but yet,
Our meeting I can ne’er forget.
What, though we never silence broke,
Our eyes a sweeter language spoke;
The tongue in flattering falsehood deals,
And tells a tale it never feels:
Deceit, the guilty lips impart,
And hush the mandates of the heart;
But soul’s interpreters, the eyes,
Spurn such restraint, and scorn disguise.
As thus our glances oft convers’d,
And all our bosoms felt rehears’d,
No spirit, from within, reprov’d us,
Say rather, “’twas the spirit mov’d us.”
Though, what they utter’d, I repress,
Yet I conceive thou’lt partly guess;
For as on thee, my memory ponders,
Perchance to me, thine also wanders.
This, for myself, at least, I’ll say,
Thy form appears through night, through day;
Awake, with it my fancy teems,
In sleep, it smiles in fleeting dreams;
The vision charms the hours away,
And bids me curse Aurora’s ray
For breaking slumbers of delight,
Which make me wish for endless night.
Since, oh! whate’er my future fate,
Shall joy or woe my steps await;
Tempted by love, by storms beset,
Thine image, I can ne’er forget.
Alas! again no more we meet,
No more our former looks repeat;
Then, let me breathe this parting prayer,
The dictate of my bosom’s care:
“May Heaven so guard my lovely quaker,
That anguish never can o’ertake her;
That peace and virtue ne’er forsake her,
But bliss be aye her heart’s partaker!
Oh! may the happy mortal, fated
To be, by dearest ties, related,
For her, each hour, new joys discover,
And lose the husband in the lover!
May that fair ***** never know
What ’tis to feel the restless woe,
Which stings the soul, with vain regret,
Of him, who never can forget!”
2.6k
Spot of my youth! whose hoary branches sigh,
Swept by the breeze that fans thy cloudless sky;
Where now alone I muse, who oft have trod,
With those I loved, thy soft and verdant sod;
With those who, scatter’d far, perchance deplore,
Like me, the happy scenes they knew before:
Oh! as I trace again thy winding hill,
Mine eyes admire, my heart adores thee still,
Thou drooping Elm! beneath whose boughs I lay,
And frequent mus’d the twilight hours away;
Where, as they once were wont, my limbs recline,
But, ah! without the thoughts which then were mine:
How do thy branches, moaning to the blast,
Invite the ***** to recall the past,
And seem to whisper, as they gently swell,
“Take, while thou canst, a lingering, last farewell!”
When Fate shall chill, at length, this fever’d breast,
And calm its cares and passions into rest,
Oft have I thought, ’twould soothe my dying hour,—
If aught may soothe, when Life resigns her power,—
To know some humbler grave, some narrow cell,
Would hide my ***** where it lov’d to dwell;
With this fond dream, methinks ’twere sweet to die—
And here it linger’d, here my heart might lie;
Here might I sleep where all my hopes arose,
Scene of my youth, and couch of my repose;
For ever stretch’d beneath this mantling shade,
Press’d by the turf where once my childhood play’d;
Wrapt by the soil that veils the spot I lov’d,
Mix’d with the earth o’er which my footsteps mov’d;
Blest by the tongues that charm’d my youthful ear,
Mourn’d by the few my soul acknowledged here;
Deplor’d by those in early days allied,
And unremember’d by the world beside.
2.2k
The twentieth year is well nigh past,
Since first our sky was overcast;
Ah, would that this might be the last!
My Mary!
Thy spirits have a fainter flow,
I see thee daily weaker grow--
'Twas my distress that brought thee low,
My Mary!
Thy needles, once a shining store,
For my sake restless heretofore,
Now rust disus'd, and shine no more,
My Mary!
For though thou gladly wouldst fulfil
The same kind office for me still,
Thy sight now seconds not thy will,
My Mary!
But well thou play'dst the housewife's part,
And all thy threads with magic art
Have wound themselves about this heart,
My Mary!
Thy indistinct expressions seem
Like language utter'd in a dream;
Yet me they charm, whate'er the theme,
My Mary!
Thy silver locks, once auburn bright,
Are still more lovely in my sight
Than golden beams of orient light,
My Mary!
For, could I view nor them nor thee,
What sight worth seeing could I see?
The sun would rise in vain for me,
My Mary!
Partakers of thy sad decline,
Thy hands their little force resign;
Yet gently press'd, press gently mine,
My Mary!
Such feebleness of limbs thou prov'st,
That now at ev'ry step thou mov'st
Upheld by two; yet still thou lov'st,
My Mary!
And still to love, though press'd with ill,
In wintry age to feel no chill,
My Mary!
But ah! by constant heed I know,
How oft the sadness that I show
Transforms thy smiles to looks of woe,
My Mary!
And should my future lot be cast
With much resemblance of the past,
Thy worn-out heart will break at last,
My Mary!
2k
I love myself the most!
Who doesn't?
~This question shouldn't even arrive.....
I is my passion.
I do things for my soul satisfaction.
I love for myself.
I sing for myself.
I sketch for myself.
I make love for myself.
I write for myself.
I explore for my own sake.
My every mov, every possible way out goes for myself.
My soul is forever famished,
my all actions are the motives or awakening of my S-O-U-L.
Give everything you have to yourself,
so that you can serve this society with whatever
you have in yourself.
The more you give, the more you will get.
Selfless love will pour you one day so much
that you will feel saturated......
FOR - THE - LOVE - OF - MYSELF.
Jan 29, 2015
Jan 29, 2015 at 11:14 AM UTC
God in the *great *assembly stands *Bagnadath-el
Of Kings and lordly States,
Among the gods* on both his hands. *Bekerev.
He judges and debates.
How long will ye *pervert the right *Tishphetu
With *judgment false and wrong gnavel.
Favouring the wicked by your might,
Who thence grow bold and strong?
*Regard the *weak and fatherless *Shiphtu-dal.
*Dispatch the *poor mans cause,
And **raise the man in deep distress
By **just and equal Lawes. **Hatzdiku.
Defend the poor and desolate,
And rescue from the hands
Of wicked men the low estate
Of him that help demands.
They know not nor will understand,
In darkness they walk on,
The Earths foundations all are *mov’d *Jimmotu.
And *out of order gon.
I said that ye were Gods, yea all
The Sons of God most high
But ye shall die like men, and fall
As other Princes die.
Rise God, *judge thou the earth in might,
This wicked earth *redress, *Shiphta.
For thou art he who shalt by right
The Nations all possess.
1.9k
Translation From Catullus
Ye Cupids, droop each little head,
Nor let your wings with joy be spread,
My Lesbia’s favourite bird is dead,
Whom dearer than her eyes she lov’d:
For he was gentle, and so true,
Obedient to her call he flew,
No fear, no wild alarm he knew,
But lightly o’er her ***** mov’d:
And softly fluttering here and there,
He never sought to cleave the air,
He chirrup’d oft, and, free from care,
Tun’d to her ear his grateful strain.
Now having pass’d the gloomy bourn,
From whence he never can return,
His death, and Lesbia’s grief I mourn,
Who sighs, alas! but sighs in vain.
Oh! curst be thou, devouring grave!
Whose jaws eternal victims crave,
From whom no earthly power can save,
For thou hast ta’en the bird away:
From thee my Lesbia’s eyes o’erflow,
Her swollen cheeks with weeping glow;
Thou art the cause of all her woe,
Receptacle of life’s decay.
1.9k
The ten speed biker was coasting down hill
about 20 MPH when he took a spill,
He's moving on, He's moving on!
He hit the brake a little too late, He's moving on!
The ten speed biker was do'n ok,
Till he an old Tom Cat got in his way,
He's mov'n on, he's a mov'n on.
He tried it to miss, but the ground he kissed,
He's mov'n on!
The 10 speed biker broke down in tears,
climbing up a hill he ran out of gears,
He's a-moving on, he's moving on.
He had to call his nurse, when he went in reverse,
He mov'n on, he's mov'n on!
The ten speed biker was a do'n ok, till he saw a pretty girl,
and he looked her way, he's mov'n on, he's mov'n on.
His bike is a wreck and so is his neck, he's mov'n on.
(She wasn't worth look'n at any way)
Welll, the ten speed biker was hav'n no trouble,
Till he tried to ride through a big mud puddle,
He's a mov'n on,
Now he's filthy sight, and so is his bike
But he'll soon be mov'n on, be a mov'n on.
The 10 speed biker hit a serious cog,
When he got chased by a mangy ol' dog,
He tried mov'n (faster) on,
But he ran of of luck, 'n got bit in the ****
He's mov'n (a little slower) but he's still mov'n on.
[This next stanza was written by my 7 yr. old Grandson.)
The ten speed biker do'n 'bout 25 and didn't see
the big hornet hive, he's moving on, he's mov'n on.
You could him cry'n "I think Im dy'n!
He's mov'n on, yeah mov'n on!
(This last stanza is a true experience when I was 65 yrs old)
The ten speed biker had good control, till he waved at a friend,
and ran off the road, he stopped mov'n on, stopped mov'n on.
Now he's sett'n home with broken ribs and a collar bone ,
He' NOT mov'n on! yeah he's NOT NO LONGER MOV'N ON!
[I didn't have all these experiences, but wrote this poem to
an old country western song tune. by G.E.Parson
Feb 15, 2018
Feb 15, 2018 at 9:40 AM UTC
To cultivate in ev’ry noble mind
Habitual grace, and sentiments refin’d,
Thus while you strive to mend the human heart,
Thus while the heav’nly precepts you impart,
O may each ***** catch the sacred fire,
And youthful minds to Virtue’s throne aspire!
When God’s eternal ways you set in sight,
And Virtue shines in all her native light,
In vain would Vice her works in night conceal,
For Wisdom’s eye pervades the sable veil.
Artists may paint the sun’s effulgent rays,
But Amory’s pen the brighter God displays:
While his great works in Amory’s pages shine,
And while he proves his essence all divine,
The Atheist sure no more can boast aloud
Of chance, or nature, and exclude the God;
As if the clay without the potter’s aid
Should rise in various forms, and shapes self-made,
Or worlds above with orb o’er orb profound
Self-mov’d could run the everlasting round.
It cannot be—unerring Wisdom guides
With eye propitious, and o’er all presides.
Still prosper, Amory! still may’st thou receive
The warmest blessings which a muse can give,
And when this transitory state is o’er,
When kingdoms fall, and fleeting Fame’s no more,
May Amory triumph in immortal fame,
A nobler title, and superior name!
1.9k
The passion thy self does give for phenomenal proportion and hue.
The riddle of life does leap apart and the colours of temper askew.
Thou majestic brilliance is worthy of the utmost of praises.
Indestructible violet, unfathomable reds, and when lamentable blue; the celestial bodies sum up thou radiance
Thou light brings sight to the blind.
Thou brightness is a key to creative minds.
Thou purpose is to give us ours, thy structure is to give us beauty.
Sky so vast, sky so eternal, you canst leave the world in darken state.
The gray skies of storm, thundering loud, lit up with fires of lightning.
We canst describe how fortunate we are to learn of the sky.
The mov’ment of Earth is thy survival.
Do not leave the Earth, do not leaveth us.
The sky is eternal and we praise thyself for remaining.
The blue sunny skies with discerning truth, we see the sunlight.
No longer the brilliance is cloud-covered.
We deserve less but the sky is much.
Much to be anticipated, much to be received.
O valued sky, the World does not see you as so.
I see the World climb higher just to be ye.
That is why I write thyself an ode.
I write exalting thyself in humble abode.
Nov 2, 2012
Nov 2, 2012 at 10:38 AM UTC
These locks, which fondly thus entwine,
In firmer chains our hearts confine,
Than all th’ unmeaning protestations
Which swell with nonsense, love orations.
Our love is fix’d, I think we’ve prov’d it;
Nor time, nor place, nor art have mov’d it;
Then wherefore should we sigh and whine,
With groundless jealousy repine;
With silly whims, and fancies frantic,
Merely to make our love romantic?
Why should you weep, like Lydia Languish,
And fret with self-created anguish?
Or doom the lover you have chosen,
On winter nights to sigh half frozen;
In leafless shades, to sue for pardon,
Only because the scene’s a garden?
For gardens seem, by one consent,
(Since Shakespeare set the precedent;
Since Juliet first declar’d her passion)
To form the place of assignation.
Oh! would some modern muse inspire,
And seat her by a sea-coal fire;
Or had the bard at Christmas written,
And laid the scene of love in Britain;
He surely, in commiseration,
Had chang’d the place of declaration.
In Italy, I’ve no objection,
Warm nights are proper for reflection;
But here our climate is so rigid,
That love itself, is rather frigid:
Think on our chilly situation,
And curb this rage for imitation.
Then let us meet, as oft we’ve done,
Beneath the influence of the sun;
Or, if at midnight I must meet you,
Within your mansion let me greet you:
‘There’, we can love for hours together,
Much better, in such snowy weather,
Than plac’d in all th’ Arcadian groves,
That ever witness’d rural loves;
‘Then’, if my passion fail to please,
Next night I’ll be content to freeze;
No more I’ll give a loose to laughter,
But curse my fate, for ever after.
1.6k
Here lieth one who did most truly prove,
That he could never die while he could move,
So hung his destiny never to rot
While he might still jogg on, and keep his trot,
Made of sphear-metal, never to decay
Untill his revolution was at stay.
Time numbers motion, yet (without a crime
‘Gainst old truth) motion number’d out his time:
And like an Engin mov’d with wheel and waight,
His principles being ceast, he ended strait.
Rest that gives all men life, gave him his death,
And too much breathing put him out of breath;
Nor were it contradiction to affirm
Too long vacation hastned on his term.
Meerly to drive the time away he sickn’d,
Fainted, and died, nor would with Ale be quickn’d;
Nay, quoth he, on his swooning bed out-stretch’d,
If I may not carry, sure Ile ne’re be fetch’d,
But vow though the cross Doctors all stood hearers,
For one Carrier put down to make six bearers.
Ease was his chief disease, and to judge right,
He di’d for heavines that his Cart went light,
His leasure told him that his time was com,
And lack of load, made his life burdensom
That even to his last breath (ther be that say’t)
As he were prest to death, he cry’d more waight;
But had his doings lasted as they were,
He had bin an immortall Carrier.
Obedient to the Moon he spent his date
In cours reciprocal, and had his fate
Linkt to the mutual flowing of the Seas,
Yet (strange to think) his wain was his increase:
His Letters are deliver’d all and gon,
Onely remains this superscription.
1.5k
hips are farther apart when I sit, hands are toes are
spread fingers like spindles like broken into minute portions of
matter, moving about in this
big & empty
not mov
ing but
breath
ing and
tingl
ing, too
Sep 25, 2012
Sep 25, 2012 at 9:10 PM UTC
Get to know me.
It’s my most illustrious goal. Feel me, be me. I am you. I have felt and continue to inspire. I am the flicker of flames, torching the atmosphere. Raw. Consuming. Effervescent. Touch me. Be warmed. Be amazed. Be in awe.
My soul cries for understanding. Give me the rhythms of Glass, the complicated interflow of melodies, harmonies that make me sick, that give me wings. I stretch my hands, close my eyes and Listen. Don’t miss this.
Ears. Deaf ears. Be quiet for once. Hear. Hear. Be still and Hear. Nothing you will ever amount to could last as long as this legacy. It communicates without stroke, it astonishes without brush, it intrigues without etch, commanding what the eyes cannot see, what the nose cannot smell, what the hand cannot feel. Thus is the glory of song.
Open your ears, study! Lords are speaking to you. We are their medium of communication.
I sit quietly, enveloped in sound, and as my heart stirs, I’m filled with reflective urgency. As if I must abandon everything and go somewhere, but where? NOW! And yet, I’m immobilized by its warmth… yearning for release.
I’m reminded of the happiest times I’ve shared in my life, and for this reason I listen with respectful awareness of its toxicity. It is both addictive and hateful. Never failing to transport my very being to memories of love, comfort and peace.
And yet… it’s bitter. These are the memories of experiences I thought I once mastered. And as I listen to its echoes I am burdened to re-live the loss, the awakening once again, forever.
I awake to see that all is not what it seemed to be. My world is harsh, rash, skeptical: but absolutely never all the way real.
Hm, a dream. And always knew it. Deep down I knew and still I stifle instinct, ******* experience, and choke doubt. It is mine and I use it to fulfill me.
This song is short, but it commands deep within me feelings of such a range of love and devotion that I’m left frightened, exhausted, void. Could I have had that much to give? Yes.
Let the sounds live through you, and as your heart stirs, know that you are human.
Begin to listen, begin to hear. This lamentation begs for empathy, so rejoice! You are not alone. You are quite human, perfect: alive.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QjiUgN0HuPg&feature;=plcp
Dec 20, 2012
Dec 20, 2012 at 9:11 PM UTC
I can not forget the very first time i set eyes on you.
My heart was in a whirl as you mov'd closer to me.
Enchant'd may i have been, yet modest and true.
If i, wanton and impolite as i be, should have a fancy for 'ee,
I could have for my own eyes caused such a great pleasure.
For you were such a fair sight to the modest eyes.
Nay one man's eyes missed 'ee as swaggered.
J'ining the crowds, proud o' yourself med 'ee have been.
I miss those fair days, ol' Marygreen, by the weather spoiled were we.
'Twas i to seek 'ee, my being heart-tender, hurt to hope.
I oughtn't to hope for God's grace as you whisper'd my name,
Yet 'twas only what had troubled me.
My dear Sue, thine anger upon me was wanton.
As swiftly raged at me, unto me being surpris'd.
I love thee, may not i unto God be made
a saint.
Had i determined my course of action.
I could have been tolerable unto thine eyes.
My heart to pledge as of yore, yet torn and misled upon your path.
Alas! Don't 'ee charm-veiled come to conquer my heart as to setting about planning another journey not to be done.
Before God, and angels, though cast into agony,
'twas me unto whom you came when dark.
My Sue.... My dearest Sue....
Mar 24, 2011
Mar 24, 2011 at 8:24 PM UTC
be gin and it seems there is so much time left / pro ceed ing and speed ing much fast er a gain / craw ling and march ing the mo ments count down / the tick ing grows loud er the se cond hand 's shou ting and fas ter yet slo wly i'm fro zen a sleep / i'm thin king in slo mo time's spee ding and surg ing a round de com pos ing and what do i mean ? what can i show for the min utes i'm was ting ? i need to be mov ing like there 's no time left / can i get some where make some thing be fore the end ? move me to trust you build some thing be cause I can 't / ev er y se cond i'm dying i need your breath /
May 13, 2018
May 13, 2018 at 5:16 PM UTC
I can not forget the very first time i set eyes on you.
My heart was in a whirl as you mov'd closer to me.
Enchant'd may i have been, yet modest and true.
If i, wanton and impolite as i be, should have a fancy for 'ee,
I could have for my own eyes caused such a great pleasure.
For you were such a fair sight to the modest eyes.
Nay one man's eyes missed 'ee as swaggered.
J'ining the crowds, proud o' yourself med 'ee have been.
I miss those fair days, ol' Marygreen, by the weather spoiled were we.
'Twas i to seek 'ee, my being heart-tender, hurt to hope.
I oughtn't to hope for God's grace as you whisper'd my name,
Yet 'twas only what had troubled me.
My dear Sue, thine anger upon me was wanton.
As swiftly raged at me, unto me being surpris'd.
I love thee, may not i unto God be made
a saint.
Had i determined my course of action.
I could have been tolerable unto thine eyes.
My heart to pledge as of yore, yet torn and misled upon your path.
Alas! Don't 'ee charm-veiled come to conquer my heart as to setting about planning another journey not to be done.
Before God, and angels, though cast into agony,
'twas me unto whom you came when dark.
My Sue.... My dearest Sue....
Nov 12, 2010
Nov 12, 2010 at 6:34 AM UTC
I can not forget the very first time i set eyes on you.
My heart was in a whirl as you mov'd closer to me.
Enchant'd may i have been, yet modest and true.
If i, wanton and impolite as i be, should have a fancy for 'ee,
I could have for my own eyes caused such a great pleasure.
For you were such a fair sight to the modest eyes.
Nay one man's eyes missed 'ee as swaggered.
J'ining the crowds, proud o' yourself med 'ee have been.
I miss those fair days, ol' Marygreen, by the weather spoiled were we.
'Twas i to seek 'ee, my being heart-tender, hurt to hope.
I oughtn't to hope for God's grace as you whisper'd my name,
Yet 'twas only what had troubled me.
My dear Sue, thine anger upon me was wanton.
As swiftly raged at me, unto me being surpris'd.
I love thee, may not i unto God be made
a saint.
Had i determined my course of action.
I could have been tolerable unto thine eyes.
My heart to pledge as of yore, yet torn and misled upon your path.
Alas! Don't 'ee charm-veiled come to conquer my heart as to setting about planning another journey not to be done.
Before God, and angels, though cast into agony,
'twas me unto whom you came when dark.
My Sue.... My dearest Sue....
Feb 14, 2011
Feb 14, 2011 at 5:17 AM UTC
Moving across the country
in to the midnight sun
arrived at a party
now some were ******
others still whole
when a man almost a shadow
gave me his card
I said **** off ref
your not going to catch me no
not this
midnight rider.
Dec 20, 2015
Dec 20, 2015 at 2:37 PM UTC
~ wi~n~ding~
through
the
desert
just ^after ^^°dawn
nooneontheroad
it's _ cool & it's _ warm
the stillness holds. me.
#funnyhow
i \don't \feel \the \least
bit \lonely
[alone]
mean _ while _ the moon is
uP ^there ^all. day.
__ long.
&idon;'treallynotice;
maybe if you ask
all the lovers
who've 《《come _ &gone.;
"there//there"
(just breathe)
~see~ the
tiny-yellow-grasshopper
has >come >a >long
for
the ride¿
}.gentle reminder.{
all-in-all it's all a crutch
mov》ing 》for》ward 》
is ¡ all ¡ i've
got ¡
&
it's
<enough
Aug 26, 2016
Aug 26, 2016 at 1:25 AM UTC
As my story is short
and you are so bold,
please put your consciousness on hold.
The people I attract wear three shapes,
infants, meditative, dead.
I come in waves--a quiet hymn--
reflection, wears me thin.
My preference is existence, yet
my presence is happenstance
in the mind-filled man.
Humans are mov'n and hunt'n
for those thought jewels, distract'n--
win'n their eyes and ears over,
and blind'n them from silence.
Someth'n ain't right, and you ought
to stop feast'n Mr. Cognizant
And lay aside your thoughts.
Feb 1, 2015
Feb 1, 2015 at 2:40 PM UTC
Your name
is malleable and
easily tongued --
against my
cheek.
Is it
not the case that --
just before --
it was ether
in the cables above
this mov
-ing
train?
Vowels get dampened
and the rest
get
stuck
between my
teeth.
I can
roll your name into
a ball
with my tongue.
Press it to the roof
of my mouth --
lull it --
around and
feel it vibrate
with a hu-umm.
Do I dare part
my lips and let it
sublimate
once again?
Bring this moment
to a
close with
an
utterance?
How oft have I
spoken it,
with sheer neglect
& ignorance
of its
taste.
Apr 21, 2017
Apr 21, 2017 at 5:47 PM UTC