"piteous" poems
In your vision you are the only thing with bloodshot eyes.
You always wear a robe
that speaks seven languages... and a bank of fog is at your feet
nipping at your naked heel.
In your vision you remember how your arms feel in sunshine.
It is intense.
Your can-opener is hissing an etude
that alludes to wise men...
who bathe in miracles
and roam the world,
untarnished in Poverty.
Your can-opener whispers in hush tones
about barbarians at the gate. And they say
' they've come for the Linen ! '
You are not deceived.
In your vision you are the only thing that can backward engineer
a Universe.
On your way back to the homeland of your algebra
you hesitate. “ you may have left your keys in your Other Robe...”
The Robe that hallucinates constantly~ Carrying on about
' The dire consequences of leaving terrycloth alone with the keys '
and, afflicted with Prophesy Tourettes
the piteous tide of doom ' sayeth the robe '
you must suffer.
In your vision, you are the only one
looking for the keys.
Oct 16, 2012
Oct 16, 2012 at 5:09 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.
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Piteous my rhyme is
What while I muse of love and pain,
Of love misspent, of love in vain,
Of love that is not loved again:
And is this all then?
As long as time is,
Love loveth. Time is but a span,
The dalliance space of dying man:
And is this all immortals can?
The gain were small then.
Love loves for ever,
And finds a sort of joy in pain,
And gives with nought to take again,
And loves too well to end in vain:
Is the gain small then?
Love laughs at "never",
Outlives our life, exceeds the span
Appointed to mere mortal man:
All which love is and does and can
Is all in all then.
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Author: Kristen Stevens
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Current mood:outside the loop
And yes I know that's a plagiarization (real word??? no matter) of a stupid show...but you shouldn't watch it anyway so there.
ME! Last week, as you may have heard was not of the fun, so this week in comparison rocked! And, yes, I am going to end every sentence with exclamations! (it's for the sarcastic effect don't panic) As such I’m going to let YOU write my entry…you’ll see.
Once upon a time there was a ______ (adj.) girl. She loved her xbox very much. One day an evil ________(noun) descended on the precious object and smote it with the fury of _______(name of a god). The girl ___________(verb) for many minutes staring at the remains of her once beloved box. She promptly went to the other, less amusing, magic box and asked for _______(noun). She____________(adv.) navigated her way through treacherous and distracting destinations. As she approached the official site, a most ___________(adj.) thing occurred. The destination was ________(noun). Much like the construction in her hamlet, it prevented her from registering her distress. Days _______(noun) slowly, with still no relief for ________(pronoun). What’s a girl to do when ________(frustrating situation)? In her profession the customers would not appreciate it if she came after them with___________(weapon of choice from popular video game).
It had been one week, since the demise of _______(object). She no longer was _______(emotion). The days were literally ________(color). Rain fell _______(verb ending in –ing) the streets. There was still no reply from the xbox deity. Thus ends the tale of piteous woe.
This girl has been considering swearing fealty to another more worthy gaming god! There are three systems and I own two of them! Don’t make me get the third! This is a threat! (not you guys, the __________{insert favorite utterance} at Microsoft) goes away quietly muttering to self unkind and unpleasant things that should be done to xbox distributors
By the way, how was that I figure, if you’re going to take the time to read it. I should give you something fun to do at the same time. Who doesn’t like madlibs? Huh?
Sep 21, 2010
Sep 21, 2010 at 8:23 AM UTC
Duncan Gray cam here to woo,
Ha, ha, the wooing o’t,
On blythe Yule Night when we were fu’,
Ha, ha, the wooing o’t,
Maggie coost her head fu’ high,
Looked asklent and unco skeigh,
Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh;
Ha, ha, the wooing o’t.
Duncan fleeched, and Duncan prayed;
Ha, ha, the wooing o’t,
Meg was deaf as Ailsa Craig;
Ha, ha, the wooing o’t,
Duncan sighed baith out and in,
Grat his een baith bleer’t and blin’,
Spak o’ lowpin ower a linn;
Ha, ha, the wooing o’t.
Time and Chance are but a tide,
Ha, ha, the wooing o’t,
Slighted love is sair to bide,
Ha, ha, the wooing o’t,
Shall I, like a fool, quoth he,
For a haughty hizzie dee?
She may *** to -France for me!
Ha, ha, the wooing o’t.
How it comes let Doctors tell,
Ha, ha, the wooing o’t,
Meg grew sick as he grew hale,
Ha, ha, the wooing o’t,
Something in her ***** wrings,
For relief a sigh she brings;
And O her een, they spak sic things!
Ha, ha, the wooing o’t.
Duncan was a lad o’ grace,
Ha, ha, the wooing o’t,
Maggie’s was a piteous case,
Ha, ha, the wooing o’t,
Duncan could na be her death,
Swelling Pity smoored his Wrath;
Now they’re crouse and canty baith,
Ha, ha, the wooing o’t.
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She dresses in gossamer veils of scarlet and lures men to her noose
As they carelessly pour Fortune's gold into her nimble, covetous hands
And they hang themselves among the other piteous lepers before them.
As cruel as the Inferno, she drags them under as an enchantress would her dupes;
As beauteous as the beloved Aphrodite with eyes of white marble
She adds these dim men to her vast collection of trifles.
Then she disappears and I know she won't return.
For she is the Gypsy's Best.
Oct 3, 2011
Oct 3, 2011 at 8:38 AM UTC
'The beggar boy is none of mine,'
The reverend doctor strangely said;
'I do not walk the streets to pour
Chance benedictions on his head.
'And heaven I thank who made me so.
That toying with my own dear child,
I think not on _his_ shivering limbs,
_His_ manners vagabond and wild.'
Good friend, unsay that graceless word!
I am a mother crowned with joy,
And yet I feel a ***** pang
To pass the little starveling boy.
His aching flesh, his fevered eyes
His piteous stomach, craving meat;
His features, nipt of tenderness,
And most, his little frozen feet.
Oft, by my fireside's ruddy glow,
I think, how in some noisome den,
Bred up with curses and with blows,
He lives unblest of gods or men.
I cannot ****** him from his fate,
The tribute of my doubting mind
Drops, torch-like, in the abyss of ill,
That skirts the ways of humankind.
But, as my heart's desire would leap
To help him, recognized of none,
I thank the God who left him this,
For many a precious right foregone.
My mother, whom I scarcely knew,
Bequeathed this bond of love to me;
The heart parental thrills for all
The children of humanity.
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The thing about dancing,
Is that it surely was invented post the 'mighty invention of music'
The might of music was such,
That the then tensile souls couldn't do much
And when some ******* back in the day
Thought he could probably get away
With being cheesy, without getting hit by a rock,
If he put down his words in a tune and wore a dancing frock
Whilst he was going at it on a cheese license, trying to compose a 'song',
This other bloke from down the road wondered where this
'sound' is coming from?
The music got to him, for he was the first to hear it apart from it's maker
He growled and stood up, to put his ale down in a magic shaker
And so he thought his colon would erupt
If he didn’t tap his feet to it with that ale he supped,
Completely unaware of the fact that shaking his head would be
soon to follow,
And so to speak, rest of his body, headed in a direction
that seemed perfectly hollow
And thus he made some gravity defying moves one after the other,
Hitting stacks of bread he just yelled, "Happiness rediscovered"
That piteous drunk soul was unaware that it would go on to
be know as ‘dancing’
If he were smarter or sober, he could have told it to the world himself with pride while prancing
What made him do it? Probably the music, probably he got laid twice the previous night,
Or his ex got divorced, yeah that would really end the fright
So he pounced on some meat and again shook his *****
Like he owed it to the world, like it was his duty
Whatever was the reason, in that magic season
The consequences of it gave us dancing & made mankind elevate
It was henceforth branded as a gesture to celebrate.
So let’s.
Jun 5, 2014
Jun 5, 2014 at 2:14 AM UTC
Once in a dream (for once I dreamed of you)
We stood together in an open field;
Above our heads two swift-winged pigeons wheeled,
Sporting at ease and courting full in view.
When loftier still a broadening darkness flew,
Down-swooping, and a ravenous hawk revealed;
Too weak to fight, too fond to fly, they yield;
So farewell life and love and pleasures new.
Then, as their plumes fell fluttering to the ground,
Their snow-white plumage flecked with crimson drops,
I wept, and thought I turned towards you to weep:
But you were gone; while rustling hedgerow tops
Bent in a wind which bore to me a sound
Of far-off piteous bleat of lambs and sheep.
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Like a fool, with an unrecognized devotion,
I loved him deeply yet I wasn’t loved in return.
I got fed with all our irrational argumentation,
Often gave up, yet still had doubts if I’d end such relation.
Then I asked myself, shall I give him a chance?
Must I endure this unrequited love?
Hear thy mournful cries of trepidation and doubt,
“Why can’t I find the remnants of thy piteous heart?”
They say, better leave him and make a new start
But intense emotions of ambiguity would thwart.
Thus I tell myself, give him a second chance.
You’ll be happy soon; hold on though it’s an unrequited love.
Tears would then fall to somehow ease the sorrow
And try to veil the truth that thy heart cometh hollow.
But even if all tears’ dried up today ‘til tomorrow,
When all rains would halt, still, no rainbow will follow.
But I tell myself, wait for another chance.
That time maybe, he’ll learn, and it won’t be an unrequited love.
Years after, I still loved him amidst the endless plights.
He drained my soul; brought me to a black hole in life.
Thoughts that ‘I don’t deserve this’ amassed to greater heights
Then a string cut loose, I faced the sightless sight.
Now, I begged myself, none more of these chances.
Please, I plead, quit enduring this unrequited love!
Beneath a thousand twinkling stars in my windowpane,
Lies the most perfect replica of wishful thinking in suffering and pain---
My self with an unrequited love.
~Danessa Jutba~
Oct 22, 2011
Oct 22, 2011 at 5:23 AM UTC
It seemed that out of battle I escaped
Down some profound dull tunnel, long since scooped
Through granites which titanic wars had groined.
Yet also there encumbered sleepers groaned,
Too fast in thought or death to be bestirred.
Then ,as I probed them, one sprang up, and stared
With piteous recognition in fixed eyes,
Lifting distressful hands, as if to bless.
And by his smile, I knew that sullen hall, -
By his dead smile I knew we stood in Hell.
With a thousand pains that vision's face was grained;
Yet no blood reached there from the upper ground,
And no guns thumped, or down the flues made moan.
'Strange friend,' I said, 'here is no cause to mourn.'
'None,' said that other, 'save the undone years,
The hopelessness. Whatever hope is yours,
Was my life also; I went hunting wild
After the wildest beauty in the world,
Which lies not calm in eyes, or braided hair,
But mocks the steady running of the hour,
And if it grieves, grieves richlier than here.
For by my glee might many men have laughed,
And of my weeping something had been left,
Which must die now. I mean the truth untold,
The pity of war, the pity war distilled.
Now men will go content with what we spoiled,
Or, discontent, boil ****** and be spilled.
They will be swift with swiftness of the tigress.
None will break ranks, though nations trek from progress.
Courage was mine, and I had mystery,
Wisdom was mine, and I had mastery:
To miss the march of this retreating world
Into vain citadels that are not walled.
Then, when much blood had clogged their chariot-wheels,
I would go up and wash them from sweet wells,
Even with truths that lie too deep for taint.
I would have poured my spirit without stint
But not through wounds; not on the cess of war.
Foreheads of men have bled where no wounds were.
I am the enemy you killed, my friend.
I knew you in this dark: for so you frowned
Yesterday through me as you jabbed and killed.
I parried; but my hands were loath and cold.
Let us sleep now...'
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Of withering tempests screaming to the break of sunlight,
Of unrelenting wind and pounding rain, she stands
With her back to crashing waves and painful bellowing,
A weak induction of steady sighs and silent contemplation
Would perhaps bring a peaceful conclusion to the rage
And reproach of a Goddess stirring on the fringes of insanity.
But never would it have taken to fresh insanity,
The gentle swirling of confusion between glaring eyes and sunlight,
How she would wish never to part from the burning of rage
And leave a scorched shadow on the very place she stands.
Never did she desire for the learned art of contemplation
But instead found solace in a frozen lake of tears and bellowing.
At the end of such a night filled with harsh anxiety and frenzied bellowing,
She finds herself staring into the gleaming eyes of Insanity,
Who dwells in sweet and blissful contemplation
And harvests the piteous glow of sunlight
Such that any man would freeze and cease where he stands
And succumb to the urgings of exhilarating rage.
A chilling gust would release the embracing rage
And perhaps bring wishful silence to the obnoxious bellowing;
She feels her feet sinking through the sand and stands
out of reach from the tearing claws of Insanity.
Relief in the warmth of ethereal sunlight
Proves a worthy companion of contemplation.
Eudaimonia, she finds in her deep contemplation
Free of sorrow, empty and weary from her onslaught of rage,
She casts herself into the welcoming cracks of sunlight
And in Euphoria, she finds herself no longer bellowing,
The slow and steady pull of her chains toward Insanity
Break away and leave her where she stands.
In new light, she finds her strength and stands,
Embracing the drifting stream of wraithlike contemplation
Would send shivers and open wounds that might invite Insanity,
But turning around and gazing out into those waves might blind the Rage
And bring peaceful sighs to interrupt the senseless bellowing
Such that black clouds would give way to glorious sunlight.
To the death of Rage and the estrangement of Insanity,
The wistful bellowing banished in the silence of contemplation,
The Goddess stands with her back to the wind, tears dried by the warm sunlight.
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 1:07 PM UTC
Because our talk was of the cloud-control
And moon-track of the journeying face of Fate,
Her tremulous kisses faltered at love’s gate
And her eyes dreamed against a distant goal:
But soon, remembering her how brief the whole
Of joy, which its own hours annihilate,
Her set gaze gathered, thirstier than of late,
And as she kissed, her mouth became her soul.
Thence in what ways we wandered, and how strove
To build with fire-tried vows the piteous home
Which memory haunts and whither sleep may roam,—
They only know for whom the roof of Love
Is the still-seated secret of the grove,
Nor spire may rise nor bell be heard therefrom.
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THERE was a man whom Sorrow named his Friend,
And he, of his high comrade Sorrow dreaming,
Went walking with slow steps along the gleaming
And humming Sands, where windy surges wend:
And he called loudly to the stars to bend
From their pale thrones and comfort him, but they
Among themselves laugh on and sing alway:
And then the man whom Sorrow named his friend
Cried out, Dim sea, hear my most piteous story.!
The sea Swept on and cried her old cry still,
Rolling along in dreams from hill to hill.
He fled the persecution of her glory
And, in a far-off, gentle valley stopping,
Cried all his story to the dewdrops glistening.
But naught they heard, for they are always listening,
The dewdrops, for the sound of their own dropping.
And then the man whom Sorrow named his friend
Sought once again the shore, and found a shell,
And thought, I will my heavy story tell
Till my own words, re-echoing, shall send
Their sadness through a hollow, pearly heart;
And my own talc again for me shall sing,
And my own whispering words be comforting,
And lo! my ancient burden may depart.
Then he sang softly nigh the pearly rim;
But the sad dweller by the sea-ways lone
Changed all he sang to inarticulate moan
Among her wildering whirls, forgetting him.
2.4k
A quiet, broken smile graced her lips
And to the everyday it looked quite convincing
But it was deceiving because
At the moment she was
Indeed shattering, putting herself back
And shattering more
If her innards were out
You could see the spidering veins around her piteous heart
Of continual cracking
And if you looked close, without doubt
You could see, the original point of impact
And you'd know
There was nothing we could do for her
She passed on site, and time of death had been called
So had her former lover.
Although his response, 'I'm sorry, who?' was particularly painful.
But in his defense I will say that he was being the most honest of all of us.
I felt that I should've written something significant and profound for this morose little girl
But all that came was unworthy.
Instead I took the dear child to the place where I found most comfort.
There we lain in a decrepit old graveyard trying to relate to the dead.
Marble mausoleums mimicking my nightly resting place.
I happened upon a black witch moth which had gracened us with his company.
I sat there enraptured watching his nonsensical trail.
As he began his decent I had a most unsettling feeling nothing to do with countless bodies under head.
Upon a glistening tomb he made beautiful land.
I suddenly found myself creeping onward, praying reprieve.
The mariposa de la muerte fluttered not but an inch.
As I realized his demise, I gazed back to my bride
Only to find a black hooded shape disappear as I focused with a painfully sharp tone of finality.
Jul 22, 2013
Jul 22, 2013 at 7:31 PM UTC
they say
when we grow up
our demons
will fade away
but how come
as I grow up
all the monsters
and the scary bits
are becoming bigger
and as malicious as ever
how come
as I grow up
the devils find comfort
in the piteous chaos
that is my life
how come
the boogeyman
created a nook
under my pillow
and continues to stay
for as long as he wants
he tells me
there is no use
being afraid of the dark
for he will still be with me
even in the light
Apr 9, 2013
Apr 9, 2013 at 6:02 PM UTC
*sailing on the blue-sea
sailing unknown-beauty*..
1.
the seas laugh in raucous-hacks
as the waves cough up the corpses of my dreams
at my feet, they come in from the swell of tides
seeming no more than
spongy sea-weed with sun-skin points
bloated fish who didn't make it
swollen seals with child
and the blue-boy on the whale's back
confident-smiles draped upon his demeanour
like a well-worn cloak of old-comfort
soft and velvety secrets hide inside the folds
of his true-age and pure-soul
nobody would believe
how many trips he had to make
to get to this shore
how many deaths he had to live through
to understand the purpose
how many tears he saw shedding
of nature's total-patience
how many of so much..
2.
on the back of a whale
he traverses the width of seas
the span of lands
the points of stars
the truth of man
and he grieves the piteous-souls whose backs break
so hard
on the interminable-wheel of penitence
turning and grinding
grinding
grinding..
always bent upon that gauntlet-grind
if they but knew how futile the turn..
carrying loads of mercy and goodness
only to see it seep out wounds ere journey's end
3.
cruel deified-laughter exists not
at man's readiness to crucify hope
with such four-square certainty
that redemption lies in suffering..
oh no..
4.
faint sounds of laughter on a broad-coast
whose sands give way to shy-dossiers
of nature's confidence
in the evening sun
secrets that I neglected to see.. first time round
have I failed myself.. ?
(but not again)
when awareness taps one on the shoulder,
is it not utter-folly to turn one's back on resplendence
that all the leaves and seas are willing to share?
*true-beauty lies in covert-blossoms
and opened-eyes
and saying.. yes
when the sun-breeze
dawns*
S T - sunnyday, 24 Nov 2013
Nov 24, 2013
Nov 24, 2013 at 1:08 PM UTC
The moon, a sweeping scimitar, dipped in the stormy straits,
The dawn, a crimson cataract, burst through the eastern gates,
The cliffs were robed in scarlet, the sands were cinnabar,
Where first two men spread wings for flight and dared the hawk afar.
There stands the cunning workman, the crafty past all praise,
The man who chained the Minotaur, the man who built the Maze.
His young son is beside him and the boy's face is a light,
A light of dawn and wonder and of valor infinite.
Their great vans beat the cloven air, like eagles they mount up,
Motes in the wine of morning, specks in a crystal cup,
And lest his wings should melt apace old Daedalus flies low,
But Icarus beats up, beats up, he goes where lightnings go.
He cares no more for warnings, he rushes through the sky,
Braving the crags of ether, daring the gods on high,
Black 'gainst the crimson sunset, golden o'er cloudy snows,
With all Adventure in his heart the first winged man arose.
Dropping gold, dropping gold, where the mists of morning rolled,
On he kept his way undaunted, though his breaths were stabs of cold,
Through the mystery of dawning that no mortal may behold.
Now he shouts, now he sings in the rapture of his wings,
And his great heart burns intenser with the strength of his desire,
As he circles like a swallow, wheeling, flaming, gyre on gyre.
Gazing straight at the sun, half his pilgrimage is done,
And he staggers for a moment, hurries on, reels backward, swerves
In a rain of scattered feathers as he falls in broken curves.
Icarus, Icarus, though the end is piteous,
Yet forever, yea, forever we shall see thee rising thus,
See the first supernal glory, not the ruin hideous.
You were Man, you who ran farther than our eyes can scan,
Man absurd, gigantic, eager for impossible Romance,
Overthrowing all Hell's legions with one warped and broken lance.
On the highest steeps of Space he will have his dwelling-place,
In those far, terrific regions where the cold comes down like Death
Gleams the red glint of his pinions, smokes the vapor of his breath.
Floating downward, very clear, still the echoes reach the ear
Of a little tune he whistles and a little song he sings,
Mounting, mounting still, triumphant, on his torn and broken wings!
2.4k
What if this present were the world’s last night?
Mark in my heart, O soul, where thou dost dwell,
The picture of Christ crucified, and tell
Whether that countenance can thee affright,
Tears in his eyes quench the amazing light,
Blood fills his frowns, which from his pierced head fell.
And can that tongue adjudge thee unto hell,
Which prayed forgiveness for his foes’ fierce spite?
No, no; but as in my idolatry
I said to all my profane mistresses,
Beauty, of pity, foulness only is
A sign of rigour: so I say to thee,
To wicked spirits are horrid shapes assigned,
This beauteous form assures a piteous mind.
2.3k
Red lips are not so red
As the stained stones kissed by the English dead.
Kindness of wooed and wooer
Seems shame to their love pure.
O Love, your eyes lose lure
When I behold eyes blinded in my stead!
Your slender attitude
Trembles not exquisite like limbs knife-skewed,
Rolling and rolling there
Where God seems not to care;
Till the fierce love they bear
Cramps them in death's extreme decrepitude.
Your voice sings not so soft,-
Though even as wind murmuring through raftered loft,-
Your dear voice is not dear,
Gentle, and evening clear,
As theirs whom none now hear,
Now earth has stopped their piteous mouths that coughed.
Heart, you were never hot
Nor large, nor full like hearts made great with shot;
And though your hand be pale,
Paler are all which trail
Your cross through flame and hail:
Weep, you may weep, for you may touch them not.
2k
A click here
and a click there
taking snaps everywhere
at the age of living carefree
our generation is obsessed with selfie
with a stick in our hand
everywhere we stand -
feeling sick
let's take a pic
going to party
don't forget the photography
every single moment is;
captured as if was a bliss!
fake smiles captured with a flick
but we never get bored of taking click
we are loosing the compassion
in no way we are human
we don't help the one in need;
fish our camera and take snaps instead
portraying poor and their poverty
the name and fame won't help them any
All they want is may be a piece of bread
but the human in us is already dead!
all we do is take a click
Believe me all this is a sh*t!
Extended verse -
we have strong opinion on social media
but in actual world we suffer anemia
we like, comment and share;
when action is needed all we do is stare
such piteous is our condition
we can't stand in unison
and so its easy to break us
else what the hell is this ISIS
Apr 5, 2016
Apr 5, 2016 at 5:42 AM UTC
‘He who rises from prayer a better man, his prayer is answered’
- George Meredith
In the solemn silence of the cathedral
Close to the 'sanctum sanctorum'
Away from the din of the world
I sat in prayer for hours
In deep adoration as I sat with eyes closed
Envisioning Him at the inmost shrine of my heart
I sensed His living touch all over my body
The one without form lifted me in His arms
Like a child clinging to a caring father
I opened my heart before Him
Placed my life’s burdens at His feet
Asked for gifts my frail hands could hold!
Coming out, relieved and enriched
At the gate I was greeted by a beggar
Dressed in rags, his hair lying wildly matted
With sores in his body, he looked a piteous sight
In his outstretched hands was a begging bowl
His lips were pleading in silence
From my bounty, I gave him something
And saw the glitter in his hazy eyes
Can I ever discriminate him
When we both do the same thing
While he begs before me outside the shrine
I beg before the Lord inside the shrine!
Mar 27, 2017
Mar 27, 2017 at 7:39 AM UTC
The upland flocks grew starved and thinned:
Their shepherds scarce could feed the lambs
Whose milkless mothers butted them,
Or who were orphaned of their dams.
The lambs athirst for mother's milk
Filled all the place with piteous sounds:
Their mothers' bones made white for miles
The pastureless wet pasture grounds.
Day after day, night after night,
From lamb to lamb the shepherds went,
With teapots for the bleating mouths
Instead of nature's nourishment.
The little shivering gaping things
Soon knew the step that brought them aid,
And fondled the protecting hand,
And rubbed it with a woolly head.
Then, as the days waxed on to weeks,
It was a pretty sight to see
These lambs with frisky heads and tails
Skipping and leaping on the lea,
Bleating in tender, trustful tones,
Resting on rocky crag or mound,
And following the beloved feet
That once had sought for them and found.
These very shepherds of their flocks,
These loving lambs so meek to please,
Are worthy of recording words
And honor in their due degrees:
So I might live a hundred years,
And roam from strand to foreign strand,
Yet not forget this flooded spring
And scarce-saved lambs of Westmoreland.
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