"parching" poems
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Dear New Poet:
Then I'm your man,
your very own
Northern star,
one leg up of a
3 legged stool,
upon which all,
we, enthroned poets,
the world-over,
do rule
the honor you
bequeath me
to be,
a first follower,
your very own
first responder,
it, cannot be
disdained
nor
diminished
this instance,
this birth,
a novice revival,
heart transplant,
makes it
the sweetest blessing
to be the first—
let us be
the quencher
of a desert thirst so long
in the parching,
the throat burning,
by a desert sojourning,
of a now ending
forty times
four hundred years
so come to me!
message me a message,
find me a find,
your poem fine,
so now we vow,
our embrace will
ne’er be broken
give me this
honorific!
let us together
be terrific,
raise our glasses,
with arms entwined
toasting you and
all that mind and
breasted chest of yours,
full bursting from
its future~contains,
of which,
its full release,
brings a fuller life
for us both
I am a father.
I am a grandfather.
I am a First Follower.
and a First Responder,
for all who needs a leg up,
so step upon my heart,
it be but a first step upon a
ladder with no top, no end ensighted
my legs are as old as time, but,
measure me not by the rings and
the metered scales of gray hair aging,
shock of white, a cain mark, wizard-wizened
but
by the muscles
of my deep affection,
the solemnity of this,
my irrevocable promise
this,
the blessing
we both make and earn,
when you write,
and while we wait,
in quiet attendance -
for all of your good works,
your kept promises
Blessed
are You Lord our God,
Ruler of the Universe
who has given us life,
sustained us until now,
***allowing, allying, and
alloying***
the treader of treacherous waters,
reader, writer, swimmer,
to reach, meet, embrace
and greet this day,
this new born poem,
with hallelujahs
whispering and shoutings
together,
as one
in one, of one,
one
Mar 29, 2018
Mar 29, 2018 at 1:11 PM UTC
136
Have you got a Brook in your little heart,
Where bashful flowers blow,
And blushing birds go down to drink,
And shadows tremble so—
And nobody knows, so still it flows,
That any brook is there,
And yet your little draught of life
Is daily drunken there—
Why, look out for the little brook in March,
When the rivers overflow,
And the snows come hurrying from the fills,
And the bridges often go—
And later, in August it may be—
When the meadows parching lie,
Beware, lest this little brook of life,
Some burning noon go dry!
7.2k
What is Poetry?
When your legs are numb,
Blood parching in your veins,
Throat choking from the pain,
And the fingers hitting the keys of the keyboard ceaselessly,
Trying ever so hard to create something impetuously,
Its poetry, you type.
When you dream of the possibilities,
And in what was once unimaginable,
You make the reader believe,
And change the way how their life, they perceive,
Its poetry, you dream.
When you play with words,
Just as an artist would play with colors,
To create a masterpiece,
That reaches the depths of the reader’s soul,
And burns them inside like coal,
Its poetry, you paint.
When you thread
Your fears, your desires,
Your insecurities, your pain,
All just to stay sane,
Its poetry you weave.
When your heart is melting
Like wax candles once lit,
And drops of tears smudge the ink,
To your knees you sink,
Its poetry, you bleed.
Jul 26, 2018
Jul 26, 2018 at 9:27 AM UTC
The first thing I feel is warmth
A calm breeze blowing
And the feeling of being renewed
Then a blazing heat rises
Almost unbearable
Burning me, parching my throat
Another change to cooler temperature
Chilly winds blow
Dry leaves whip my face
Then all is frozen
Too cold to sustain life
The world becomes white
Endlessly spinning
Birth, death and rebirth
The earth forever caught in a cyclone
Apr 24, 2013
Apr 24, 2013 at 12:32 PM UTC
On winter nights beside the nursery fire
We read the fairy tale, while glowing coals
Builded its pictures. There before our eyes
We saw the vaulted hall of traceried stone
Uprear itself, the distant ceiling hung
With pendent stalactites like frozen vines;
And all along the walls at intervals,
Curled upwards into pillars, roses climbed,
And ramped and were confined, and clustered leaves
Divided where there peered a laughing face.
The foliage seemed to rustle in the wind,
A silent murmur, carved in still, gray stone.
High pointed windows pierced the southern wall
Whence proud escutcheons flung prismatic fires
To stain the tessellated marble floor
With pools of red, and quivering green, and blue;
And in the shade beyond the further door,
Its sober squares of black and white were hid
Beneath a restless, shuffling, wide-eyed mob
Of lackeys and retainers come to view
The Christening.
A sudden blare of trumpets, and the throng
About the entrance parted as the guests
Filed singly in with rare and precious gifts.
Our eager fancies noted all they brought,
The glorious, unattainable delights!
But always there was one unbidden guest
Who cursed the child and left it bitterness.
The fire falls asunder, all is changed,
I am no more a child, and what I see
Is not a fairy tale, but life, my life.
The gifts are there, the many pleasant things:
Health, wealth, long-settled friendships, with a name
Which honors all who bear it, and the power
Of making words obedient. This is much;
But overshadowing all is still the curse,
That never shall I be fulfilled by love!
Along the parching highroad of the world
No other soul shall bear mine company.
Always shall I be teased with semblances,
With cruel impostures, which I trust awhile
Then dash to pieces, as a careless boy
Flings a kaleidoscope, which shattering
Strews all the ground about with coloured shards.
So I behold my visions on the ground
No longer radiant, an ignoble heap
Of broken, dusty glass. And so, unlit,
Even by hope or faith, my dragging steps
Force me forever through the passing days.
3.8k
132
I bring an unaccustomed wine
To lips long parching
Next to mine,
And summon them to drink;
Crackling with fever, they Essay,
I turn my brimming eyes away,
And come next hour to look.
The hands still hug the tardy glass—
The lips I would have cooled, alas—
Are so superfluous Cold—
I would as soon attempt to warm
The bosoms where the frost has lain
Ages beneath the mould—
Some other thirsty there may be
To whom this would have pointed me
Had it remained to speak—
And so I always bear the cup
If, haply, mine may be the drop
Some pilgrim thirst to slake—
If, haply, any say to me
“Unto the little, unto me,”
When I at last awake.
2.8k
Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness,
Thou foster-child of silence and slow time,
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express
A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
What leaf-fring'd legend haunts about thy shape
Of deities or mortals, or of both,
In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?
What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?
What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?
What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?
Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd,
Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave
Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
Though winning near the goal yet, do not grieve;
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,
For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!
Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed
Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;
And, happy melodist, unwearied,
For ever piping songs for ever new;
More happy love! more happy, happy love!
For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd,
For ever panting, and for ever young;
All breathing human passion far above,
That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd,
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.
Who are these coming to the sacrifice?
To what green altar, O mysterious priest,
Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,
And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?
What little town by river or sea shore,
Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,
Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn?
And, little town, thy streets for evermore
Will silent be; and not a soul to tell
Why thou art desolate, can e'er return.
O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede
Of marble men and maidens overwrought,
With forest branches and the trodden ****
Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought
As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!
When old age shall this generation waste,
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st,
"Beauty is truth, truth beauty,--that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know."
3k
**Earth Day, April 22, 2017 "give back to Earth",
as an "offering" for all the planet gives us.**
For Global Earth Day information visit: http://www.earthday.org/
Her ominous shadow
shown a path
far beyond the miles high
a majestic mountain stood
Silently climbing down
million year old
steep canyon walls
at dawn,
each step chosen carefully
coursing with purpose
Finding a way forward
was the only way
to look back up
river carved ravines
where higher ground
once stood
Instincts drawn downward
gravity feed towards
the faint murmurs
deep echoes tracery
down sheer basalt cliffs
Artesian waters'
resounding gurgles ―
bubble up to quench
a lost soul’s incurably
intrinsic parching thirst;
to find an unfolding
metamorphic peace
in the trove of igneous
fountain veins of earth
There’s not need to wait
on sunrise pathways lit ―
there is no fear of gravity’s
downward silent weight
nor burden to be borne
Listening beyond dark silence .
igneous bedrock roots
beckon deeper expanse ;
spirit realms of ancient souls
whisperer like thunder
to the soul of man ―
Awakening ruptured lifelines
deep below earthen crust ,
creations hidden essence
eternally remembered
by the light above ...
April 2017 © harlon rivers ... all rights reserved
Apr 21, 2017
Apr 21, 2017 at 10:02 AM UTC
313
I should have been too glad, I see—
Too lifted—for the scant degree
Of Life’s penurious Round—
My little Circuit would have shamed
This new Circumference—have blamed—
The homelier time behind.
I should have been too saved—I see—
Too rescued—Fear too dim to me
That I could spell the Prayer
I knew so perfect—yesterday—
That Scalding One—Sabachthani—
Recited fluent—here—
Earth would have been too much—I see—
And Heaven—not enough for me—
I should have had the Joy
Without the Fear—to justify—
The Palm—without the Calvary—
So Savior—Crucify—
Defeat—whets Victory—they say—
The Reefs—in old Gethsemane—
Endear the Coast—beyond!
’Tis Beggars—Banquets—can define—
’Tis Parching—vitalizes Wine—
“Faith” bleats—to understand!
2.5k
If the Tiber floods and the Nile fails to
If the overflowing mouth of Tamesis runs dry
If the weeping willow withers as the blackthorn breaks
And the regal golden eagle fails to climb in the sky
If the dried-up land yields a drought so parching
That the overarching urge is to drink yourself drowed
If the Dead Sea waters lose their saline flotation
And the carrion-grabbing vultures wheel in from miles around
Then Gethsemane's gates will crack open just a little
And the flowers of the garden will give off a sour scent
As their brazen roots recall the night when they were fed with blood
Dripping softly on the hallowed ground of dying man's lament
If the water rises slowly and yet still without abating
If it swallows up the chariots of sun and man and steed
If the kings step out and stumble to the grave, their destination
Will be broken, bold and cheerless: will be harrowing indeed.
Jun 23, 2015
Jun 23, 2015 at 12:30 PM UTC
And this place our forefathers made for man!
This is the process of our love and wisdom,
To each poor brother who offends against us—
Most innocent, perhaps—and what if guilty?
Is this the only cure? Merciful God!
Each pore and natural outlet shrivelled up
By Ignorance and parching Poverty,
His energies roll back upon his heart,
And stagnate and corrupt; till changed to poison,
They break out on him, like a loathsome plague-spot;
Then we call in our pampered mountebanks—
And this is their best cure! uncomforted
And friendless solitude, groaning and tears,
And savage faces, at the clanking hour,
Seen through the steam and vapours of his dungeon,
By the lamp’s dismal twilgiht! So he lies
Circled with evil, till his very soul
Unmoulds its essence, hopelessly deformed
By sights of ever more deformity!
With other ministrations thou, O Nature!
Healest thy wandering and distempered child:
Thou pourest on him thy soft influences,
Thy sunny hues, fair forms, and breathing sweets,
Thy melodies of woods, and winds, and waters,
Till he relent, and can no more endure
To be a jarring and a dissonant thing
Amid this general dance and minstrelsy;
But, bursting into tears, wins back his way,
His angry spirit healed and harmonized
By the benignant touch of Love and Beauty.
2.5k
691
Would you like summer? Taste of ours.
Spices? Buy here!
Ill! We have berries, for the parching!
Weary! Furloughs of down!
Perplexed! Estates of violet trouble ne’er looked on!
Captive! We bring reprieve of roses!
Fainting! Flasks of air!
Even for Death, a fairy medicine.
But, which is it, sir?
1.7k
460
I know where Wells grow—Droughtless Wells—
Deep dug—for Summer days—
Where Mosses go no more away—
And Pebble—safely plays—
It’s made of Fathoms—and a Belt—
A Belt of jagged Stone—
Inlaid with Emerald—half way down—
And Diamonds—jumbled on—
It has no Bucket—Were I rich
A Bucket I would buy—
I’m often thirsty—but my lips
Are so high up—You see—
I read in an Old fashioned Book
That People “thirst no more”—
The Wells have Buckets to them there—
It must mean that—I’m sure—
Shall We remember Parching—then?
Those Waters sound so grand—
I think a little Well—like Mine—
Dearer to understand—
1.7k
Well we jumped on the wing
for a good Irish fling
kicked off the week
with a boiler
The banter was high
as we took to the sky
nothing in sight
was a spoiler
And the red eye at night
was a captain’s delight
we spread on the seat
of the liner
Arrived just in time
for a whale of a time
at the Temple Bar
and Diner
Well the Dublin scene
in the Old College Green
was wired and alive
on the corner
Where me and me' mates
paired in at the gates
there were welcoming arms
to us foreigners
And we sang through the night
and grinned in delight
with banjos, pipes
and lasses
Drinking whiskey and beer
in a boatload of cheer
the rooster got lost
in the masses
The **** in the walk
was out on the stalk
a wee little flute
on display
His shoulders were pinned
with a great big grin
they were such
peculiar ways!
Well we found em next day
(in a sauntering way)
*got tossed in
all the commotion*
What happened to you?
said he hadn’t a clue
or any
baldy notion!
Hit the road to Howth
little east, little south
the seaside town
was groovin
Found the Cobblestone Pub
for a jar and a scrub
the seabird sounds
were soothin
Then we jumped a train
in the lashing rain
the Belfast craic
was mighty
Hit the Thirsty Goat
with a parching throat
some Tullamore Dew
for a nighty
In the Crumlin jail
the spirits set sail
the IRA
was gaffin
There was Bobby Sands
in celestial lands
alive and proud
and laughin
The Griffin dance
was the final chance
the evening closed
in nigh
And we made our way
through the Chelsea lanes
to say our
final good bye
~ ~ ~ ~
Singing
Ay, oh…let it all go
safe haven in the wasteland!
Singing
Slainte’…take me away
to the old Irish sounds
of the band!
Sep 23, 2021
Sep 23, 2021 at 11:41 AM UTC
To still the aching
from my ***** breaking
In each grisly leaf it wither, --
by the cage the heron tether --
I mistook the form of a mien of lady
in an oracle dream to fade he,
To fade -- to merely fade --
onto the winged-sylphs they grayed --
So, to deepen the burning spirit
lent it soar with a soul inherit
From the clasping
Cherubim heart in grasping --
Grasping despite
that heaven I respite, --
Respite the beaming of the orb
the angels may absorb
And decorum, of a single token
hung afar in the sky that's broken
So to be still in the evil,
binds only onto that mortal devil
In a sepulcher enraptured
as all my hopes within me captured
Within some dim Acheronian shore
in the depth sea the Acheronian store --
Store a most beautiful belle
I've ever kept in me ***** swell,
To palpitate my heart faster
into some unfortunate disaster
In keeping, the shadow of fire,
irradiating an ominous choir, --
A nightly lurking swan
whom the waking angels wan
Their fiery plumes parching
above the misted nimbus arching
The dim ray lighting down
from the heaven whom now frown, --
Yet, to still the aching
from my ***** breaking
For the most beautiful belle
I've ever felt me ***** swell
To be still in the evil
binds onto that mortal devil.
Dec 1, 2011
Dec 1, 2011 at 10:33 PM UTC
The birds hang dead, paired, on the hook.
Male and female, man and wife, are strung
Up in a brace of everlasting love,
Still warm. But time will soon freeze over
Freshening blood, encrust the opened eye,
Congeal warmth. And what remains is this:
A neck-to-neck unbreaking dull embrace,
The love gone cold, unbeating hearts kept close,
Reciprocating wounds, an unforgiving stare,
The silence in a breathless, parching throat,
A half-bent wing, refusing to enfold -
Time will wear love’s fingers to the bone.
Then bullet-hardened bodies take their course
And undo softly with a rising rot.
Jan 14, 2011
Jan 14, 2011 at 7:20 AM UTC
I can handle this, truthful is far less salty than drowning in ocean-wave beauty of painful forgettable oaths uttered, meaningless.
Have your affection, I will cherish every virtual moment shared
Feelings combine within me and a calming of the water is good
Let me be the warm summer rain and chill breeze across the moor
i will be the cool ocean on hot days
the steamy shower after cold nights alone
I am the glass of sweet liquid parching every inner thirst
I am the surprise: fudge interior to the cupcake kiss
Jul 13, 2014
Jul 13, 2014 at 5:54 PM UTC
I shall not fear of parching for your drop or two is enough
Even a tear would quench more than my lip, my soul
Cry me thrice, laugh me once
Leap more, tiptoe less
Break this earthen vessel if you wish
Just don’t leave a love song behind
For it will just maim a hollow tune
Like a broken violin in incandescent moon
Or a lone shell perpetually humming
The melody of his unmet clam or hermit.
Feb 7, 2012
Feb 7, 2012 at 7:18 PM UTC
a dragonfly
set me off
i realized
i didn’t hear insects
didn’t see birds
just felt
the sun
searing
scorching
parching
the earth
dissecting
my body
sapping away
my will to live
Jun 23, 2022
Jun 23, 2022 at 11:35 PM UTC
Scorching,
her lingering gaze.
If only I could bathe
in her greying clouds,
in that black vortex
hidden in the storm
of her restless soul.
Torrid,
her warm embrace.
If only I could swim
in her pale downpour,
in that chilling curtain
hiding the world
in her summer storm.
Sweltering,
her mouth caressing.
If only I could drown
in her torrential descent,
in that ephemeral beauty
hiding nothing
of her thunderous lust.
Parching,
her heaving breathing.
If only I could sink
deeper into her,
into that fathom
hiding so much
of her carnal delights.
Searing,
her thrumming hips.
If only I could float
atop her wanton storm,
into the crackling light
revealing the droplets
on her undaunted curves.
Hot,
her body on mine.
Jul 3, 2024
Jul 3, 2024 at 4:19 AM UTC
I want your tears to rain on me
To pour down my cheeks
I want to feel the salt of your pain
Scouring away wrinkled years
I want to drown in the truth of you
Parching tongue, renewing thirst
I want to savor the sweetness of love
Quenching bitterness
Mar 24, 2021
Mar 24, 2021 at 2:57 AM UTC
By Nabs
The well of words
Deep down in this breathing heart
Are drying and cracking before they reach,
This sinning fingertips.
These words
Taste dry, musty. Parching throats.
Crackled in the air
Louder than thunder and your screams.
As the spinning wheel
Stop.
Stopping forever.
Stop. Pricking blood from your vessel.
Embroideries, tapestries
weaved from the threads of life.
Unbound, unraveled
Marveled in the way they are being broken down.
Set fire to us,
And you'll see.
How prettily we all would burn
Inside this tomb, we called home.
Dec 24, 2015
Dec 24, 2015 at 6:39 AM UTC
Beautiful dying,
Silent, Chill is crying.
Oranges, reds, yellow.
Fire above falls below.
Naked swaying whispering,
Spider’s fingers whistling.
When their white, bones rattled in breeze,
‘Fore at last, comes in the freeze.
Cold sprinkling down,
Cold blankets around.
Covers Chill so binding.
White and blinding
Sleep, Chill, it’s the end.
Darkness in the dead.
And now behold,
Autumn runs from Cold.
Heavy, deep,
Nearly endless sleep.
Cold’s solid slumber,
Renew the green wonder.
Poking up their heads,
From their icy beds.
Open colored eyes,
Extending luring lies.
Bees come in as,
Trees shake away Cold who has,
Retreated to his hiding place.
Now, Warm dances on new leaves with grace.
Breathing spirit and fresh life,
Banishing winter’s strife.
Fresh is never stale,
‘Cuz in comes Hot’s gale.
Humid, parching,
Hot is smothering.
Warm is withering,
Fire hearts a fluttering.
Sun toasts skin,
Cold’s fraternal twin.
Trees turn Oberon green,
But lack the Faire’s mean.
He melts a cool thought,
One of any you have brought.
Spring is dried of a tear,
He wakes at first dawn,
Exposed in the growing fawn.
But falling weaker every day,
Loosing strength in the morning gray.
Chill bites Hot’s back turned,
Leaves change, set to be burned.
She comes back around
*Time passes without a sound
The beauty of the life of men?
All will come, and die again. *
Feb 9, 2014
Feb 9, 2014 at 6:40 PM UTC
bones of drought
rattle in the sky
the bones denote
a constant dry
no rains came to quench
they were absent
on the Kenyan mound
an arid woe
remaining around
the land morbidly dead
of life's elation
it vanished in the sun's
unrelenting evaporation
people starved by
unrealized crop
cattle thirsted for
a watering drop
and a parching famine
dwells in Africa's well
the fountain of survival
a desperate hell
bones of drought
rattle on high
the rattle speaks
of an empty sky
aid agencies implore
the world to give
so that fellow humans
can go onto live
Jun 24, 2017
Jun 24, 2017 at 8:23 AM UTC
the root of sea is dead
our sky is still unreal
which deep it may reside
your parching gentle tear
a rain of sleepy draught
on cheeks of silky night
in blush of coyness thin
we start a fresh new life
a life same as we dreamed
now born in lap of time
in cradle of our love
as blooming summers prime
as nursed by tender joys
sweeping as twilight red
echoed by tranquil breeze
in arms of roses spread
scrambled and lost tonight
brood over freshest hues
amidst gleeful snugness
we kiss our moment true
may million pains which shall
try douse and dim this flame
or crawling creep our souls
spread foul revolt our faith
let them brew up a storm
summon a herd of beasts
while world fogs out our day
remember darling please
if root of past be dead
and future sky unreal
our love shall ride us through
wildest waves my dear
Nov 1, 2013
Nov 1, 2013 at 8:29 AM UTC