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Desiree Ramirez Nov 2011
Genuine conversations
were passion's static overblown
through classical lover's eyes.


i.
Confessing unrevealed tries
in variation with grieving cries.
Sighs and moans were touched
and savored everyday, at the same place.

ii.
Unexpected completions
were deviously divulged over
The temptress' despair, while cardboard
arrogance compressed within aluminum kisses.

iii.
Chemical liquids were drawing attention,
fingertips quivering at the sight of your eyes.
Palpable tension cutting through the styrofoam walls,
that we gently established to separate this sweet seduction.

iv.
Demolition began once playful vengeance intervened.
No longer did the requiem delay its flow and crunch,
for its succulent grin was painted on his chest
and carried on his hands.

v.
Cards were drawn to encaustic wax papers,
captivating lover's delight.
With sudden frustration, we searched evanescently,
for a piece of carton to hide from the fiery rains.

vi.
While puzzled Questionnaires were imprinted on catatonic embraces,
we both gnawed on the bone for answers;
barking gently at our feet, we tangled with uncompromising pretenses,
giving ourselves multiple aberrations with heartbreaking waves.

Tonight I cuddle the thorns and the knives,
contemplating lethargic affections,
infected with veracity's confection,
ignoring the ideal that I fell unfulfilled.
This intervention has the feel of déjà vu the record’s spinning forever locked in its groove a way of life reduced to a form stylized routinized to a shallow and shiny norm from revolution to cliché

just superficial stimulation

but what’s different? appearances change but there’s no progress in this apocalypse

everything that rises must converge all the meaningful surprises grow from within and stretch the threads of molded costumes copied, sinned, and said

rags cover neglect and decay veil desire’s all-compelling force generations lived through their eyes dissatisfied with any compromise

the searing balm of burning screens faith in sense impression for ironic equivocation it’s (just) culture, neither right nor wrong a place to hide, from considering

from revolution, to cliché, we lose our way faith in sense impression, ironic simulation so responsible in their noble stimulation

coming down to unchanged reality everything that meets must diverge patchwork king of limited domain stitched and sewn and overblown
Sheila Jacob Apr 2016
I'm glad you were spared
this hurt, Elizabeth.

If you were still alive
I'd journey again across the hills,

let our tears be his anointing,
our embrace his burial shroud.

John was the first to greet me
thirty years ago,

leapt for joy at the news I carried,
startled a blessing from your lips.

I marvelled as he grew,
plumped out your womb

until it hung beneath your gown
like an over-ripe pear.

I remember the kindness
of silent Zechariah,

noisy chickens in the courtyard
and the smell of raisin cakes.

I remember busy prayerful days
overblown with heat

until a breeze sweetened the valley,
lulled you into a doze.

You woke to rain
sounding the rooftops

and your own sharp cries
breath-held then relinquished.

I remember the with- woman's
skilful hands cradling John's head,

catching his sudden slippery length
glistening with your blood.
Yenson Sep 2018
The Marshmallows decided to have a top Party
Dressed gaily in white, pink, red, green and yellow
They mingled and floated around looking arty-farty
We're going to dance in town not partying in a garage
And guess what, We won't invite Toffee he's not like us

Go melt and burn says Toffee with rightful disdain
who wants to party with a bunch of soft silly buffoons
Overblown and presumptuous you lot melt in the rain
Nothing to you all but egging and hot air you poltroon
Who wants to dance with mixed up softies with no brains

I am Toffee hot and hard and always ready for the bite
You can't lick me in a hurry and I take a while to crack
I am brown with brawn and brains and ready to fight
Got rhythm with the moves, tastes and flavours top whack
Not some boring twirls or stumps gathered together tight

Come try me if you dare and see me squash you down flat
I'll go into you hard your softness yielding like knife on butter
Can marsh you with my strength till you're nothing but mellow
Or stick to your puffy wooly state and squeeze you still flatter
Till you beg and squeal your surrender showing you're shallow

I am not like you and don't think, see, look or taste like you
I am brown and sweet, hard and chewy and I really don't care
For emulsified vain brainless no substance marshmallow tools
Who can only be brave and big when all packed together like
So go party and kid yourselves softies I don't party with fools
Universe Poems Jul 2021
Don't moan,
that is a drone
Instead make,
overblown moonstones
Filling your aura with,
comforting breath,
using Solar Plexus chakra
Emotions in check,
negative reject

© 2021 Carol Natasha Diviney
PrttyBrd Jan 2011
14
Heart shaped boxes with red satin ribbons
Pink stuffed atrocities that have no use
Sappy lovesick greeting cards
Flowers that always die

Cheap chocolate massed produced
Three months of brainwashing prior
Chalky hearts profess true love
The lonely always cry

Made up days of forced romance
Bullied into mass compliance
Pressured into jewelry sales
Empty grand gestures prevail

Today is a day for puppy love
An excuse to eat by candlelight
Public affection is cool tonight
As we've appeased the Gods of retail

A day like any other day
Rising and setting moon and sun
Though nothing has changed
The heart races still

Though the chocolates are cheesy and stale
And flowers will die tomorrow
Though the world bullied the romance
I've been taken against my will

To the land of cotton candy dreams
For a few heartfelt words on paper
A card that speaks your love
And the truth that is in your eyes

Nervously, the gifts accepted
I am almost at a loss
Tears begin to well a little
And I pray the words don't lie

May I stay in this land of make-believe
Where it feels like a fairytale
Make tonight's dream, forever's reality
Wishes on wishing stars come true

Sarcastically with cynicism
And a dry wit that defines my nature
Hidden deep within the core
Of things I said I would never do

I will savor every chocolate
As if it is your warm lips on my own
And every word and cheesy line
Is the most beautiful I ever read

For you have chosen it just for me
Filled with all you cannot say
So I cherish my pink and heart-filled card
Because it is to me the words are said

From me, there is no cheesy gift
No candy covered sweets tonight
Nothing retail overblown
Just a small white box with a  hand tied bow

A poem in my own hand
As I give my heart on patterned paper
So simple, but it's everything.
Please don't ever let me go
copyright©PrttyBrd 14/01/2011- From 14
R L Doe Jun 2015
You are a bicycle,
your rims are rusted;
Rusted to the overblown rubber tire.

Your chain is broken.
We've tried to splice it so many times,
but I'm running out of links and I'm broke.

You broke me, you ran over my foot.
No apologies. Only the reminders you leave like leaches.
"Well, I told you. I'm a bike."

Well, I told you not to hurt me.
Then you deliberately sought out to run over my foot.
Then ask me "Will you pump my tires, will you oil my chain."

I do these things for you, without being asked or appreciated.
Do them because you're my bicycle, and I appreciate you.

For getting me places, and knocking me down
to give me bruises, bumps, and scars
Scars that remind me, I am not a bicycle.

I am the flesh and blood of the world.
I am not a hollow iron cast;
My innards are in motion with my mind and heart.

I gotta stop pumping the tires on this bike, and toss it.
This bicycle gave me tetanus from it's peddles trying to run away.

Stop cutting up my ******* feet, bike.
About a lover and a friend
S E L Jan 2014
loading ideas onto a railing which proves slippery beyond the sea shore’s mercy
when all the flares have exhausted their capacity for withholding harm
when a ship comes ready to carry away any hardy souls

that’s the day I hope I have your hand in mine
when you shake in your convulsions of pain and need, I want to hold you close
and when you think I can no longer bear to witness your vulnerabilities, I pull you in and hold you
with enough space between our madness to make up for the losses that life pours



you’re the one who has seen all my masks crumble and fall
cheerily, we slip in and out of visages of today
and memory rests on those things which swim in an osseous bowl
and yesterday is an old mirror while tomorrow is an overblown expletive of the hopeful


when the world has blown its axis to damnation and beyond its realm of corridors
there’s absolutely little to overturn the leverage
the full capacity of brilliance is never reached
until we let go to enter the steady tides of the moment
Amanda Kay Burke Mar 2021
You can say whatever you want
But that doesn't mean it's true
I suppose if the roles were reversed
I would have trouble admitting it too

Of course your memory differs
No two perspectives are the same
It was many years ago
So you are not to blame

But what you said weighed much more
On my ears than your own
I am not trying to make mountains out of molehills
My recollection is not overblown

It feels like it was yesterday
That those careless words left your lips
Even speaking them aloud now
Still stabs my self-esteem and rips

"With the way you are you deserve to die"
I am not making it up like you think
I did not misunderstand you
You didn't even stutter or blink

You did not say "You are gonna die"
Although I am sure that's what you meant
To summarize
I had it coming
That was pretty much the extent

You apologized right after
Realizing you were wrong
But the damage was already inflicted
Statement a little too strong

What hurts the most is you are honest
And only say things you truly believe
But when I analyze it you are correct
I beckon death with a push of my sleeve

So denial may have you fooled
But I can't forget what you said
And no matter how much I wish it wasn't so
Your comment will always remain in my head
To my dad
Lucky Queue Dec 2012
Maybe its just me
And my megalomania
My overblown ego
But I keep seeing and hearing
Faerie
Fairy
Fae
Fey
Everywhere I go
In chemistry: the conversion faerie
(She don't exist)
In lunch: the tooth fairies
(They might exist)
Everywhere: helpful faeries
(Of course they exist)
So is it just in my head, or are faeries creeping back?
Through the tangles of mental barriers
Near the frontmost of our subconsciouses
Maybe it's my nicknames becoming more prominent
Perhaps I'm just being silly
And maybe I'm simply pigheaded
But maybe it's true
In one of those fogs of London
I boarded the East End train,
The mist was a yellow, evil smog
And then it began to rain.
I found a compartment, only two
To bother my peaceful ride,
And placed my case at my feet, in place
With my gold-blocked name outside.

The smell of the fog was drifting in
And burning my eyes and throat,
I said to the man, ‘Let fresh air in…’
He sat and buttoned his coat.
‘The air out there is as bad as in,’
He said with a scowl and stare,
‘You might be happy to sit and choke,
The window stays up, I swear.’

I leant well back, and looked at the girl
Who sat there, opposite me,
She wore her skirt right up to the hip,
I stared at her stockinged knee,
Her eyes were bright, an emerald green
But tears I saw on her cheek,
‘This fog,’ she muttered, and wiped them dry,
‘I think it was worse last week.’

‘But London’s always suffered from fog,’
I ventured, ‘Back in the day,
The Ripper used it to hide his crimes,
He used it getting away.’
‘Overblown,’ he said, the man in the coat,
‘There’s many was worse than he,
The blood ran thick in the gutters here
At times in our history.’

‘But he’s the one who never got caught,
You must at least give him that.’
The man slunk down in his corner seat,
Then sat, and played with his hat.
The girl just smiled, and said in a while,
I think you’re right, he’s the one,
I wouldn’t like, on a foggy night
To meet him, minus a gun.’

The man reached into his overcoat
And seized the girl with a sigh,
Holding a cut-throat razor to
Her throat, with a smile so sly.
‘I said I’d never do this again
But I must admit, I lied,
I noticed the name on your carry case,
You’re Jekyll, I see – I’m Hyde!’

David Lewis Paget
Lynda Kerby Apr 2015
I spend my time scribbling lines
trying to set my soul free
the only prison
I've ever known
is the one in my mind
which I've overblown
my life isn't so bad
that I can't tolerate
but the dissatisfaction
is what I truly hate
Kvothe Dec 2016
This bleak existence
reeks
of cisterns,
it peeks it's leaky head
above the gutters.
Shuttered **** tight.

Death is the meaning of life.

Sylvia knew it best,
resting under home,
bone heavy
and sleepless.
That jar of hers;
irksome,
thirsts on monochrome
bleakness;
needless, overblown nerves.
Smash it!
Crush it!
Whack it!
Mush it!
Classic glassy mess.
Break it!
Fix it.
Tape it.
Place it.
Back now on your head.
MeanAileen Jul 2018
It must be so nice
to be cold as ice
and live with a heart of stone.
No need to think twice
in a fools paradise
when your head is so overblown.

Existing so high
you can touch the sky
from your pillar of ivory and gold.
Everyday you lie
just to pacify
an ego which can't be controlled.

You don't play fair
nor do you care
who's heart you might break next.
Another sordid affair
caught in your snare,
treating women like they are objects.

You made love a joke
with vows you broke,
that golden ring is sure to rust.
One day you'll choke
on fallacies you spoke,
then your empire to fall to dust.

And looking down on all
like you're 12 feet tall
does not make you the bigger man.
Laughing as they fall,
watching them crawl,
forgetting where your own life began.

Just keep living in excess,
desperate to impress,
surround yourself with cool ****.
Cause what you possess
when dead from stress
in a few years, won't matter one bit.
Ya...
O my Lord, long ago I accepted the idea
of being open and accepting of change.
My resistance was ultimately futile, when…
Salvation caused my life to be rearranged.

For my perspective was spiritually altered
and my heart was subtly humbled by You;
when ready, I sought after Your Kingdom,
knowing that I would remain in Your view.

Know that there can be joy in serving others,
which is complemented with learning opportunities;
depths of understanding can be accelerated,
for we’re taught to look differently and see…

the holy lessons Christ has intended for us!
Interactions with the Body of Christ may be hard,
since the religious honing of ‘iron against iron’
can leave one’s soul feeling dulled and scarred.

Spiritual maturity is an important aspect
in the development of faith that can’t be overblown;
for a real relationship with Christ insures that…
His Children are pushed - out of their comfort zone.
.
.
.
Author Notes:

Loosely based on:
Matt 8:20, Prov 27:17 and the following commentary from Abraham Israel

At the same time when Jesus said, “Foxes have holes and birds of the air have nests, but the Son of Man has nowhere to lay His head.” (Matt 8:20), it does not mean that Jesus described how poor He was to not even have a place to rest or buy a pillow and a mat to sleep. Instead Jesus used a figure of speech to convey to the certain scribe who came and said to Him, “Teacher, I will follow You wherever You go,” that when he wants to follow Jesus who does the will of God all the time according to heaven's instruction, then he has to forget about having a permanent place to sleep and a comfortable bed time. Implicitly Jesus was saying to that scribe who was very excited about following Jesus, that in the will of God, persecution might come and he will have flee from place to place, they might catch hold of him and bring him before kings and governors as a testimony for God, then from time to time food will not be placed in a table to be eaten and a time when no proper place to rest also might arise at certain times. And to another disciple who wanted to follow him, Jesus clearly expressed that in the will of God he might have to leave his father and mother and his fleshly family and relatives to go away to fulfill the will of God for his life. Sadly both of these above people did not follow Jesus further because they felt that the cost of the discipleship was great and that they were not able to leave their comfort zones.

But if we are thankful to God in the will of God with a gratitude for giving life as a gift to experience and not just hold on to our ****** comfort as the prime priority even above obeying the voice of God, then we will be very happy, joyful and content like the family above to experience heaven on earth again and again. Then we will also be followers of Jesus and his true disciples in the world as long as we are present. May God help us to be the true followers of Jesus!

Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://www.amazon.com/Reaching-Towards-His-Unbounded-Glory/dp/1419650513/ref=sr11?s=books&ie;=UTF8&qid;=1388058560&sr;=1-1&keywords;=reaching+towards+his+unbounded+glory

(Poem) By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2013, All rights reserved.
JW Harvey Oct 2014
This current resistance
in our duel circuit is
measured in ohmmms
of my meditated solace,
Mediated by the breaker
of a once-broken man
wary of a blown fuse
too burnt to salvage, a
lost cause to discard,
Replace & repeat with
each carless disregard of
the whattage we're wired
to handle, may a switch
on to off when overblown
prevent the spark that
burns down a home.
The year stood at its equinox
  And bluff the North was blowing,
A bleat of lambs came from the flocks,
  Green hardy things were growing;
I met a maid with shining locks
  Where milky kine were lowing.

She wore a kerchief on her neck,
  Her bare arm showed its dimple,
Her apron spread without a speck,
  Her air was frank and simple.

She milked into a wooden pail
  And sang a country ditty,
An innocent fond lovers' tale,
  That was not wise nor witty,
Pathetically rustical,
  Too pointless for the city.

She kept in time without a beat
  As true as church-bell ringers,
Unless she tapped time with her feet,
  Or squeezed it with her fingers;
Her clear unstudied notes were sweet
  As many a practised singer's.

I stood a minute out of sight,
  Stood silent for a minute
To eye the pail, and creamy white
  The frothing milk within it;

To eye the comely milking maid
  Herself so fresh and creamy:
"Good day to you," at last I said;
  She turned her head to see me:
"Good day," she said, with lifted head;
  Her eyes looked soft and dreamy,

And all the while she milked and milked
  The grave cow heavy-laden:
I've seen grand ladies plumed and silked,
  But not a sweeter maiden;

But not a sweeter, fresher maid
  Than this in homely cotton,
Whose pleasant face and silky braid
  I have not yet forgotten.

Seven springs have passed since then, as I
  Count with a sober sorrow;
Seven springs have come and passed me by,
  And spring sets in to-morrow.

I've half a mind to shake myself
  Free just for once from London,
To set my work upon the shelf
  And leave it done or undone;

To run down by the early train,
  Whirl down with shriek and whistle,
And feel the bluff North blow again,
  And mark the sprouting thistle
Set up on waste patch of the lane
  Its green and tender bristle,

And spy the scarce-blown violet banks,
  Crisp primrose leaves and others,
And watch the lambs leap at their pranks
  And **** their patient mothers.

Alas, one point in all my plan
  My serious thoughts demur to:
Seven years have passed for maid and man,
  Seven years have passed for her too;

Perhaps my rose is overblown,
  Not rosy or too rosy;
Perhaps in farm-house of her own
  Some husband keeps her cosey,
Where I should show a face unknown.
  Good by, my wayside posy.
Fresh back
On the street
From prison
A pumped up
Hilarious Hercules
Forced to sleep
Under a bridge
Along with
The broken
And dead
Wind blown umbrellas

Now, yet another
Up-rooted
Member of the homeless
Flashing his *******
At these so called modern times
Not even a bottle of wine
To keep him company

The whining engines
Of passing cars
Echoing off the
Concrete and steel
Ripping and tearing
At his overblown ego
shredding it into strips

He knows it wont be long
Before he returns to a cell block
By his own choice
Not knowing anything
But a life of crime since his youth
SassyJ Jul 2018
I gave up on love
even before I touched its feathers
shatters of the aftermath
and overblown rejections

The short lived passes
undoubted crises
the give ups with no returns
Shutting unopened doors

I gave up on love
and my heart turned cold
As if broken and beat
Invested in solo affairs

Love never caressed
Or invested it’s time
and the fire ceased
as redemption erased

Yet I dreamt of him
that unknown shadow
a light to my morning
the other part that wins me

Someday a step away
he might be a stranger
another decade,miles apart
he will be a soul mate
Gabriel Jan 2014
The most elegantly glimpsed aptness of blue,
So colorfully unique in it's intending,
Of the brightest pastels found inside the Louvre,
In the depth of the sky in it's ever mending.

A cascading stain above as the dawn breaks,
A changing shade away from night brings a warming tone,
The vastness of profundity only seen in Great lakes,  
These dripping streams of patiences are not yet overblown.

A color we bleed when we need a companion,
The tint we see in oceans at the eye's length,
And fills the sky on the most stunning day in the Grand Canyon,
The deepest blues are seen in weakness and less in strength.

A chagrining emotional torrent coursing to a commotion,
Water flies above as airy type materialization,
Seeing spirits crushed by the weight of a winter squall Atlantic ocean.
But reveals a illusive blue when in a frozen glaciation,

The most beautiful blue is so intrinsic,
Like the inner part of the flame burning insistent,
But with far more life that is so simplistic,
Whereas my life without blue is nonexistent.
betterdays Aug 2014
you were my yesteryear.
when you ruled,
as the pop-**** queen,
atheletic and cool.

me,i was one of the
weird, vibe tribe.
theatre mad, and
a library hound.
you barely knew,
i was around.

but we lived in,
a small, small town
and you,
dated my brother
so you only, iced me gently.

it was surreal,
truly dali-esque.
to see you today...
i would not,
have known
you....
so faded, grey..and overblown.

we have all got older,
but the years,
have...
mugged you
and left
you beaten, battered
and low...

you tell me
you were done,
with living,
about two husbands ago.


and now just plod
through, each day,
willing the dark grey
to swallow you whole.
staying, living only for
your son Tim.
you say all this,
while ,
heavily, perspiring,
pure gin.

you cry and the tears,
run down the cracks
in your leathered,
over-sunned skin
and down to pool,
on your blowsy breast,
clad in ***** pink polar fleece.

my heart, curls in pity,
for you have fallen far.
as you sit and drink,
gifted coffee, talk about
when you were the star,
the brightest, prettiest,
flame by far.

and as i leave you,
sitting, dejected and depressed.
there is a little, heartfelt shame, in the fact,
that throughout
our untimely meeting,
i could not recall your name.
sad and so awkward
but true....
really not proud of my reaction...but could not wait
to leave....and go home and hug my boys...suppose i too am only human.
Rishawn May 2020
Uncertainty is terrifying
Indefinite is paralyzing
Isolation is immobilizing

We take these terms in stride
as we know of the greater struggle
yet the fear of fear itself is not a source of pride

Feel the stress, endure the hardship
and remember there is a family here
that will be there for kinship

What is coming is unknown
what has happened is not overblown
How we move forward will make a noise that resounds

Lets band together and rise
Ensure we mitigate a demise
Keep away and safe
but not alone
not
without good faith
Elijah Aug 2015
Soul is immortal
Thick skin is embodied
Mind overblown with intuition
I am a spirit creature.
Ever so sunkissed by grace
illuminating rays carry my bones
through tribulations and wrath,
I’m conquered by warm winds
of pure divinity and
constant love of nothingness.
I’m a spirit creature
#art #energy #happy #life #love #mind #poetry #soul #spirit
The Dedpoet Jul 2016
In the eye of we the peoples,
    In the overblown blasphemous
Political whirlwind,
    We have dug up Rage:
In the empty theatrical deities
     The idols explode
And spit on the origins of forefathers,
      In love with their own *****
The fountain of verbiage overflowing with
     Truncated quotations,
The people leeches become sharpened
By lies and pockets filled
By industrious rats,
     These juggling ideologies
Play the frustration of the suffering
    Like strings on a stained violin,
     Paradise of caged freedoms,
Stairway of repetitions,
   They paint Messiah over
Their foreheads,
We drink of the fountains
Of bitter water,
We crown the snakes and surprisingly
Ideally we are shocked
To be bitten.
    The fire speaks words of water
And the river ends in a fall,
     Canes and Abels,
Over and over ,
Into the storm we run,
Spinning darkness from light,
     As we drink
We must ask:

Where is the other water?
Inspired by Paz.
glassea May 2015
irony's got nothing on
this dramatic, overblown
love of ours.
think shakespeare: romeo and juliet, othello and desdemona, hamlet and ophelia. they are not us. we are ten times as mad and a hundred times as passionate.
mirror mirror
on the wall
who has the biggest
ego of all

does this person
before you
like to hear
his trumpet toot too

mirror mirror
on the wall
will this egotistical fellow
take a great fall

has he been
full of himself
and is he in need
of reappraising himself

mirror mirror
on the wall
is this chap
an overblown load of crap

is he a pain
in the rear end
and when will
his personality make amends

mirror mirror
on the wall
will he heed your advice
and drop his pretentious vice
Saint Audrey Apr 2018
Classic trepidation, stationary with the aura of
Coincidence, slit myself and call it skyward thinking
Sinking feelings that argue for a sudden resignation
Conscientiousness, leprous and typesetting

Intimate knowledge that I disclose verbatim cannot, and should not, ever be used against me.
Interest infected through wavelengths, non responsive partly cause of the rupturing that's been running through my dreams.
Scant as fixes to the problems, overblown and oft forgotten, lisping when I speak of this Epiphany.
Taxidermist furnish houses, howling wolves that get devoured, sounds like God and hell and them finally worked out peace.

Just cosmetic, slightly pathetic the ease at which the mind elapses
Classics retconned till nothing's left except the years of influence
Invested in the melancholy, snobs lobbyist and in distant memories
I weep for Adonais—he is dead!
O, weep for Adonais! though our tears
Thaw not the frost which binds so dear a head!
And thou, sad Hour, selected from all years
To mourn our loss, rouse thy obscure compeers,
And teach them thine own sorrow, say: “With me
Died Adonais; till the Future dares
Forget the Past, his fate and fame shall be
An echo and a light unto eternity!”

Where wert thou, mighty Mother, when he lay,
When thy Son lay, pierced by the shaft which flies
In darkness? where was lorn Urania
When Adonais died? With veiled eyes,
Mid listening Echoes, in her Paradise
She sate, while one, with soft enamoured breath,
Rekindled all the fading melodies
With which, like flowers that mock the corse beneath,
He had adorned and hid the coming bulk of death.

O, weep for Adonais—he is dead!
Wake, melancholy Mother, wake and weep!
Yet wherefore? Quench within their burning bed
Thy fiery tears, and let thy loud heart keep
Like his, a mute and uncomplaining sleep;
For he is gone, where all things wise and fair
Descend;—oh, dream not that the amorous Deep
Will yet restore him to the vital air;
Death feeds on his mute voice, and laughs at our despair.

Most musical of mourners, weep again!
Lament anew, Urania!—He died,
Who was the Sire of an immortal strain,
Blind, old, and lonely, when his country’s pride,
The priest, the slave, and the liberticide
Trampled and mocked with many a loathed rite
Of lust and blood; he went, unterrified,
Into the gulf of death; but his clear Sprite
Yet reigns o’er earth; the third among the sons of light.

Most musical of mourners, weep anew!
Not all to that bright station dared to climb;
And happier they their happiness who knew,
Whose tapers yet burn through that night of time
In which suns perished; others more sublime,
Struck by the envious wrath of man or god,
Have sunk, extinct in their refulgent prime;
And some yet live, treading the thorny road
Which leads, through toil and hate, to Fame’s serene abode.

But now, thy youngest, dearest one, has perished—
The nursling of thy widowhood, who grew,
Like a pale flower by some sad maiden cherished,
And fed with true-love tears, instead of dew;
Most musical of mourners, weep anew!
Thy extreme hope, the loveliest and the last,
The bloom, whose petals nipped before they blew
Died on the promise of the fruit, is waste;
The broken lily lies—the storm is overpast.

To that high Capital, where kingly Death
Keeps his pale court in beauty and decay,
He came; and bought, with price of purest breath,
A grave among the eternal.—Come away!
Haste, while the vault of blue Italian day
Is yet his fitting charnel-roof! while still
He lies, as if in dewy sleep he lay;
Awake him not! surely he takes his fill
Of deep and liquid rest, forgetful of all ill.

He will awake no more, oh, never more!—
Within the twilight chamber spreads apace
The shadow of white Death, and at the door
Invisible Corruption waits to trace
His extreme way to her dim dwelling-place;
The eternal Hunger sits, but pity and awe
Soothe her pale rage, nor dares she to deface
So fair a prey, till darkness, and the law
Of change, shall o’er his sleep the mortal curtain draw.

O, weep for Adonais!—The quick Dreams,
The passion-winged Ministers of thought,
Who were his flocks, whom near the living streams
Of his young spirit he fed, and whom he taught
The love which was its music, wander not,—
Wander no more, from kindling brain to brain,
But droop there, whence they sprung; and mourn their lot
Round the cold heart, where, after their sweet pain,
They ne’er will gather strength, or find a home again.

And one with trembling hands clasps his cold head,
And fans him with her moonlight wings, and cries,
“Our love, our hope, our sorrow, is not dead;
See, on the silken fringe of his faint eyes,
Like dew upon a sleeping flower, there lies
A tear some Dream has loosened from his brain.”
Lost Angel of a ruined Paradise!
She knew not ’twas her own; as with no stain
She faded, like a cloud which had outwept its rain.

One from a lucid urn of starry dew
Washed his light limbs as if embalming them;
Another clipped her profuse locks, and threw
The wreath upon him, like an anadem,
Which frozen tears instead of pearls begem;
Another in her wilful grief would break
Her bow and winged reeds, as if to stem
A greater loss with one which was more weak;
And dull the barbed fire against his frozen cheek.

Another Splendour on his mouth alit,
That mouth, whence it was wont to draw the breath
Which gave it strength to pierce the guarded wit,
And pass into the panting heart beneath
With lightning and with music: the damp death
Quenched its caress upon his icy lips;
And, as a dying meteor stains a wreath
Of moonlight vapour, which the cold night clips,
It flushed through his pale limbs, and passed to its eclipse.

And others came… Desires and Adorations,
Winged Persuasions and veiled Destinies,
Splendours, and Glooms, and glimmering Incarnations
Of hopes and fears, and twilight Phantasies;
And Sorrow, with her family of Sighs,
And Pleasure, blind with tears, led by the gleam
Of her own dying smile instead of eyes,
Came in slow pomp;—the moving pomp might seem
Like pageantry of mist on an autumnal stream.

All he had loved, and moulded into thought,
From shape, and hue, and odour, and sweet sound,
Lamented Adonais. Morning sought
Her eastern watch-tower, and her hair unbound,
Wet with the tears which should adorn the ground,
Dimmed the aereal eyes that kindle day;
Afar the melancholy thunder moaned,
Pale Ocean in unquiet slumber lay,
And the wild Winds flew round, sobbing in their dismay.

Lost Echo sits amid the voiceless mountains,
And feeds her grief with his remembered lay,
And will no more reply to winds or fountains,
Or amorous birds perched on the young green spray,
Or herdsman’s horn, or bell at closing day;
Since she can mimic not his lips, more dear
Than those for whose disdain she pined away
Into a shadow of all sounds:—a drear
Murmur, between their songs, is all the woodmen hear.

Grief made the young Spring wild, and she threw down
Her kindling buds, as if she Autumn were,
Or they dead leaves; since her delight is flown,
For whom should she have waked the sullen year?
To Phoebus was not Hyacinth so dear
Nor to himself Narcissus, as to both
Thou, Adonais: wan they stand and sere
Amid the faint companions of their youth,
With dew all turned to tears; odour, to sighing ruth.

Thy spirit’s sister, the lorn nightingale
Mourns not her mate with such melodious pain;
Not so the eagle, who like thee could scale
Heaven, and could nourish in the sun’s domain
Her mighty youth with morning, doth complain,
Soaring and screaming round her empty nest,
As Albion wails for thee: the curse of Cain
Light on his head who pierced thy innocent breast,
And scared the angel soul that was its earthly guest!

Ah, woe is me! Winter is come and gone,
But grief returns with the revolving year;
The airs and streams renew their joyous tone;
The ants, the bees, the swallows reappear;
Fresh leaves and flowers deck the dead Season’s bier;
The amorous birds now pair in every brake,
And build their mossy homes in field and brere;
And the green lizard, and the golden snake,
Like unimprisoned flames, out of their trance awake.

Through wood and stream and field and hill and Ocean
A quickening life from the Earth’s heart has burst
As it has ever done, with change and motion,
From the great morning of the world when first
God dawned on Chaos; in its stream immersed,
The lamps of Heaven flash with a softer light;
All baser things pant with life’s sacred thirst;
Diffuse themselves; and spend in love’s delight
The beauty and the joy of their renewed might.

The leprous corpse, touched by this spirit tender,
Exhales itself in flowers of gentle breath;
Like incarnations of the stars, when splendour
Is changed to fragrance, they illumine death
And mock the merry worm that wakes beneath;
Nought we know, dies. Shall that alone which knows
Be as a sword consumed before the sheath
By sightless lightning?—the intense atom glows
A moment, then is quenched in a most cold repose.

Alas! that all we loved of him should be,
But for our grief, as if it had not been,
And grief itself be mortal! Woe is me!
Whence are we, and why are we? of what scene
The actors or spectators? Great and mean
Meet massed in death, who lends what life must borrow.
As long as skies are blue, and fields are green,
Evening must usher night, night urge the morrow,
Month follow month with woe, and year wake year to sorrow.

He will awake no more, oh, never more!
“Wake thou,” cried Misery, “childless Mother, rise
Out of thy sleep, and slake, in thy heart’s core,
A wound more fierce than his with tears and sighs.”
And all the Dreams that watched Urania’s eyes,
And all the Echoes whom their sister’s song
Had held in holy silence, cried: “Arise!”
Swift as a Thought by the snake Memory stung,
From her ambrosial rest the fading Splendour sprung.

She rose like an autumnal Night, that springs
Our of the East, and follows wild and drear
The golden Day, which, on eternal wings,
Even as a ghost abandoning a bier,
Had left the Earth a corpse. Sorrow and fear
So struck, so roused, so rapt Urania;
So saddened round her like an atmosphere
Of stormy mist; so swept her on her way
Even to the mournful place where Adonais lay.

Our of her secret Paradise she sped,
Through camps and cities rough with stone, and steel,
And human hearts, which to her aery tread
Yielding not, wounded the invisible
Palms of her tender feet where’er they fell:
And barbed tongues, and thoughts more sharp than they,
Rent the soft Form they never could repel,
Whose sacred blood, like the young tears of May,
Paved with eternal flowers that undeserving way.

In the death-chamber for a moment Death,
Shamed by the presence of that living Might,
Blushed to annihilation, and the breath
Revisited those lips, and Life’s pale light
Flashed through those limbs, so late her dear delight.
“Leave me not wild and drear and comfortless,
As silent lightning leaves the starless night!
Leave me not!” cried Urania: her distress
Roused Death: Death rose and smiled, and met her vain caress.

“‘Stay yet awhile! speak to me once again;
Kiss me, so long but as a kiss may live;
And in my heartless breast and burning brain
That word, that kiss, shall all thoughts else survive,
With food of saddest memory kept alive,
Now thou art dead, as if it were a part
Of thee, my Adonais! I would give
All that I am to be as thou now art!
But I am chained to Time, and cannot thence depart!

“O gentle child, beautiful as thou wert,
Why didst thou leave the trodden paths of men
Too soon, and with weak hands though mighty heart
Dare the unpastured dragon in his den?
Defenceless as thou wert, oh, where was then
Wisdom the mirrored shield, or scorn the spear?
Or hadst thou waited the full cycle, when
Thy spirit should have filled its crescent sphere,
The monsters of life’s waste had fled from thee like deer.

“The herded wolves, bold only to pursue;
The obscene ravens, clamorous o’er the dead;
The vultures to the conqueror’s banner true
Who feed where Desolation first has fed,
And whose wings rain contagion;—how they fled,
When, like Apollo, from his golden bow
The Pythian of the age one arrow sped
And smiled!—The spoilers tempt no second blow,
They fawn on the proud feet that spurn them lying low.

“The sun comes forth, and many reptiles spawn;
He sets, and each ephemeral insect then
Is gathered into death without a dawn,
And the immortal stars awake again;
So is it in the world of living men:
A godlike mind soars forth, in its delight
Making earth bare and veiling heaven, and when
It sinks, the swarms that dimmed or shared its light
Leave to its kindred lamps the spirit’s awful night.”

Thus ceased she: and the mountain shepherds came,
Their garlands sere, their magic mantles rent;
The Pilgrim of Eternity, whose fame
Over his living head like Heaven is bent,
An early but enduring monument,
Came, veiling all the lightnings of his song
In sorrow; from her wilds Irene sent
The sweetest lyrist of her saddest wrong,
And Love taught Grief to fall like music from his tongue.

Midst others of less note, came one frail Form,
A phantom among men; companionless
As the last cloud of an expiring storm
Whose thunder is its knell; he, as I guess,
Had gazed on Nature’s naked loveliness,
Actaeon-like, and now he fled astray
With feeble steps o’er the world’s wilderness,
And his own thoughts, along that rugged way,
Pursued, like raging hounds, their father and their prey.

A pardlike Spirit beautiful and swift—
A Love in desolation masked;—a Power
Girt round with weakness;—it can scarce uplift
The weight of the superincumbent hour;
It is a dying lamp, a falling shower,
A breaking billow;—even whilst we speak
Is it not broken? On the withering flower
The killing sun smiles brightly: on a cheek
The life can burn in blood, even while the heart may break.

His head was bound with pansies overblown,
And faded violets, white, and pied, and blue;
And a light spear topped with a cypress cone,
Round whose rude shaft dark ivy-tresses grew
Yet dripping with the forest’s noonday dew,
Vibrated, as the ever-beating heart
Shook the weak hand that grasped it; of that crew
He came the last, neglected and apart;
A herd-abandoned deer struck by the hunter’s dart.

All stood aloof, and at his partial moan
Smiled through their tears; well knew that gentle band
Who in another’s fate now wept his own,
As in the accents of an unknown land
He sung new sorrow; sad Urania scanned
The Stranger’s mien, and murmured: “Who art thou?”
He answered not, but with a sudden hand
Made bare his branded and ensanguined brow,
Which was like Cain’s or Christ’s—oh! that it should be so!

What softer voice is hushed over the dead?
Athwart what brow is that dark mantle thrown?
What form leans sadly o’er the white death-bed,
In mockery of monumental stone,
The heavy heart heaving without a moan?
If it be He, who, gentlest of the wise,
Taught, soothed, loved, honoured the departed one,
Let me not vex, with inharmonious sighs,
The silence of that heart’s accepted sacrifice.

Our Adonais has drunk poison—oh!
What deaf and viperous murderer could crown
Life’s early cup with such a draught of woe?
The nameless worm would now itself disown:
It felt, yet could escape, the magic tone
Whose prelude held all envy, hate, and wrong,
But what was howling in one breast alone,
Silent with expectation of the song,
Whose master’s hand is cold, whose silver lyre unstrung.

Live thou, whose infamy is not thy fame!
Live! fear no heavier chastisement from me,
Thou noteless blot on a remembered name!
But be thyself, and know thyself to be!
And ever at thy season be thou free
To spill the venom when thy fangs o’erflow:
Remorse and Self-contempt shall cling to thee;
Hot Shame shall burn upon thy secret brow,
And like a beaten hound tremble thou shalt—as now.

Nor let us weep that our delight is fled
Far from these carrion kites that scream below;
He wakes or sleeps with the enduring dead;
Thou canst not soar where he is sitting now—
Dust to the dust! but the pure spirit shall flow
Back to the burning fountain whence it came,
A portion of the Eternal, which must glow
Through time and change, unquenchably the same,
Whilst thy cold embers choke the sordid hearth of shame.

Peace, peace! he is not dead, he doth not sleep—
He hath awakened from the dream of life—
’Tis we, who lost in stormy visions, keep
With phantoms an unprofitable strife,
And in mad trance, strike with our spirit’s knife
Invulnerable nothings.—We decay
Like corpses in a charnel; fear and grief
Convulse us and consume us day by day,
And cold hopes swarm like worms within our living clay.

He has outsoared the shadow of our night;
Envy and calumny and hate and pain,
And that unrest which men miscall delight,
Can touch him not and torture not again;
From the contagion of the world’s slow stain
He is secure, and now can never mourn
A heart grown cold, a head grown grey in vain;
Nor, when the spirit’s self has ceased to burn,
With sparkless ashes load an unlamented urn.

He lives, he wakes—’tis Death is dead, not he;
Mourn not for Adonais.—Thou young Dawn,
Turn all thy dew to splendour, for from thee
The spirit thou lamentest is not gone;
Ye caverns and ye forests, cease to moan!
Cease, ye faint flowers and fountains, and thou Air
Which like a mourning veil
Once there was a heart
which had been born anew,
out of two hearts that loved
and pierced each other through.

Once there was a heart
with different ways to go,
unable to choose the one to follow
it split back into two.
Continuation of 'A tale of two hearts'
SøułSurvivør Apr 2016
In the former life I led
I had no way of filling
The empty grave of one who's dead
My pride was e'r willing

I had an ego overblown
In pompous boasts exceeding
But I was lost and all alone
My soul was torn and bleeding

I had abilities and then
Became a prideful bearer
Of all the things that I could do
At last I was in error

Even when I knew The Lord
Made charity my pleasure
My works became my righteousness
Above my only Treasure

Christ died in vain upon his cross
If my beliefs adhered to
And I rejected precious Grace
That was the point I came to

How can I live a sinless life?
I am without that merit
Jesus lived that life for me
So Grace I could inherit!

So here I am to tell you all
Pride is like a cancer
I will boast in Jesus Christ

For He's the only answer


SoulSurvivor
(C) 4/23/2016


*"I will not boast in anything
No gifts, no power, no wisdom
I will boast in Jesus Christ
His death and resurrection

Why would I gain from His reward?
I cannot give an answer
But this I know with all my heart
His wounds have paid my ransom."

How Great The Father's Love
This poem's rhythm scheme is based on the hymn "How Great The Father's Love". A fantastic "oldie"!

More and more I've been realizing that I've tried to be my own righteousness. I can't do it. Nobody can. That's why Jesus had to die. To reconcile us with the Father. It takes some gall to think of that I could be better than Jesus! But that's what I was doing trying so hard to be "good".

Please bear with me... I'm not back on the site yet. It's late and I have to go to bed. But I will try to be on tomorrow, God willing. Love you all!
Bob B Mar 2017
Denial gets you nowhere.
When there's a problem, face it.
If it's a major challenge,
Open your mind and embrace it.

The trouble is a problem
Won't go away on its own.
Don't wait until
The flower is overblown.

If a situation
Affects our national security,
Can a solution wait
For some remote futurity?

Bury your head in the sand
If your mind is closed.
But if you do, remember:
Your rear will be exposed.

How to solve a problem
When our leaders drub
Twaddle into our heads?
Ah, that's the rub!

How to get to the bottom
Of what is happening around us
Is problematic when
Efforts are made to confound us.

What is clear to some,
To others is quite blurry.
Suspicions arise when something
Is covered up in a scurry.

To know or not to know?
Is that the question that taunts us?
Why didn't we stop it?
Will be the question that haunts us.

- by Bob B (3-30-17)

— The End —