"plaints" poems
Whence came his feet into my field, and why?
How is it that he sees it all so drear?
How do I see his seeing, and how hear
The name his bitter silence knows it by?
This was the little fold of separate sky
Whose pasturing clouds in the soul’s atmosphere
Drew living light from one continual year:
How should he find it lifeless? He, or I?
Lo! this new Self now wanders round my field,
With plaints for every flower, and for each tree
A moan, the sighing wind’s auxiliary:
And o’er sweet waters of my life, that yield
Unto his lips no draught but tears unseal’d,
Even in my place he weeps. Even I, not he.
2.1k
Wreaths of mist swirled up into the cold air
As I looked at my grave in despair.
It was in disrepair and could not be saved.
Am I such a depraved knave that
I was waived my rights for a better place of interment?
I can not get over the convalesce
that this will be my permanent address.
I played the saint.
A saint I'm ain't.
No one heard my plaints.
But I heard your complaints.
Gave you tainted words.
No wonder I am where I am.
Wreaths of mist swirled up into the cold air
as I said my prayers.
A foursquare refusal to yield
to this grave, to this field.
To life and all it's strife.
To death and it's last breath.
I blocked my ears to the whispers
and it did stop the fate spinners.
Leaving destiny
at my mercy.
Dec 19, 2014
Dec 19, 2014 at 6:39 PM UTC
Manichaeism is Quite Wrong, You Know
“…without God and immortal life? All things are lawful then….”
-Ivan, The Brothers Karamazov
If there are no boundaries, there is no freedom
With nothing to push against, one’s strength must fail
If God is not, then one can make no plaints
And must take on a burden that can’t exist
If man is never told no, there is no Yes
For him to answer then against the no
And if there is no Yes, there is nothing at all
There is no dichotomy, only the Yes
If there are no boundaries, there is no Yes
And man must cease in silent nothingness
Aug 29, 2018
Aug 29, 2018 at 3:41 PM UTC
Drunk girl crying in the parking lot
Always begins her ‘plaints with “I”
Dull boy whining on an email screen
Always begins his notes with “I”
Mean girl screaming in the shopping mall
Always begins her rage with “I”
Sad boy ******* on a cigarette
Always begins his verse with “I”
‘Lone girl staring at a tv set
Always begins her sigh with “I”
And why?
Because they overdose on I, ME, MY
Jun 12, 2018
Jun 12, 2018 at 1:55 PM UTC
I hope I can
remember my mother
with kindness and joy
someday;
to forget the long agony
of watching her disappear into herself,
disappearing into a somewhere I have no ken,
leaving only the angry husk of an ego
so ornery it leaves one
breathless with rage.
I hope I can resurrect her
in my heart someday, some day, and
remember the lovely things she did for us all.
I hope she reappears to me in light and gossamer, as she once did,
in fey jokes and laughter uncontrollable,
in food well cooked and delicious, thoughtful of health
and healing.
I hope I forget the plaints and sorrows soon. Yes, soon.
Sooner.
Soonest.
I hope my love for her will rectify me.
c. June 15, 2013
Roberta Compton Rainwater
Mar 22, 2015
Mar 22, 2015 at 12:52 PM UTC
black-hole sun
cosmic sinkhole
the weight of a planet
choking ocean-
great eye of cheese in the sky
with asphyxiating hunger for novelty
carrion eye strip the meat from the meat
dress down every filet to the last
dressed to the nines in dead meat
dead meat
dead meat everything
the rainbow over the styx
the drowned souls aglow in the light
the iridescent broadcast
the love and peace proclaimant muting and disintegrated
the globular cacophony our delicatessen echoic plaints
the glutton is
the glutton belied is
is the glutton with eyes like saucer plates is
is is gobbling sausage links
cities of statues
patchworked fleshy kin
people-holes
the gullet ceases to churn
its cavernous ouroboros maw
swallowing eternally
vacuum destiny
Jan 30, 2016
Jan 30, 2016 at 2:07 AM UTC
the loon sings
his songs,
the night wind
wafts his plaints
over the black water to us,
sitting on the dock
in the silence
of a Maine Summer night.
Sep 7, 2016
Sep 7, 2016 at 10:00 AM UTC
Years of nothing, bliss
Trivial com plaints, placent
Years in a day, lost
Sep 15, 2016
Sep 15, 2016 at 3:29 AM UTC
winter just around the corner
yes i can smell it
i am really that old
i feel the plaints quiver
i smell it in the air
and winter for me is bad
for you are no longer here
no warming body
next to me in the sack
but i think of you old lady
and remember the good times we had
Jul 28, 2012
Jul 28, 2012 at 4:37 PM UTC
Les rumeurs du jardin disent qu'il va pleuvoir ;
Tout tressaille, averti de la prochaine ondée :
Et toi qui ne lis plus, sur ton livre accoudée,
Plaints-tu l'absent aimé qui ne pourra te voir ?
Là-bas, plaint son aile et mouillé sous l'ombrage,
Banni de l'horizon qu'il n'atteint que des yeux,
Appelant sa compagne et regardant les cieux,
Un ramier, comme toi, soupire de l'orage.
Laissez pleuvoir, ô cœurs solitaires et doux !
Sous l'orage qui passe il renaît tant de choses,
Le soleil sans la pluie ouvrirait-il les roses ?
Amants, vous attendez, de quoi vous plaignez-vous ?
337