"neathe" poems
herr fayce
obsccurred
a mysterie
tho shadowe-veiled
alle maye see
reflektions of
the daye jusste gonne
or warninge of
tomorrowes storm
softe herr lyghte
for lovers eyes
indifferent to
ourre mortal heartes
yet woven thru
alle ourre lyves
sylvarre moone
bequeathes herr lyghte
brokenne heartes
as dryftwoode laye
'pon these
silent shores
sweppte awaye
'pon sylvarre seas
'neathe
herr crowne
of starrs...
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http://oi61.tinypic.com/34iicxx.jpg
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Feb 17, 2018
Feb 17, 2018 at 9:20 AM UTC
**Each day passing by in a wild-eyed dash
In truth my soul fell aside, but bluer birds still doth call
Missed that cardinal harken when I set down my last two cents
Kickers of tricks, scroll-ers of myth, bottlers of ships
Knew it all along, just couldn’t stiff the rest
Refuse to capitol, refuge atop the pious politic that steeps these hills
Is it not hard to tell? The meanings of what buys in bulk
The people is we, of what sells slicker than plot itself
A minority rule, hid reasons from majority fooled
That is working trade class, taught to chain drive
The gleaming sheen glowing green, crowning jewel¬¬¬ is as mist and steam, fleeting as the wash of this worlds seething seas
We, the misanthrope of being, bloom in the warmth of idea
Only to recede at the water mark high of each our lives
Authenticity bless the distant time, costless venture to each about die, salute through another caesars’ dilated eye a definition
Eons in annunciation; immortality flashing by
Reverence cannot lie, not long at least neathe a chipping patina
Gold leafed by the hand of man, coerced creations’ fondling finger tips strips thin, leaving us then to watch the weathering
Not a one may ever remember for too quickly or too timely
Arrives dismemberment, a cyclic certainty, often relegated falsely
As loss or gain, truly misspoken frames for reference
At any given attempt to render the language of tongues, oh speaker the son of the morning shamelessly ****** by predecessors increasingly lavish
Phonemic savage; life running rabid, splicing love over the atom
The simple one whom tends a patch of what he calls “cabbage”
Knowing always the wordless truth that is his field fallowing
Unconvinced by everyone, save himself if nothing else
Penitent candor dangle, frameless wonder can you hear the thunder?**
Oct 17, 2013
Oct 17, 2013 at 2:44 PM UTC
People are collections
Of twisted recollections
Mirrors and reflections
Though we often fail to mention
Waning as our skipping attentions
Dreams, faith, and the pace we keep
Yet love feeds these hearts that seek
Will we ever sleep neathe the sound of summer thunder
and cease the need to wonder?
Until this day I shall say my name, as proud as the hallowed grounds
I am the undone, only now may I truly become
Reverent, as a new dawn wakes
Quiet; elation breaks.
Jan 11, 2014
Jan 11, 2014 at 1:27 PM UTC
I was never moving backwards, in fact I never moved at all.
Here; among the markers and holy proof, have I, the path finder always sat.
Body stoic, thoughts dampened, eyes crossed spying wide but, ever wise?
Atop the two inch tower, in the humid shadow cast neathe the pine and needle.
Silas Wright Dewitt, my company unapparent, December fourth, 1844 was he bore
November tenth , 1904 is he born.
Aug 12, 2013
Aug 12, 2013 at 5:10 PM UTC
I was never moving backwards, in fact I never moved at all.
Here; among the markers and holy proof, have I, the path finder always sat.
Body stoic, thoughts dampened, eyes crossed spying wide but, ever wise?
Atop the two inch tower, in the humid shadow cast neathe the pine and needle.
Silas Wright Dewitt, my company unapparent, December fourth, 1844 was he bore
November tenth , 1904 is he born.
Aug 12, 2013
Aug 12, 2013 at 5:08 PM UTC