"pined" poems
I saw a carving from Bethlehem that you had given my Nan,
She showed me a photograph of you, you were tall, with a golden tan.
The carving it was inscribed, 'with love from your brother Tom',
I knew my Nan had looked up to you, when all was said and done.
My Nan she was a little girl, when you were called away,
With her mother she waited eagerly for news, day, by day, by day.
In her eyes you were a hero who had gone off to the war,
Your smiling face, and uniform, were the last things that she saw.
She dreamt of the day that you would come back, striding through the gate,
she heard her mother pacing, though she didn't know your fate.
She heard her mother weeping but didn't want to know the reason why,
In her stomach she had a feeling that something was awry.
Then her mother sat her down and told her you were dead,
She told me she went dizzy, blood rushing to her head.
She told me she cried out your name, her heart it was pure broken,
The army sent a telegram, but it was really just a token.
You were just a boy of eighteen years when you were forced away,
I wonder how many mothers would cope if their sons left today.
They couldn't give you a grave, there was nothing left to bury,
You were blown to pieces in one hit, with bombs dropped in a flurry.
You only lasted for three months in your short, tough, army life,
My Nan died aged eighty-four, after a life of grief and strife,
She pined for you throughout those years and missed you everyday,
Her hero, her brother Tom, who left and went away.
She worried that when you fought, you longed for her and home
And worried that you were consumed with fear, and if that fear had grown.
She wondered if you had called out "Mum" and if your blood was swept by the tide,
how desperately she had wished, that she had been there, by your side.
The reason I know of you today, is that girl who became my Nan,
Who kept your memory alive as she always did back then,
I tell my sons about you Tom, I hope it's the right thing to do,
And I hope that they will love me as much, as my Nan had loved you.
Apr 15, 2014
Apr 15, 2014 at 2:11 PM UTC
"While I sit at the door
Sick to gaze within
Mine eye weepeth sore
For sorrow and sin:
As a tree my sin stands
To darken all lands;
Death is the fruit it bore.
"How have Eden bowers grown
Without Adam to bend them!
How have Eden flowers blown
Squandering their sweet breath
Without me to tend them!
The Tree of Life was ours,
Tree twelvefold-fruited,
Most lofty tree that flowers,
Most deeply rooted:
I chose the tree of death.
"Hadst thou but said me nay,
Adam, my brother,
I might have pined away;
I, but none other:
God might have let thee stay
Safe in our garden,
By putting me away
Beyond all pardon.
"I, Eve, sad mother
Of all who must live,
I, not another,
Plucked bitterest fruit to give
My friend, husband, lover;--
O wanton eyes, run over;
Who but I should grieve?--
Cain hath slain his brother:
Of all who must die mother,
Miserable Eve!"
Thus she sat weeping,
Thus Eve our mother,
Where one lay sleeping
Slain by his brother.
Greatest and least
Each piteous beast
To hear her voice
Forgot his joys
And set aside his feast.
The mouse paused in his walk
And dropped his wheaten stalk;
Grave cattle wagged their heads
In rumination;
The eagle gave a cry
From his cloud station;
Larks on thyme beds
Forbore to mount or sing;
Bees drooped upon the wing;
The raven perched on high
Forgot his ration;
The conies in their rock,
A feeble nation,
Quaked sympathetical;
The mocking-bird left off to mock;
Huge camels knelt as if
In deprecation;
The kind hart's tears were falling;
Chattered the wistful stork;
Dove-voices with a dying fall
Cooed desolation
Answering grief by grief.
Only the serpent in the dust
Wriggling and crawling,
Grinned an evil grin and ******
His tongue out with its fork.
13.4k
We were teammates
We suited up
We showed up
We weren't stars
But we rolled in the dirt
With the best of them
Our blood ran red
Like the rest of them
Our sweat tasted salty
As the most athletic of them
Wounds and bruises
Ached like the most
Stalwart of them
We were Bulldogs!
We anted up our
Gifts and talents to
Forge a winning season
A flair for humor
Wry observation,
Encouragement, fortitude
And intelligence were as
Valuable as speed,
Agility and strength
We all pined for the
Affection of cheerleaders,
Bandmembers and the
Adoration of fans
We equally joined
In the chorus of
locker room banter
And honored the
Confidence of camaraderie
Such intimacy bares
We endured thankless
Adversity, while wending
through anonymous toil
As brothers
We grudgingly drank
From the vile cup of defeat
And passed the chalice
Of victory among us
To share the savory
Taste of triumph
As champions
The Duke of Wellington
Said “the battle of Waterloo
Was won on the fields of Eton”
I trust my teammates and
Not forgotten friends
Tasted sweet victories of
Happiness and success
As they coursed through
Their prodigious fields of life
And at games end
I hope their heart swelled
With pride to know they were
A beloved and Valiant Bulldog
David Irving Korsh #75
BCSL Champion 1973
Rutherford Bulldogs
Well done Valiant Bulldog
God bless and Godspeed
Music Selection:
Bruce Springsteen
Thunder Road
5/5/18
Puyallup
jbm
Aug 2, 2018
Aug 2, 2018 at 2:58 PM UTC
He owned books on many subjects
leather bound, with complex concepts
on which he'd ponder and reflect
He had it all, in some respects.
He could lecture quantum physics,
English literature and economics
He was renowned in academics
Though many found him quite eccentric
He explored the world only to find
That there's more to life than a brilliant mind
That there was a piece of him...undefined
See, He had never loved. He'd never pined
He knew all the math, knew all equations
He'd been to every corner of every nation
He'd learned 28 languages, knew every translation
But he was distraught by this realization
The pain he felt was too great to bear
He sank into the deepest and darkest despair
His heart was in need of dire repair
Finding love was his only prayer
He bumped into her by happenstance
and what began as an ephemeral glance
became a sucker punch from romance
She thought he was sweet, so she gave him a chance
That's when the world's smartest man finally learned how to dance
Feb 11, 2012
Feb 11, 2012 at 2:35 AM UTC
Little surfer girl
Framed by the sun and waves and sand
Sun-kissed skin
Slender muscles
On display for her captive audience
Pulse in sync
With the steady music
Of the shore's breathing
Attracting the spray and roar
Of almighty Poseidon
Lithe body
Gliding on the water
Like how she has
Implacably skipped and splashed
Over the breaking hearts
Of so many who have pined after her
I need but a glance
To invite me
To paddle out and see
If I can conquer her waves.
Sep 14, 2014
Sep 14, 2014 at 5:38 AM UTC
Each generation’s majority makes choices that usher change
Lost pined for simple peace
Depression lived for human survival
Silence spoke for equality in a civil voice
Hippies fought war with flowers
Boomers drove for mad knowledge of self
Grunge nodded honesty from suburban garages
Y baptized Science as god
Mobs then anointed Orange Man as king
Down at the crossroads as means to their ends
For taxes, for borders, for babies, for guns, for Right
Trading truth, communal values and united dreams for their causes
How will we be remembered
As we watch this Heyday bloom
What will be this generation’s rallying cry
Will there be one
A culmination of past generation's trusted change
Lost, depressed, silent, free, self-aware, honest, doubting
Us
Here now
Strong
Watching the flames
Will we quietly turn away
As our world burns
Or will we tap a new strength
To face the fire
Together
© 2019 MJL
Apr 1, 2019
Apr 1, 2019 at 8:40 AM UTC
Sitting here alone with people around
But I only see one person in mind
She is the person so fortunate I've found
She is the person who loves me in kind.
My head is spinning as I sit here thinking
My heart is aching for the girl I'm missing
My lips they mutter, words of love they're saying
My hope is wishful that these words you're hearing.
I feel this love in my heart, it's growing
To proportions of unfathomable enormity
Sometimes it feels like my boat is sinking
When I think of the undeniable reality.
This reality that I wake up to everyday
Keeps hurling obstacles that I must face
I need the strength so my hopes don't fray
Wishing for more so I can finish this race.
I love her dearly; without her a life I can't imagine
I love her deeply; I never thought I was capable of such
I love her strong; with hopes so high, I would pin
I love her furiously; never thought I could love this much.
She is the sun that around, my world does spin
She is my star that I always look up to see
She is my moon that so clearly I have seen
She is my universe that I'm traipsing through helplessly.
I've never stopped wishing for a life beside her
I've never stopped wanting for her to be with me
I've never stopped hoping for the a life we'd make together
I will never stop trying for I believe it's meant to be.
I have pined for her so, many a sleepless night
I have yearned for her through the hours of the day
I have craved for her; craved with all of my might
I have longed to utter the words I've wanted to say.
Countless of times, these words I've spouted
In my heart I've said them oh so many more
These words are strong like a volcano just erupted
These words are true for they come from my core.
So I sit here still with these people around
They don't know why my heart aches so
It matters not if my feet don't touch the ground
I'd still dare to dream and to her they will go.
Dreams of you I'll never stop conjuring
Thoughts of you I'll never stop thinking
With words so sweet I'll never stop praising
For the woman in my dreams, my heart is loving.
So let me be, you people; you never will know
You'll never know who it is who excites my heart
You'll never understand what makes my love grow
She's the one who had ensnared me from the start.
Sep 2, 2014
Sep 2, 2014 at 4:54 AM UTC
Auntie Em is calling….
I was just getting to love my Emerald City
The shiny feel of it, its sweetly diverse demi-monde.
Its shimmering green beauty and tranquil sense of safety.
The heels of my ruby red slippers were well & truly dug in.
But no, the state fair balloon stands before me tied up & ready to go.
A grand exclamation mark in my way if ever there was one.
And Toto for once has gone mute, no chance of a last minute hold up.
"Dorothy, Dorothy, where are you?"
I guess it must have been too fantastical a dream to be true.
A time for goodbyes.
I’m embracing the Lion telling him to always be proud of himself & not to walk unafraid.
The Tin Man’s gentle open heartedness I compliment him on as we both shed tears.
The Scarecrow I kiss and thank for his loyalty & grace under fiery pressure.
With a heavy heart, I climb that first tentative step on the block.
"We’re sick with worry over you"
I could be angry but the wise words of the mystic ring loudly in my year.
I do need to go back – My Auntie Em is really calling me.
Calling me back to the grey flatlands of home.
Back to the numbness of small town heteronormativity.
Where Twisters rarely every came by to sweep you away and save you.
I could only keep singing ‘Over The Rainbow’ in vain hope.
"Find yourself a place where you won't get into any trouble!
Unlike Dorothy Gale, this Dorothy left Kansas voluntarily
The long yellow brick road finally took me under the rainbow and on to my Emerald City
I no longer pined for home but knew all along that it would call me back one day.
And so here I am, drifting higher & higher away from my adopted home.
Perhaps I need to build a revolving door when I get there to pass through both worlds easily
Or perhaps bring something of the rainbow back to illuminate the grey-lands.
Or perhaps – in reality - some reconciliation between these worlds is in order.
Perhaps.
It’s time to slip on the ruby red slippers and prepare the way for Kansas.
Yes, this Dorothy has surrendered but
I always had the power to be me, my dear.
I just had to learn it for myself.
August –September 2018
Sep 16, 2018
Sep 16, 2018 at 10:46 PM UTC
how many times do I have to say
I miss you until it becomes poetry
how many since it mattered
how do I tell you I haven't let
anyone touch me since you
because as long as your hands
remain the last
you still exist here somehow
how do I tell you that doesn't even
begin to describe it
how do I tell you all the places you
touched me still sing
like a phantom limb
how many days did it take
for your mother to ask about me
if I'm ever coming back again
what happened to me
what happened to us
what did you tell her
and how bad did it hurt to say aloud
how do I tell you even the simplest
things are crippling without you
how breathing is wasteful
when there's no other lips to taste it
how badly my body has pined for
yours again
how cruel must you have been
to make me want like a child
to lead me senseless
to the brink of everything
I ever wanted
to lead me giggling and trembling
touching your face
and to leave me here alone
without a warning
heaven was not heaven when I
entered it alone
all this love I have to give
is shot to hell if I can't give it to you
so how many times
do I have to say I miss you
until it becomes poetry?
because I'll do it
I'll do it and do it until it matters
to you
May 3, 2015
May 3, 2015 at 9:28 AM UTC
In haste,
I took the first woman like a whiskey shot--
every ounce of her scarred my throat
kept me silent, kept me staggering under the weight.
When the bottom shelf love went beyond full bloom,
I vomited her up, leaving me with a headache.
In good conscious,
I took the second woman like an aspirin pill--
every milligram of her alleviated the pain
kept me similar to content, kept me tame.
When the effects wore off and I pined for another drink,
I put her in the cabinet, leaving me rambling nomadic.
In guilt,
I turned myself into the third woman like a penitent criminal--
every liter of her blood solidified
kept me wrapped behind her bars, kept me seeking her good graces.
When the prison sentence drew to a close,
I left her behind, walking with an unwashable history.
The fourth found me frightening,
the fifth just ignored,
the sixth designated me the "other man",
and the elusive seventh only said, "You could do better."
In my mind,
the pills, prisons, and liquor melded --
the days cut short,
the nights grew long,
but I could do better
I could do better
I could do better.
I sold the pills, I poured the whiskey down the sink,
I left prison to the prisoners,
and in the mirror I became a religious practitioner.
To the Church of Better I subscribed.
Sober, lone, and free my cry.
To the darkness I whispered:
I am the resurrection,
I cannot be killed,
I am the resurrection,
the Buddha,
the Jesus,
the Krishna,
the Allah.
I am the resurrection,
born again and again and again.
Sep 16, 2012
Sep 16, 2012 at 3:08 PM UTC
"He ought to be home," said the old man, "without there's something amiss.
He only went to the Two-mile — he ought to be back by this.
He would ride the Reckless filly, he would have his wilful way;
And, here, he's not back at sundown — and what will his mother say?
"He was always his mother's idol, since ever his father died;
And there isn't a horse on the station that he isn't game to ride.
But that Reckless mare is vicious, and if once she gets away
He hasn't got strength to hold her — and what will his mother say?"
The old man walked to the sliprail, and peered up the dark'ning track,
And looked and longed for the rider that would never more come back;
And the mother came and clutched him, with sudden, spasmodic fright:
"What has become of my Willie? Why isn't he home tonight?"
Away in the gloomy ranges, at the foot of an ironbark,
The bonnie, winsome laddie was lying stiff and stark;
For the Reckless mare had smashed him against a leaning limb,
And his comely face was battered, and his merry eyes were dim.
And the thoroughbred chestnut filly, the saddle beneath her flanks,
Was away like fire through the ranges to join the wild mob's ranks;
And a broken-hearted woman and an old man worn and grey
Were searching all night in the ranges till the sunrise brought the day.
And the mother kept feebly calling, with a hope that would not die,
"Willie! where are you, Willie?" But how can the dead reply;
And hope died out with the daylight, and the darkness brought despair,
God pity the stricken mother, and answer the widow's prayer!
Though far and wide they sought him, they found not where he fell;
For the ranges held him precious, and guarded their treasure well.
The wattle blooms above him, and the bluebells blow close by,
And the brown bees buzz the secret, and the wild birds sing reply.
But the mother pined and faded, and cried, and took no rest,
And rode each day to the ranges on her hopeless, weary quest.
Seeking her loved one ever, she faded and pined away,
But with strength of her great affection she still sought every day.
"I know that sooner or later I shall find my boy," she said.
But she came not home one evening, and they found her lying dead.
And stamped on the poor pale features, as the spirit homeward pass'd,
Was an angel smile of gladness — she had found the boy at last.
2.8k
you hated poems so much that you
became one, sweetheart
(tell me, does this suit your tastes?have i gone too far?)
i tried to write a love poem and it turned into a suicide note that doesnt belong to me
i guess you didnt find it romantic when i called you carrotseed,
when i pined so much that i turned my love into a grove of trees
you make comparisons between me and natural disasters like it's a habit you can't get rid of
but there's nothing natural about the way my heart beats when i see you
baby, your eyes have never looked better
Sep 17, 2014
Sep 17, 2014 at 10:36 AM UTC
Which is the weakest thing of all
Mine heart can ponder?
The sun, a little cloud can pall
With darkness yonder?
The cloud, a little wind can move
Where’er it listeth?
The wind, a little leaf above,
Though sere, resisteth?
What time that yellow leaf was green,
My days were gladder;
But now, whatever Spring may mean,
I must grow sadder.
Ah me! a leaf with sighs can wring
My lips asunder—
Then is mine heart the weakest thing
Itself can ponder.
Yet, Heart, when sun and cloud are pined
And drop together,
And at a blast, which is not wind,
The forests wither,
Thou, from the darkening deathly curse
To glory breakest,—
The Strongest of the universe
Guarding the weakest!
2.6k
Ah Sun-flower! weary of time.
Who countest the steps of the Sun;
Seeking after that sweet golden clime
Where the travellers journey is done.
Where the Youth pined away with desire,
And the pale ****** shrouded in snow:
Arise from their graves and aspire.
Where my Sun-flower wishes to go.
2.5k
No one born too far from Niedersachsen, said Oma,
ever quite captures their sing-song intonation.
Characterized by subtleties, like an umlauted vowel,
all non-native imitations sound inevitably as ******
as would a cry of “ello, guv’nah!” in a London coffee shop.
Her Plattdeutsch instincts neutered
by decades abroad, married to a son of Milwaukee,
her permanent, dormant longing for Salzgitter awakes only
to trigger hunger pangs of irreconcilable nostalgia
at the passing whiff of a Germantown bakery.
She taught me the word “sehnsucht” over lukewarm coffee
and a pause in our conversation: a compound word
that no well-intentioned English translation
could render faithfully.
It isn’t the same as just longing, she sighed— longing is curable.
Sehnsucht holds the fragments
of an imperfect world and laments
that they are patternless. How the soul
yearns vaguely for a home
remembered only in the residual ache
of incomplete childhood fancies;
futile as the ruins
of an ancient, annihilated people.
How life’s staccato joys soothe
a heart sore from the world,
yet the existential hunger, gnawing
from the malnourished stomach
of the bruised human psyche, remains—
insatiable, eternal.
Long enough ago, a reasonably-priced bus ride away
from the red-roofed apartment in which she babbled her first words,
a kindly old man in a pharmacy asked her
about her peculiar, exotic accent. Once inevitably prompted
with the question of where she was from, she responded only
that she was a tourist off the beaten track.
And when I pointed out, to my immediate regret,
that she gets the same question back here in Ohio,
I realized then that, not once, has she ever referred to the way
the people of her pined-for hometown spoke
as though she had ever belonged to it.
Sep 29, 2015
Sep 29, 2015 at 2:21 PM UTC
1.
I know now why the world was sad,
With so much good to make it glad;
Why all things loveliest and best
Have stirred vague sorrows in my breast,
And sweetest days that life has had
Have vexed me with such vast unrest.
2.
I know why I have pined and toiled,
And found all aspirations foiled;
I know why I have gained and spent,
And never learned what riches meant;
I know what lack and loss have spoiled
The treasure of my soul's content.
3.
Like day- dawn on the darkened earth,
Like sun and rain in drought and dearth,
Like spring, that wakens flowers so fast
When barren winter- time is past,
Love, long- deferred, has come to birth —
And I am satisfied at last.
4.
My heart is singing; tears are shed;
I, that was starved, am warmed, and fed —
For love is fire and food and wine,
All comfort earthly and divine.
Now I am living that was dead,
And all that life can give is mine.
2.3k
She bore three kids,
Cooked their meals.
Washed and cleaned,
Paid the bills.
Morning game shows
Brought her thrills,
Daytime dramas
Gave her shills.
She juggled schedules
Without a care,
Her kids' chauffeur
Going here and there.
To softball and soccer practices
To see them in a play,
It went on day after day.
The hurts and pains
Wouldn’t go away,
The wrinkles too
Were there to stay.
She moaned and groaned,
She pined all day
Of throbbing joints that ached.
Her hair started turning gray,
She's getting old, a big mistake.
Her rich husband said one day,
This life is not for me,
I'm going my own way,
I'm stifled, need to be free.
I'll give you child support,
You'll have alimony too,
The love is gone,
What else is there to do?
He went away
To start a new life,
She's on her own
To toil and strife.
He up and left her,
Very happy now,
He found himself
A trophy wife.
Mar 14, 2010
Mar 14, 2010 at 5:35 PM UTC
This little squirrel Quill
He lived over the highest hill -
He pined all day with nuts to collect
To protect for long winters.
Quill climbed the tallest
trees and still he
hid from large eagles till
He knew he could safely return home
burrowed in his log.
Mr. Squirrel Senior Quill warned
"Don't be long, it's nearly dawn!"
But little Quill amused himself
and ate acorns to meet his fill.
He didn't worry or scurry home -
He took his time,
He sang a rhyme
He made a friend: 'Jerome' the gnome,
He sang and sought a new way home.
Mrs. Squirrel Quill, she drilled and drilled:
"Where were you? what happened?!"
Her mother's voice shrill.
"I, uh, I was ill!" said Quill, "terrible case
of Squirrel's fill!"
Hiding the nuts, he smiled wide;
He was happy, little Quill -
Free and filled.
(C) 6/1/15
Courtney L
Jan 9, 2015
Jan 9, 2015 at 12:47 AM UTC
We live the life
pined with sores
battling the battle
in a defeated
hope
out of lacks
we've known
plenty of yawns
in a helpless
battle where
none prevails
but travail
the future of the
youth of the land
is but buried in
the arms of
corruption
we run,more
haste less speed
the ambitious
youth becomes
enslaved to
unrewarded
efforts
but clothed in
gowns of
discouragement
we want to learn
we want to read
we want to write
we want to
speak and be
heard
but the road to
learning is
blocked
by them that are
known by
godfathers
who shall lead
us by the hand
to cross this
ocean that
opens its mouth
wide
to swallow all of
our effort,all of
our zeal.all of
our enthusiasm
which hope lie
for us?
When shall we
know reward
for our efforts?
When shall
success
breakforth to
harvest us all
that searched
diligently?
When???
Jul 13, 2013
Jul 13, 2013 at 10:19 AM UTC
I know I must have lost my mind,
Reaching for something I cannot catch
Or virtue of a different kind.
I never thought that one could find
In someone else a perfect match
I know I must have lost my mind
In a subject so undefined
It's to this feeling I attach,
A virtue of a different kind.
Though after many I have pined,
From this one I can not detach
I know I must have lost my mind.
Oh, many scenes I have designed
But from these I have not a scratch
Of virtue of a different kind.
Were I to speak, and be declined,
To someone else I'd soon dispatch;
I know I must have lost my mind,
Or virtue of different kind.
Oct 1, 2014
Oct 1, 2014 at 9:31 PM UTC
What do you want to grow up?
A StarGirl!
"A StarGirl you shall be",
they said giving spraying neon paint on me
and letting me stand in the night.
But when I stood there
they asked me again,
"Are you happy?"
I couldn't answer.
I was too busy shining to know.
They washed the paint off me
and painted the earth all over me,
lying me down, pined to the ground.
"Are you happy, now?"
I couldn't answer.
Jun 13, 2012
Jun 13, 2012 at 2:46 AM UTC
*That night I dreamt of two star-crossed lovers,
hidden in the bodies of green giants.
I knew them both from a time now long past
For my spirit was just as wild as theirs.
They silently pined for each other,
In the echoes of the tears of the falls
The murmur of the river taunting them
Forever so close, yet a world apart.
Their hands reaching out under a silver blade.
That which was once tears, that which was once rain,
That which was once earth, That which was once sea
Now carries under her breath their longing.
Oh no dear heart! Do not despair for them
For they are old souls who know that loving is not possessing*
Feb 19, 2015
Feb 19, 2015 at 9:07 PM UTC
Ben Sanders sat in his final days
By his cottage, up on the bluff,
He’d spent his life as a rover, and
He said, ‘I can’t get enough!
The sea, the sea, the lure of the sea,
It whispers at my front door,
And calls to me, here up on the bluff,
‘Come down, come down to the shore!’’
‘But I can’t go down and I won’t go down
For I daren’t go down, you see,
Not since I was caught in the maelstrom
When the seabed beckoned to me,
My mate had clung to the mast, while I
Had lashed myself to the rail,
And he went down to the stony ground
Along with the yards and sail.’
‘I hear the sound in my ears still
The roar of the whirling pool,
I’d cried, ‘Let go of the iron chest,
But he’d not let go, the fool.
It was filled with gold and pieces of eight,
Dubloons and precious stones,
It carried him down to an awful fate
Is spread, all over his bones.’
‘But I clung on ‘til the turn of the tide
I could almost touch the ground,
My head was spinning, deep in the pool
As the ship whirled round and round,
But then the tide began to subside
And I said goodbye to Bjork,
For then the ship rose up to the lip
And popped right up like a cork.’
‘We’d sailed forever the Spanish Main
The ship, Bjork and me,
And searched the atolls of rocks and sand
Of the Caribbean sea,
We found the treasure that Blackbeard hid
In a shaft, six fathoms deep,
Then Bjork had pined for Norwegian lands,
Said, ‘What we’ve got, we’ll keep!’
‘The further north that we sailed, the sea
Grew surly in its ride,
The waves crashed over the foredeck and
They tossed us, side to side,
The squalls came in and the rain came down
And we had to reef the sail,
The water rose in the bilge, until
I thought we’d have to bail.’
‘But then one night it was flat and calm
And the water lapped below,
I heard the voice of a siren then
That whispered, sweet and low:
‘Come down,’ she said, ‘you can rest your head
And give up your earthly seat,
But lie instead on a seaweed bed
With a mermaid at your feet.’’
‘I think of Bjork on the ocean bed
Though I don’t know where he lies,
His bones are covered with precious stones
With two dubloons for his eyes,
I’ve never been back to the sea since then
For I fear it, more and more,
As still it whispers on moonlit nights
‘Come down, come down to the shore!’’
Ben Sanders sat in his final days
By his cottage, facing the sea,
He seemed remote, but a final note
That he wrote was left for me.
‘My days of watching the sea are done,
I think that I’ve had enough!’
And then he strode as the tide arose
And walked, right over the bluff.
David Lewis Paget
(Inspired by E. A. Poe’s ‘A Descent into the Maelstrom).
Sep 25, 2013
Sep 25, 2013 at 9:36 AM UTC
#
This ripe darkness
this mourning dream
a wrenching weakness
fit for the guillotine
An arrangement made
sheer comfort prepared
the end of fate
and, oh, how I dared
This dry paper
this cold pit
an agonising vapor
that smells of blood and spit
'Tis my mind
my wicked flesh
a soul pined
peeled off and fresh
Dressed soft tongued
I raised Cain
being shunned
silenced I remain
This dawning fright
this nightly echo
here comes the blight
light, don't let go
#
Oct 4, 2018
Oct 4, 2018 at 8:56 AM UTC
.
*Musical brush strokes paint
the pink honey moon
full and bright ;
the melody wafts lightly
with a sensual scent
of Jasmine fleur
Lonely hearts sip the sky’s
lambent elixir’s gentle persuasion
from separately dispersed novas
the perennial blossom of the perpetual tide .., .
merely pined moonlight
Immersing wholly in wistful reflection
alight on wellspring emerald pond
Verily unspoken words cavort
like musical rivulets spiraling flow
into the crystalline echo
Luna’s haloed heavenly sighs ,
emanation bestrewn
shimmering through dark nebula
like shooting stars shattered
by the weight
of their darkest radiance,
echoes upon the tide-less mirror pond
the nimbus of moonlight
imbuing all the ways I want you* . . .
wild is the wind ...© 6.17.2015
Feb 25, 2016
Feb 25, 2016 at 12:53 PM UTC