"patrolling" poems
Unbiased at least he was when he arrived on his mission,
Having never set eyes on the land he was called to partition
Between two peoples fanatically at odds,
With their different diets and incompatible gods.
"Time," they had briefed him in London, "is short. It's too late
For mutual reconciliation or rational debate:
The only solution now lies in separation.
The Viceroy thinks, as you will see from his letter,
That the less you are seen in his company the better,
So we've arranged to provide you with other accommodation.
We can give you four judges, two Moslem and two Hindu,
To consult with, but the final decision must rest with you."
Shut up in a lonely mansion, with police night and day
Patrolling the gardens to keep the assassins away,
He got down to work, to the task of settling the fate
Of millions. The maps at his disposal were out of date
And the Census Returns almost certainly incorrect,
But there was no time to check them, no time to inspect
Contested areas. The weather was frightfully hot,
And a bout of dysentery kept him constantly on the trot,
But in seven weeks it was done, the frontiers decided,
A continent for better or worse divided.
The next day he sailed for England, where he could quickly forget
The case, as a good lawyer must. Return he would not,
Afraid, as he told his Club, that he might get shot.
31.5k
Thunder rolling,
Gasping,
Growing.
Torrents splatter on the window.
She's patrolling,
Waiting,
Knowing.
Marriage bringing her so much sorrow.
Lipstained clothing,
Cheating,
Posing.
Two rounds in him, no more tomorrow.
Feb 21, 2013
Feb 21, 2013 at 1:01 PM UTC
*Pealing,
Poking,
Patrolling...
...Her...
...with eyes...
...like a busy snail.*
© 2014 J.S.P.
Nov 15, 2014
Nov 15, 2014 at 9:41 PM UTC
My great grandfathers wore dreadlocks
Yet stood firm, proud as peacocks
Patrolling their territory paddocks
Today they are a source of mocks
A representation of sheer evil
In the world we foolishly call civil
Like an attempt on a biscuit by a weevil
We lost it.
Our great forefathers drank milk
And then over the mountains take a hike
Had absolute no need for a bike
Treated all men with respect alike
We are taking concoction for drink
May never cease to suffer sick
Rounded and diabetic as tick
We lost it.
They went to schools to learn practice
Learnt virtue and shunned away vice
To obey all the elders without a voice
Then there was little necessity for police
We are learning to sit all day in office
To treat subordinates with blowing malice
Learning theory, understanding without choice
We depend on book, written advice
Alphabets unlike words know no justice
Scratching as mice full of lice
We lost it.
Jun 23, 2012
Jun 23, 2012 at 5:21 AM UTC
Beowulf the hier of nothing of rot
Mother he know not
Raised in shame banished wroght
Returned to his village to seek wrothgar a father he yet sought
News of death the sorrow he fought
Till the night trouble it brought
Grendal at night did strike
Killing thous from wicked and strife
None but Beowulf saw the **** of the fight
Guards did come, and saw a false sight
Beowulf they thought the killer that night
Sentenced to death but never to suffer that blight
Beowulf escaped and rode at dawn, Off to seek golem and where he lurk
Off to the woods there they found Grendal
With much haste golem charged Beowulf dirk was drawn
Hacking off the fingers of golem was hurt
Grendal roared and ran
Holding tightly to his wounded hand
Beowulf returned with trophy in bag gasps where made across the land
Guards double watch patrolling village to make a stand
Night came and blood was shed
Grendal made way to the mead hall all the way warriors bled
Beowulf was ready and calmly said
I have his fingers how about his arm instead
Attacking the creatures buckled arm ripping it off golem then ran and fled
Beowulf grabbed arms and said fingers now arm soon his head
They reassembled on horses arms ready and raged
Gave chase
All fell but Beowulf by accord golem laid dead he lead deeper around bend
mother by him seducing Beowulf of power and ***** by all that was said
Beowulf accepted the fouls bargain
But all was not well in thee end
Dragon flew to the sky warriors of King Beowulf Fend
Beowulf killed his son of the dervish deal the dragon
But deadly wounds of were not on dragon alone Beowulf had fallen both a killing blow send
Beowulf funeral ceremony of fire and water below the deep the foul was spotted to be burned alive with Beowulf lover in arms
Blasphemy and Treacherous woes for all of she slaughtered
Now known Beowulf deed leading men like fodder
Against them knowing deal he had waged
Too be written and sung in the latter days
Beowulf the hero king the liar the cheat they called
Beowulf the man flawed as all that ultimately brought his downfall
Nov 20, 2020
Nov 20, 2020 at 6:56 PM UTC
Nobility divine fills gaps of transcendence,
Soars to and from the throne heavenly,
Exalts morals near the king of ascendance,
Patrolling the good, and sons of the seventy.
A duty forgotten, replaced with dependence,
On prayers rarely heard, and logic of a herd -
Divinity is far in absence; man in attendance,
The book is a third, and teachings are blurred.
Andeliviuan corruption supposedly erased:
The creation rotten of Sariel, wanders gaily.
The holy and fallen angel’s doing embraced,
By the clay beings caressing evil like a frailly.
By God not, who from heaven him displaced.
Yet, the legacy of the wrong stands humanly,
In Thailand, America, Palestine, and all graced -
A grace of sinfulness celestial and worldly.
Religion is the poor’s only ultimate truth,
the rich’s side hustle, and the rulers’ tool;
It is the loss of power that defiles the sooth,
The one the poor has not, but does the fool.
Robbers’ servants, bread crumbs consumers,
Toothless **** dogs, emaciated lost tramps,
Little blind pawns, vultures’ puppets, tumours,
And wrenches they are, the upper hand’s lambs.
If only Raguel’s judgements fall upon man,
Raphael’s punishment beautifies this existence,
Gabriel’s wrath makes not all humans ane,
And Michael saves us, the Sarahs, in assistance.
In the heart deepened with old repression,
That mounts with plenitude of filtered feels,
Resides a universe yearning for expression,
In a meat clay who feeds on calories of meals.
Man, in the genesis, in the light, in the dark,
In prosperity, in turmoil, triumphed with vices;
vileness, abuse, wreckage is our sole mark,
On this planet whose population is in slices.
Oct 21, 2022
Oct 21, 2022 at 5:18 AM UTC
The rabbit haunts from a distance, patrolling fields for one to bear witness.
Gracefully the tenderfoot stalks, keeping a watchful eye out for Mr.Fox.
The creature walks with a slight limp, other animals often call him a gimp.
This way, that way, it all seems wrong, keeping time with a lost robin's song.
His home constructed as a single story wonder, located within a large tree laying asunder.
Family life wasn't right, as fleeting an image as a wayward kite.
A field mouse, left without spouse,
Stumbled upon the home in a tree, accompanied by a group of songbirds filled with glee.
The field mouse was asked to go, the creature in response, simply said no.
A man stumbled up, as mad as a hatter, his portly girth made it hard to imagine being any fatter.
He spoke of intrinsic right, boundless visions beyond sight.
Told the rabbit he had a duty to the mouse, saying it immoral to deprive him of a house.
The rabbit, reluctant to accept , found out from the man of the true evils in neglect.
He was told that he didn't own the home, it had simply been gifted as a goodwill loan.
That meant it was as his as much as the rabbits, regardless of any perspective habits.
With that the moused moved in, and brought with him his prized snakeskin.
Over a meal the mouse spoke of danger, coming in the form of a wandering stranger.
He told the rabbit, this creature travelled light, but usually shrouded in the cover of night.
Said the creature was not large in size, though his methods of thievery seemed quite wise.
The rabbit recoiled in his chair, as the field mouse offered up a demonic glare.
The field mouse grinned from ear to ear, sensing this rabbit's new grasp on fear.
Pulling the snakeskin from his sack, the dried shell was quick to crack.
The mouse spoke of a brave duel, between him and this monster, which had downed a mule.
He used every ounce of his cunning, and sent the legless beat running.
It wasn't good enough for the mouse, who was certainly no louse.
He tracked the snake for six long hours, through a field of partially bloomed flowers.
In the end he killed the snake, then took its skin so listeners knew the tale wasn't fake.
He held the skin, I mean the mouse, and said he'd hang the shell within the house.
Mr. Rabbit was found dead two days after, his body lay desecrated next to the snakes, hanging from a rafter.
Sep 3, 2014
Sep 3, 2014 at 1:02 PM UTC
I dreamed of him again last night,
of how he always made me smile.
Over eight years a family friend,
his daily antics always on display,
morning and afternoon walks and talks,
his joyful baths in his small pond while
he playfully bobbed and dove beneath
the spray of my garden hose.
This was no human being,
a handsome Mallard Duck instead.
The self proclaimed King
of our barnyard clan,
always strolling and patrolling the
grounds, waiting for us, quacking
his greetings, excitingly flapping
his flightless wings at our approach.
His loneliness petticoat showing, he
followed everywhere, seemed to live
merely to be in our company, eat corn
from our hands, living precious minutes
of needed shared congeniality.
Two morning ago he was not there,
we searched and called his name
but he had completely disappeared.
A coyote perhaps, or bird of prey
our King taken and gone away.
Our lives are diminished by his loss,
Though only a bird, he was our
dear companion, a convivial friend.
I dreamed of him again last night,
of how he always made me smile.
Today I mourn his loss.
May 27, 2018
May 27, 2018 at 12:17 PM UTC
I’d like to ask for a moment of your time,
To talk about an unsolved global crime.
I’m not talking about climate change or recession,
Or ongoing Middle Eastern political aggression.
This is the story of every indebted African nation,
One hundred million children without basic education.
A continent that hopes to one day be free
Of vast debts, crime and bureaucracy.
I am the child soldier of Sierra Leone,
Orphaned, abused, angry and alone.
Patrolling the streets at twelve years old,
Carrying a rifle I can barely hold.
Brothers and sisters taken at night,
Forced into slave labour or vanish outright.
We are the children of Sudan’s indignation,
Thrown into ditches, dying of starvation.
Waiting for a vaccine that will never come,
Helplessly to death I slowly succumb.
Every five seconds, an African child dies.
How can a life mean so little?
Oct 10, 2012
Oct 10, 2012 at 5:42 PM UTC
Can you hear me out there
come in
come in
over
Radio Silence
I silence my happiness with a smile
don't look at me
when your ice cream falls from the cone
your baby crocodile tears won't work here
and we both know I'm a great terrible liar
are you still out there?
are you still out there circling that same stretch of concrete
with sunglasses a hoodie and a 20 oz black eye
with your heart on her sleeve
arterial spurts of blood painting these white walls
yes my dear I do love you
now come here and help me hide my hunger
We are having trouble making contact
Roger that
at noon he wakes up and croons at the open skirt of Apollo
well hello sir, might a catch a ride to fire on your chariot?
to the place where Kamel Reds are $2.80
and the diner coffee is good and watery
just like the diarrhea which follows
I'm a jack *** joker with a jester hat on each foot so that when you hear church bells it just means I'm outside of your front door
but **** it
you can find me at the park we grew up in
too scared to jump off the swings at the highest point
I read about Icarus and Mamma aint raise no fools
my self esteem ran away that summer I forgot to close the gate behind me
so now me and my ego, Id, and superego
are patrolling your town
armed with fliers and staplers
but hey, it's all good right?
when the nights are longer
the days shorter
and the thoughts darker
I want life to be one trampoline
like the one we held wrestling matches on in Middle school
can I get a double bounce?
I never lost a game of popcorn in my life
It's on my resume
We are experiencing some frequency interference
Is that you?
can you hear us?
I think we lost him
lost him to the radio silence
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 1:31 PM UTC
The trip would be flawless -
water splashing, echoed shrieks in chlorinated sunlight -
except for these baffling creatures
patrolling the pool
Up and down they go,
up and down,
staring daggers straight ahead
and daring you to get in their way
Rubber hats and plastic eyes,
folded skin, wrinkled
like deflated dinghies
doggedly paddling
their pointless journeys.
A bit like clockwork bath toys,
but not as entertaining.
The safety notices are wasted on them.
No petting?
I should ****** well think not.
Bombing? Ducking? Anything fun at all?
Up, down,
up
and down.
Relentless as the baddies
in a ZX Spectrum game,
stuck in their lanes,
joyless.
They were there when I was six
and they're still there, you know,
a few more wrinkles now,
up
(and down),
spilling out their black slick second skins.
Whatever it was they were looking for,
the search
isn't improving their moods.
Jan 18, 2012
Jan 18, 2012 at 11:40 AM UTC
the music did nothing
except send veins of pallid tears
down ashen cheeks that had forgotten
how to smile.
dust stole into our lungs
with spindly fingers
creeping like the gas,
killing like the furnaces it
escaped from.
i saw broken people standing
dead on their feet,
arms outstretched,
unaccustomed to the deep cavity in their chest
that their children used to fill.
there were no surprises in this life
except spare beds
that were quickly filled and emptied again
as often as bruises replaced by
faceless men patrolling past.
God was watching,
God was looking,
God was not seeing.
and still we were silent.
Apr 21, 2010
Apr 21, 2010 at 6:13 PM UTC
I had a moment of clarity
In my life
When I would wake up
From my night terrors
The train tracks outside my window
Wobbled louder than my sanity.
Yes you were there
Patrolling my dreams,
Sprinkling hatred
Over the innocence.
You were the fake ****
Who conducts lies
With your promises.
Your nails, nail the impression
That you practice
On voodoo dolls
Hanging in your soul.
Tearing each thread
Back to its spindle.
It cries.
Prying apart
Till frost vacates your heart
Into these dolls.
Look at you go!
Like Reptar,
You mustered the mightiest rawr
To scare everyone away.
Like reptar you are the toy,
Imagine that.
You see,
They use their imagination
To make you look like
What your faking to be.
Someone different.
You forced me
To lock you up in my dreams.
Murderous murders
Slaughtering anyone
Who mentions my name
So you can feed the meat
You store in the temple
Filled with thorns.
People say stick and stones
May break my bones
Yet your smile
Still shatters them to dust,
Stuck between your nails.
An inconvience.
That's what you would called it.
Hear ye hear ye
My apologies
For me not being clearly.
You must understand
My voice is a little drowned
By the lack of intelligence
You ponder about.
Especially when I glossed over the fact
That this is the poem
I've always want to throw down
Onto your trenches
On your forehead,
The gateway to the mind
Which conducted
The illist mistake
Thinking I'm not worth the time.
May 1, 2015
May 1, 2015 at 2:56 PM UTC
A complicated conception.
Devastate my childhood. Corruption defiles ghetto neighborhoods.
Law enforcement never does what they should. Hopeless, sick, enraging, & shameless where I stood.
Probation violations they definately would. Patrolling *** offenders because they could.
No one in the system of courts cares or understood.
They don't believe my words, go unheard.
My tears are not a faucet to turn off & on.
Our trauma & sadness was real.
My feelings they can not feel.
My underage *** is illegal not for any pervert to steal.
© Harmony Sapphire . All rights reserved,
Jan 11, 2015
Jan 11, 2015 at 1:51 PM UTC
I take my keys and put it in my pocket.
Put my black jacket on and raggedy shoes
Put on my music and head out the door to the spring night air
“Finally” I said.” I'm free”
But I'm not of course. I'm trap, tied down to the ground leading me to suffocation.
The reins of my dog pulls tightly on my hands.
It cracks and cringes, it erodes in time.
But I still held on to the blue cotton chain.
People stared. Stared with hatred, remorse, disgust, disruption.
Their eyes popping out of their eye socket.
STOP WATCHING ME!!!!!!
But it is not as worst as the other snarling dogs.
They grind their teeth showing their black gums
But then nothing is more worst then the police officers
Their cars patrolling the streets like gangsters part of a drug industry.
But then I cross that bridge, that safe haven full of joy. Full of space, until the sun doesn't take it at least.
But it's okay as moonlight drowns me, renewing my soul.
The whisperings of the trees swaying in the wind.
The salty waters of the island
and that wonderful moist air of freshness.
It only survives for a split second however.
Just a second of hyper real reality.
Until the dullness of life suffocates me again.
The dogs ,the chain, the people. Everything comes back to me.
But it is okay.
That addictive moist air.
O how I desire that taste of moist air again....
Apr 10, 2014
Apr 10, 2014 at 5:40 PM UTC
And I feel this sludge
running down the long halls of my legs
a flood of viscous petrol jelly
slick sewage sick
patrolling artery walls
this metallic slide
so much molten lava
running down the mountains
of my thighs.
I'm a concrete machine
getting my mortar fix
tin woman hollow heart
methyl folate ******
Give me another hit
buffer my pain.
Already I have diesel fuel juice
leeching out my tissues
lightning striking the brain.
It's hard to get your attention
with this leavening
pooling the blood in my feet
It's hard to say hello with
acid cuddled words.
I want to raise my arms
and touch you
but I'm too toxic I'll burn you.
This nausea has become me
this metabolic crash is
my stop-gap.
Short circuit pain
this neuropathy has hardened me
in the space between these synapses
I dream of nothing.
Doped up by the yellow stuff
Daddy sprays from the plane
I was a farmer's daughter but
the doctor says
You've got the mutant gene,
for heavy metal toxicity.
Another serotonin addict
with brains of saccharine and plastic
I might get a pink ribbon for surviving
if they call it disease,
but silently, inside
I feel this sludge
sick sewage slick
battening down the reflexes
backing up the pipes.
my body is the future body
I say.
because this deadly brigade
is eating up the human chain.
There were Chernobyl defects,
and the media loves lepers with lesions
but a blistered stillborn baby
is no face for nuclear policy
but we --we're the unsung mutant breed--
there are billions of us
mentally sick lazy fucks,
hypochondriacs
of pre-existing conditions
can't find work
not even at Walmart
for disability aid--
But when you check out,
please donate.
Drop another baby
in the cancer cup.
Aug 7, 2012
Aug 7, 2012 at 8:07 PM UTC
When I think of the Congo,
I think of the blue skies and the
warm weather. Not the child soldiers
patrolling the streets, and not the
poverty lurking in every corner.
I see my old friends hopping
down the dusty streets
with bright smiles on their faces,
and mud on their torn jeans.
When I think of the Congo,
I see my brother and his friends as
children, kicking a beat-up
soccer ball on the patchy grass.
I see my sisters posing for
photographs in their bright dresses
beside the tall trees.
The more I think
about the country I was
born in, the more nostalgic I get. My heart
longs to come back to a place where
only few know my name. A place where
I can only be who I truly am. A part of me
wants to go back to my Congo,
the one they never show you,
just to say "I'm home."
Jun 2, 2013
Jun 2, 2013 at 5:48 PM UTC
These Nights with lights, Lightened from cigarette filled clouds to rainstorms.
We are drowning our Inhibition to exhibitions, of a shallow madness.
Within a matter of clearance
Of transverse sunrays:
We call this morning
A day past,
A night ruled with dreams.
Flooded with traffic afflicted
Souls searching beneath empty vessels of libations
Only to unearth realizations from lost sensations.
Vagabonds patrolling streets
apparently policing their worries,
from failed inquiries of maternally adopted creeds.
Divided vision escalated arrhythmic palpitation
Deviation from a gradual calm away from calamity
Expel, Exhort-Excise, the deep-veil
A rising dawn, polluted skies reflected in these eyes,
I stare at this street lamp, flickering at-us-all.
Jan 23, 2010
Jan 23, 2010 at 10:48 AM UTC
Life, the present tense
Pleasant and promising
Singular & plural
Fair blend of gender
Active noise, passive voice
The grammar of life
Life is intense,
Glowing and glorious;
Blue blown umbrella
For wide void exposure
Feather touch weather
For cool n’ calm respite
Illuminated one half
To eke out living
Glittering dark on other half
To rest and recuperate
Aroma of smiling flowers
Multicolor corona
Green rich panorama
Overseeing mountains
Rousing roaring oceans
Patrolling Hydro Power Puffs
Add bonus to the bevy
What a glamorous globe in space!
Jan 25, 2015
Jan 25, 2015 at 8:07 PM UTC
knees to chest, chin to knees,
chunky knit sweater scarf patrolling
my peripherals when i want to see
your expression from the corner
of my eye; it starts to slip my mind
and i am a horse with blinders, i am
looking through a window’s blinds that
draw vertical shadows like a maze
out of the morning sun.
you give me the glasses to peer through at you
but then we are laughing like nothing happened,
undermining what happened because nothing happened;
and i open myself to you,
flow like fast lava, molten hot and rushing.
swallowed by my own thoughts until i can’t see you again,
until i can’t see anything-
saw you walking around the other day,
with arms outstretched like wings,
with dark purple eclipses under your
eyes like bad makeup from falling
asleep to the sunrise again.
and i’ll tell you, “you seem tired,”
and you’ll tell me, “i am tired.”
over circles of coffee mug stains on
white, white sheets of papers to
read, Times New Roman burned into
the backs of your eyelids so hot it stings
when you take out your contact lenses.
and i’ll see you now, in a new light-
still halfway shrouded in shadows, you
are like an unfinished rubik’s cube;
i try to put red and red together but
each turn only reveals more colors, more
pieces to collect before i can solve
your puzzle.
Jan 24, 2014
Jan 24, 2014 at 2:34 PM UTC
there are trolls
who are out of control
they daily go
on their trolling patrols
these trolls can't be locked away
they're ever patrolling
as they so may
out of control
out of control
we must not let anymore of them
take over the place
there is already a few occupying
this patch's space
the trollometer
is an accurate gauge
it has registered
some trolls on the page
if you see trolls
who are acting suspicious
you'll know that their patrols
aren't any too auspicious
out of control
out of control
them trolls
sure need
to be bought
under our control
Jul 13, 2015
Jul 13, 2015 at 8:37 PM UTC
Something is dead . . .
The grace of sunset solitudes, the march
Of the solitary moon, the pomp and power
Of round on round of shining soldier-stars
Patrolling space, the bounties of the sun--
Sovran, tremendous, unimaginable--
The multitudinous friendliness of the sea,
Possess no more--no more.
Something is dead . . .
The Autumn rain-rot deeper and wider soaks
And spreads, the burden of Winter heavier weighs,
His melancholy close and closer yet
Cleaves, and those incantations of the Spring
That made the heart a centre of miracles
Grow formal, and the wonder-working bours
Arise no more--no more.
Something is dead . . .
'Tis time to creep in close about the fire
And tell grey tales of what we were, and dream
Old dreams and faded, and as we may rejoice
In the young life that round us leaps and laughs,
A fountain in the sunshine, in the pride
Of God's best gift that to us twain returns,
Dear Heart, no more--no more.
1.4k
Roddy's Rooster, man! you couldn't
oust her
Standing up there on his dunghill fair
Announcing to the whole world, to All
everywhere
My **** He's the greatest doodle doer
O! that Roddy's Rooster.
He don't need no booster, does
Roddy's Rooster
He'd even go after the goose sir
Don't you fouster with this Rooster
You'd only lose sir
Now vamoose sir.
Very dapper and quite the scrapper
Patrolling his perimeter
Strutting around the farmyard pound
Invariably, henhouse bound
If you were to meet him
It'd be "Put up your dukes sir
Me! I'm Roddy's Rooster".
With his tail feathers all fluffed up
Like a feather duster
And his chest all puffed out
Quite the Dandy and always randy
What a Suitor that Roddy's Rooster
And O! what a Wooer, that wooey
doodler.
I I
He came a cropper though one day
When he fell in the Hopper
Now he's a good deal shorter
And not half as cocky as before,
Now he sits on his wall lamenting his
fall
Thinking of the days when he used to
have a ball
Has Lady Luck that Grand Old Duck
deserted him I wonder.
Sad to see, now he's a bit gammy
More Bandy than Dandy
He still South's in the Summer
But has doubts in the Winter,
Now he likes to crow his woes and
lows away
Climbing up onto his dunghill, he
greets the day
But now in a high shrill falsetto
voice
He sings in a whole different way
" I've been round the Ringer but I'm
still quite a Dinger
**** a Doodley Doo"
Now... now he's a ****** Blues singer!
O! that Roddy's Rooster.
Roddy's Rooster Yeeaahh!
Mar 17, 2020
Mar 17, 2020 at 10:29 AM UTC
*for my friend, Betterdays, who has never written
a poem that did not seek, reach, or teach, even
when she thinks she knows not, the lesson plan below*
wisdom arrives daily,
Even after you need all ten
fingers to count your
decades and generations
was it but last year
that a single gull cawing,
a solitary iris saluting the sundial,
a moment of watching her,
arms flung hither, encased in drowsy drops,
a mother and her child strolling,
she patrolling, and they, child world exploring,
only continents discovering,
a grandchild's freely given first kiss
would prompt a write as if a shotgun shell
had arrived not overnight, but instant implosion,
in a chest that could not contain emotion,
only seep, none to keep, skin to shed,
and of course,
tears of, what should I call them,
tears of more than life, tears of essence,
real tears come from invisibly indivisibly real places,
wiping me clean
and so I oathed, I swore,
the Supreme Court and the Village Clerk
jointly administered this vow,
my hand upon my heart,
where the words come from,
*what ere you pro-prose,
what ere delights,
or havocs thy temperaments,
if to be,
duly noted, dispatched and possibly
shared,
let it be only thine best,
to the higher standard,
hold thyself close and closer still,
be happy to admit failure,
for that is excellence attained,
and when you are satisfied,
then we will be
but not mere satisfied too,
enthralled to you
for in they words,
you raise the sea level of this world's humanity,
higher and higher*
so, thank you
and thank yourself
this line drawn,
only at or above it,
the goods ones breathe...
the oxygen of poetry
Jul 20, 2014
Jul 20, 2014 at 8:01 AM UTC