"pericles" poems
Historically this history is my Thucydides,
And when I need that leadership, where is my Pericles.
Philosophies are just to please all my Aristocles,
And when I need a lover, where are my Persephones.
A thousand hordes with blazing swords descend to vanquish me,
I sit and pray that this today's not my Thermopylae.
The gateways hot, they say that's not the way it's meant to be,
So Ill just float here in my boat in my Aeagean Sea
Dec 10, 2010
Dec 10, 2010 at 5:58 PM UTC
"Have you a working pulse?"
he asks of his petunias.
"...he went away cold as a snowball!"
he tells his gladioli.
They positively beamed at him.
"Oh yes...oh yes. . ."
he pontificates
"Flowers like Shakespeare
best!"
"...especially PERICLES
& other minor plays
rather than the great Dane
or say OTHELLO!"
"The herbs prefer
Gilbert & Sullivan!"
"But, spoken:
not sung!"
"...poor wandering one..."
"Or sometimes a little
dash of Noël Coward!"
"...what compulsion compels them and
who the hell tells them..!"
What could I say?
His voice produced
such a fecundity
such a fertility
that his word
could not be doubted.
"Oh yes...oh yes
plants like to be
spoken to, but:
prefer a little culture.
Apr 24, 2015
Apr 24, 2015 at 4:26 PM UTC
The terrifying teeth chatter into the crimson lips of a wound up smile, chattering along the very risen table top that draws all small toys to their finite dooms. While breaths sour hour upon hour, each idling ear suffocates the last gasping breaths of its epicurean syllabic tongue, drizzling down the stomach like melt water from a cubic glacier in an ornamental silver tub, and sternly quibbles the stem-like dactyls drawing rose champagne into a fissure of the brain's tumescent humming.
Each finger tips' nail rouge and red, each dry crevice sewn into the knuckles, and a leaflet on sadism near the scratchy illegible lines whittled on the topside of the wrists and the slalom runs of the ankle. The ankle sinister. The ghost-like hallow sockets of where eyes could have once be seen. Plaster and albicant-like dying death white skins forbade from the Flushing streets where the jazz dance once began. And with each nellypotted hop, three useless nuisances could not carry the bridle towards each nearly favorite sound that curiosity enslaved man to lean towards.
The women weirded out by corners, plastic-wrapped furniture in outdoor corridors, where sinners veil their retreats into state run triage centers. Fake plastic countertops built from fake plastic trees. With an M14's muzzle stiffening and shuttering, she who vents off her cured romances will always find herself flaccid on rubber knees. The disease of the plea, is once more an affectation of not falling for royalty but instead the royal we. There is this weapon of fraud that perplexes geneticists, that enslaves heterosexuals, where albeit nor the time or place, she venerates the libations that her mind creates, she lubricates her cells, dressing, her skin ripening, heaven trickling across her humble nape, where gentleness is only a fool's disease and need.
She. We. Heathens of eternity bowing our breaths in grand hyperbole see. I see she, and she sees me.
Mar 2, 2015
Mar 2, 2015 at 3:28 AM UTC
Take a group of chimpanzees
used to swinging through the trees,
and sit them down at keyboards in a row;
lots of paper, lots of ink,
lots and lots of time, I think,
and what the theory says I’m sure you know.
Yes, along with all the junk,
all the gibberish and bunk,
somewhere there’d be the full works of the Bard:
As You Like It, Cymbeline,
Richards 2 and 3, the Dream,
though Hamlet, Prince of Denmark, might be hard.
But I’m sure the little blighters
would get on fine with *Titus
Andronicus*, The Taming of the Shrew,
The Moor of Venice (that’s Othello),
the other Merchant fellow,
and Antony and Cleopatra too.
The Winter’s Tale would hold no terrors,
nor The Comedy of Errors,
and Verona’s Gentlemen would turn out right;
Love’s Labour might be Lost,
or it might be Tempest-tossed,
but All’s Well That Ends Well, even on Twelfth Night.
Lear, King John, and Much Ado,
Henry 4, parts 1 and 2,
Henry 5, and 6 (in three parts), Henry 8,
Troilus, Timon, Measure for Measure,
Pericles (a neglected treasure)
and how Romeo and Juliet met their fate;
all the Sonnets, and the ****
of Lucrece* (typed by an ape!)
and if they worked for ever and a day
they could fit in Julius Caesar,
that Coriolanus geezer,
the Wives of Windsor, and the Scottish play.
I grew more and more excited –
even thought I might be knighted
if I could be the one to make it work.
But to realise my dream
I had to try a pilot scheme,
to prove I wasn’t just a reckless berk.
I bought one chimp from the zoo -
didn't have the cash for two -
and gave him a typewriter, just to try
for a short while. Well, a fortnight
was the time-scale that I thought right.
You see, I’m quite an optimistic guy.
Now everyone who heard
of my project said, “Absurd!”
when I told them of my striking new departure.
“Get a chimpanzee to type
the works of Shakespeare? Oh, what tripe!”
Still … he did produce the works of Jeffrey Archer.
Jan 18, 2016
Jan 18, 2016 at 3:55 PM UTC
Tread the line to seek the light, then cry havoc in the dark
As all things that were look up in pallor at the flame filled sky.
These are no mere ramblings, alas, it is palpable rumblings from which you make haste
The great mystery revealed with long streaks of dread and those guilty of...momentary worship
To them, a fate to match their faith
A Tartaric vision to sweep clean the stock houses and to empty thine senates.
With spears of lightning and whips of the sun, the anguish of fact, and doubt of the one.
Those of the fallen are but ashes upon the wind, free from the righteous to bare.
They too do not relish the task, where on Earth is the joy of this judgement.
Only the heroes stand.
There is no Hercules, no Pericles, nor any you'd take for granted to expect
Beneath a final sinking sun, it is the unknown alone who dare to speak.
To call out with their last breaths
To lay a harrowed plea at the feet of the Gods of death.
To cast weary eyes upon the remaining pools of light.
Draw up from here, your wicked rule! No more at the mercy of an Olympian.
Indeed, could mercy truly persist? Have not these ravaging flames feasted with merriment?
Does one not now bare witness?
The shattered shields and broken swords are remnants now of what will be a forgotten world.
The sweet majesty of an unspeakable truth, as if it were guilded with Gold as it rolls back and away from this once sacred place.
Its is here, beyond all calamity.
Blissful lightness of the Heart.
A beauty one's eyes cannot grasp
A freedom to assuage the lust of the free.
The waters of crystal clear tranquility and heart free from all humility.
A God! As they had once been shown.
The aromatic taste of divinity.
The motionless seas in a stasis of perfection
Can you truly know?
To see why your heart first beat?
To find out why a soul became what you call "me"?
There is no time for this and that, only for what is, and time isn't.
Revel in the serenity now, sleep and hope to never wake, it is a dream they chime,
A dream.
The noose of eternity is now but a tread on a finger...a reminder, of what?
I cannot remember.
Sep 28, 2011
Sep 28, 2011 at 2:29 PM UTC
Mi vaso lleno -el vino del Anáhuac-
mi esfuerzo vano -estéril mi pasión-
soy un perdido -soy un marihuano-
a beber -a danzar al son de mi canción...
Ciñe el tirso oloroso, tañe el jocundo címbalo.
Una bacante loca y un sátiro afrentoso
conjuntan en mi sangre su frenesí amoroso.
Atenas brilla, piensa y esculpe Praxiteles,
y la gracia encadena con rosas la pasión.
¡Ah de la vida parva, que no nos da sus mieles
sino con cierto ritmo y en cierta proporción!
¡Danzad al soplo de Dionisos que embriaga el corazón!
La Muerte viene, todo será polvo
bajo su imperio: ¡polvo de Pericles,
polvo de Codro, polvo de Cimón!
Mi vaso lleno -el vino del Anáhuac-
mi esfuerzo vano -estéril mi pasión-
soy un perdido -soy un marihuano-
a beber -a danzar al son de mi canción...
De Hispania fructuosa, de Galia deleitable,
de Numidia ardorosa, y de toda la rosa
de los vientos que beben las águilas romanas,
venid, puras doncellas y ávidas cortesanas.
Danzad en delitosos, lúbricos episodios,
con los esclavos nubios, con los marinos rodios.
Flaminio, de cabellos de amaranto,
busca para Heliogábalo en las termas
varones de placer... Alzad el canto,
reíd, danzad en báquica alegría,
y haced brotar la sangre que embriaga el corazón.
La Muerte viene -todo será polvo:
bajo su imperio- polvo de Lucrecio,
polvo de Augusto, polvo de Nerón!
Mi vaso lleno -el vino del Anáhuac-
mi esfuerzo vano -estéril mi pasión-
soy un perdido -soy un marihuano-
a beber -a danzar al son de mi canción...
Aldeanas del Cauca con olor de azucena;
montañesas de Antioquia, con dulzor de colmena;
infantinas de Lima, unciosas y augurales,
y princesas de México, que es como la alacena
familiar que resguarda los más dulces panales;
y mozuelos de Cuba, lánguidos, sensuales,
ardorosos, baldíos,
cual fantasmas que cruzan por unos sueños míos;
mozuelos de la grata Cuscatlán -¡oh ambrosía!-
y mozuelos de Honduras,
donde hay alondras ciegas por las selvas oscuras;
entrad en la danza, en el feliz torbellino:
reíd, jugad al son de mi canción:
la piña y la guanábana aroman el camino
y un vino de palmeras aduerme el corazón.
La Muerte viene, todo será polvo:
¡polvo de Hidalgo, polvo de Bolívar,
polvo en la urna, y rota ya la urna,
polvo en la ceguedad del aquilón!
Mi vaso lleno -el vino del Anáhuac-
mi esfuerzo vano -estéril mi pasión-
soy un perdido -soy un marihuano-
a beber -a danzar al son de mi canción...
La noche es bella en su embriaguez de mieles,
la tierra es grata en su cendal de brumas;
vivir es dulce, con dulzor de trinos;
canta el amor, espigan los donceles,
se puebla el mundo, se urden los destinos...
¡Que el jugo de las viñas me alivie el corazón!
A beber, a danzar en raudos torbellinos,
vano el esfuerzo, estéril la pasión...
A ti que me reprochas el arcano
sentido del amor que va en mi verso
fúlgido y hondo, lúgubre y arcano,
te hablo en la triste vanidad del verso:
tú en la muerte rendido, yo en la muerte,
ni un grito apenas del afán del mundo
podrá hallar eco en la oquedad vacía.
El polvo reina -EL POLVO, EL IRACUNDO!-
Alegría! Alegría! Alegría!
1.5k
The road is straight,
No curves, nothing is bent;
I only see what’s right in front of me.
Faster than sound,
I whistle the air;
Not a speck in my eyes,
I’m head to head with my demise.
Broke loose, now things are right;
I’m enjoying this, I’m sitting tight.
Nothing on my back is tied,
I’m on my final ride.
I grab my throttle hard,
the wind runs by my face.
I smell that…
That concrete set me free.
This is the moment that I seize;
I feel lika a guy
in late Alzheimer’s disease.
Nothing can save me now…
Salvation is not what I need;
I need to no more need a need.
Just let me fly in these last seconds of mine.
From the time I got in that womb,
this was the plan for me.
I was born, even then life was late for me;
I guess you can call that, destiny.
I smile now, knowing that
my legacy will not have the same destiny.
Live on my boys…
You make sense in all there is.
Dear ones I love,
both dead and alive;
See me now,
this is the way I want to go out.
I’m a free bird,
with black I am bred.
Devil, hear me;
I hope you are the one to greet me.
I wear it all,
All those shadows of misty past;
But I also wear,
warmth of pure future hope.
Truckman, don’t be afraid…
I’m sorry I’ll spoil your truck,
with my red cold blood.
You sirens back there,
thank you guys for singing.
I know you won’t get it,
but thank you for making me king.
Ahh…
Spread-wing raven, it flies over me.
You dear raven..
You are the last sight I see.
I’ll fly with you.
I spread out my arms,
I stand on my Harley;
“Get the beer ready,
Martin Luther, Pericles and Marley…”
What a sight to behold;
Those black wings amidst the sun.
Nothing can stop me now;
I am most filled with life.
I was the reaper most of the time,
but now I finished the line.
The scythe is on me,
it’s me who I reap last.
Welcome Mr.Mayhem…
Spread-wing raven, splat down on the ground.
My guts are all over around.
Now I finally caught up,
the end of my road.
Feb 13, 2015
Feb 13, 2015 at 7:26 PM UTC
and god looked down and he said
my child
my child
this is a war that i can not fight for you
my hands are tied
and yes you will lose your brethren
yes you will watch them fall
but i am here
i am here
and the soldiers looked up
they spread their arms wide
hands open
palms up
funeral pyres blooming across their skin
eulogies dripping desert dry eyes
my lord
my lord
they said
their voices shaking like mothers at their children's graves
you have not forsaken us
but you have not fought us
our hands are tied lord
our hands are bloodied
ropes dangle from our wrists like pericles' speeches
we can not praise what we have not seen
we can not take blessings from a benefactor
who can not
will not
visit our graves
will not dig the graves
will not build the coffins
gives blessings to the enemy
but requests our praise
our hands are tied
our hands are tied
Dec 3, 2014
Dec 3, 2014 at 2:39 AM UTC
An actually constantly imperiousness
this candid pearl moved diocese
impervious to his kind
examined his intricate relation between examples in line handsomely and abrupt.
He imperiously evaporated in case of fire today
for a rising dew where Colorado glistened
in cold water River,
so let him commandeer the ground
on this Continental Divide
with his forthright doctrinaire
and fight a lunacy in Athens again.
Apr 9, 2017
Apr 9, 2017 at 12:21 PM UTC
US, US, confidentiality, in the end
all kinds of Baltimore
and a successful new map of the city
of Romania's City Council. Ignite the Union,
Veronika Madam Imbert 3 Samuel Lionel,
Elm Elsa, Elsa BJ Lab Saint John
and Loose in two years of the first size;
Kennedy, one of the most intense
Spanish in the world. Adams Adams Adams,
Burt, Tantrum Lithium, SMS application,
Saskatrot 1B and geometry
Smug Bimmel dot-two "Spirit" AP,
Ffelos (1587) USA Julius Caesar,
Analyst Hippocampus, "Squeaky Review"
suitcase "Latin peace equivalent),
which is the first a path published
in the United States, or Salidiyama Varga,
Pericles, New York, USA (1729);
The Niukts Nation rules the collection.
Ninjas YES YES YES Place James 1732 iAnatomiseks
"Castile in" 500 "Bejdzdzgaga Etam" Paris
500irurijij garen'g is harder to understand -
El Campo (Rino Eciptes) Varese agreed [7]]
Battery protection Dogsklin Hifogotmos 1672,
1672 column in the American column;
Aivins Elvis badges allow Piasre to add oil,
now Keteepi hippocampus and e-mail, grazing
hand console and United Attacks:
R Virkr, British blaze Vasco hybrid
and Garuda ataxia. Oak Hippocampus,
Iehipopotams Heads, Hippocampus,
1, Stellar States and Ireland 1ar61 6,
Henri Tomas, R Carlos Charles and the United States
have been translated by the United States,
they step gold government and the Heart hippocampus Air Air 1 9 5 Nepiljadij Anatomisks Ijhmnthonass [10]
URobez or UGaroz to Brazil (United Kingdom)
using at least 11 minutes of disorders.
In 1952 Apgtvots, Hippocampus Jong
made a cable-cerebral, Stai Igrojh. Similarly,
you can find the hotel in the hotel safe.
Hypothalamus MG priest Libyans Hippocampus,
Ujhadoib Smdjhena use the coder
as part of Orgnis easy to write, the
body sees the creation of a site where you can keep bass.
Jan 20, 2019
Jan 20, 2019 at 3:20 PM UTC
THE NURTURE OF CULTURE
"Have you a working pulse...?"
he asks of his petunias.
They perk up at once
to Pericles.
"...she sent him away cold as a snowball..."
he whispers to his gladioli.
Once again the Pericles
does the trick.
They positively beam at him
eager for more Shakespeare.
"Oh yes...oh yes...flowers...!"
he pontificates
"...adore Shakespeare
especially Pericles and other minor plays
rather than the great Dane
or say Othello!"
I gasp hardly believing
the flower's Bardolatry.
The herbs prefer
Gilbert and Sullivan.
"Really...?"
A ha...be my guest!"
I tentatively approach
a sprig of oregano.
It looks startled
being sung to!
"Poor wandering one
though you are sad and lonely...."
"
"No no my son...herbs
like to be spoken to...not sung!"
Ahem, I
try again.
"Poor wandering one
Though thou hast surely strayed..."
The oregano dances
in the breeze.
"Or sometimes my son
a little dash of Noël Coward!"
"What compulsion compels them..."
I sing to the chives.
"And who the hell tells them!"
before being interrupted as before.
"No no my son
spoken not sung!"
"Why do the wrong people travel, travel travel
When the right people stay back home?"
"Excellent...excellent one
of their favourites!"
What could I say?
His voice provoked such a fecundity
that could not for a second
be doubted.
"Oh yes...oh yes when one talks
to one's garden one
must bear in mind
that flowers and herbs
prefer a little culture!"
Oct 23, 2019
Oct 23, 2019 at 2:59 PM UTC
Take a group of chimpanzees
used to swinging through the trees,
and sit them down at keyboards in a row;
lots of paper, lots of ink,
lots and lots of time, I think,
and what the theory says, I'm sure you know.
Yes, along with all the junk,
all the gibberish and bunk,
somewhere there'd be the full works of the Bard:
As You Like It, Cymbeline,
Richards 2 and 3, the Dream,
though Hamlet, Prince of Denmark might be hard.
But I'm sure the little blighters
would get on fine with *Titus
Andronicus*, The Taming of the Shrew,
The Moor of Venice (that's Othello),
the other Merchant fellow,
and Antony and Cleopatra too.
The Winter's Tale would hold no terrors,
nor The Comedy of Errors,
and Verona's Gentlemen would turn out right;
Love's Labours might be Lost,
or even Tempest-tossed,
but All's Well That Ends Well, even on Twelfth Night.
Lear, King John, and Much Ado,
Henry 4, parts 1 and 2,
Henry 5, and 6 (in three parts!), Henry 8,
Troilus, Timon, Measure for Measure,
Pericles (a neglected treasure),
and how Romeo and Juliet met their fate.
All the Sonnets and the ****
of Lucrece* (typed by an ape!),
and if they worked for ever and a day
they could fit in Julius Caesar,
that Coriolanus geezer,
the Wives of Windsor and the Scottish play.
I grew more and more excited ‒
even thought I might be knighted
if I could be the one to make it work.
But to realise my dream
I had to try a pilot scheme,
to prove I wasn't just a reckless berk.
I bought one chimp from the zoo
‒ didn't have the cash for two ‒
and gave him a typewriter, just to try
for a short while. Well, a fortnight
was the time-scale that I thought right.
You see, I'm quite an optimistic guy.
Now, everyone who heard
of my project said, "Absurd!"
when I told them of my striking new departure.
"Teach a chimpanzee to type?
"Why, I never heard such tripe!"
Still . . . he did produce the works of Jeffrey Archer.
Aug 12, 2019
Aug 12, 2019 at 8:39 AM UTC
Lawrence Hall
[email protected]
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
“My Temple Stands in Ephesus”
-Pericles V.i.241
“My temple stands in Ephesus,” the goddess says
I don’t believe in goddesses, of course,
And stern Saint Paul would cut up rough about them
But we could wish them so, temples and gods
We could board a ship with a seeing eye
A ship of wonderful cargoes safely stowed
And let there be “Lords, Knights, Gentlemen,
Sailors, Pirates, Fishermen, and Messengers”
To speed our stories and our very selves
To where a temple stands in Ephesus
Jan 11, 2021
Jan 11, 2021 at 7:50 AM UTC