"presides" poems
Sometimes being unique is a hassle
When you're in a castle
Where everyone is the same
And no one's like you
There's no one to talk to
They don't know your music
Or read poetry
You don't share the money
That drips like honey from their clothes
You don't like rap
Which is readily on tap
You're not athletic
Makes you feel pathetic
You feel so alone
Unknown
They're all such clones
Same hair
Same clothes
Same likes and dislikes
What's an outsider to do?
You end up left out
In a dark corner where nothing presides
Divides you from everyone else.
Sometimes being different is a hassle
When you live in a castle
Where being different is frowned upon.
Aug 17, 2014
Aug 17, 2014 at 10:15 PM UTC
They tell us, sir, that we are weak; unable to cope with so formidable an adversary. But when shall we be stronger? Will it be the next week, or the next year? Will it be when we are totally disarmed, and when a British guard shall be stationed in every house? Shall we gather strength by irresolution and inaction? Shall we acquire the means of effectual resistance by lying supinely on our backs and hugging the delusive phantom of hope, until our enemies shall have bound us hand and foot? Sir, we are not weak if we make a proper use of those means which the God of nature hath placed in our power. The millions of people, armed in the holy cause of liberty, and in such a country as that which we possess, are invincible by any force which our enemy can send against us. Besides, sir, we shall not fight our battles alone. There is a just God who presides over the destinies of nations, and who will raise up friends to fight our battles for us. The battle, sir, is not to the strong alone; it is to the vigilant, the active, the brave. Besides, sir, we have no election. If we were base enough to desire it, it is now too late to retire from the contest. There is no retreat but in submission and slavery! Our chains are forged! Their clanking may be heard on the plains of Boston! The war is inevitable--and let it come! I repeat it, sir, let it come.
It is in vain, sir, to extenuate the matter. Gentlemen may cry, Peace, Peace-- but there is no peace. The war is actually begun! The next gale that sweeps from the north will bring to our ears the clash of resounding arms! Our brethren are already in the field! Why stand we here idle? What is it that gentlemen wish? What would they have? Is life so dear, or peace so sweet, as to be purchased at the price of chains and slavery? Forbid it, Almighty God! I know not what course others may take; but as for me, give me liberty or give me death!
Mar 21, 2014
Mar 21, 2014 at 8:13 AM UTC
The withered gorse
gives a glint of her golden hue
amongst Winters cumular invitation,
whose ember leaves mire
neath the creaking boughs.
The forge in the village
with its hard working blacksmith
presides by mornings emerald gown
of aconites blithely swaying in the churchyard.
The dormant headlands'
silent yearnings jostles,
with the arcane wind ;
plying against the piebald sky,
whose tales refuse to ring hollow.
Jan 15, 2014
Jan 15, 2014 at 1:02 PM UTC
Rocking back and forth, side to side
Utter silence in our sphere presides
A look, no a glance I dare throw in your way
Pleading, seeking a sympathetic glare
Pride lurks like a lion in hunt
Neither one dares oppose its might
Instead love pays the price over shame
Eternal sadness swings in our way
The winter's cold grasps our hearts
Mute, lifeless as the frosty leaf
A new plight to our shore comes
As I look behind with love and grief
Feb 12, 2012
Feb 12, 2012 at 8:05 AM UTC
The rain left an a stamp on time
like a postcard to mother nature,
making the drops on the grass into new
modern language to make contact with
some sort of transcendent hazy dynamo
that presides in metaphysical invisibility.
Apr 21, 2015
Apr 21, 2015 at 4:08 PM UTC
i must be the only one
who finds sparrows
amusing outside my window
filled with song,
the same in me trying to imitate
their song with a range of onomatopoeias
never written (thankfully, poets
who write sparrows' song, may you
be disgraced, chirp chirp,
beat-box that **** elsewhere, where
you're welcome by admirers),
the same in me laughing
at the kangaroo hops
unable to use both feet to walk
in the guttering of the carcass plateau of crows...
but there my laugh,
like the last whims of a pope when a robin presides
over the ritual outside the window on the sill...
i find pronouns unable to capture
timing, a class of words for standing still,
they just can't capture timing, they're space
orientated, a man of 70 will say the same
of a man aged 20 about a woman,
but both will be idiotic about the size of
her earrings concerning her promiscuity:
bigger the earring, the bigger the need to feed
her juiced up genitalia lips...
warm **** and cold mouth,
some say in reverse: getting ****** off
is like ice-cream being eaten...
and cold in reverse would give you circumcision
defined lawfully as **** a cold genital
assertion of womanhood will peel the skin
right off... ask for a cake you''ll be welcome
away from the bony **** of your hand's embrace...
perhaps marriage... and that cold mouth
that encompasses all hidden glaciers;
still, the **** is about sparrows in rain rain gutters
hopping along to the orchestra playing only
one tune that's ha ha ha.
all in all, when aroused, one hole warms
up the other cools down... the third?
don't know, don't care, apparently it's exhilarating,
trying to turn men onto all three
and away from homosexuality,
with the fourth (woman's ego) being missed...
could never equate that to a phallus and a hole...
i always felt ***** by that thing, the fourth dimension
once the **** was explored... it's all Dostoevsky after that...
everything is permitted, no deity exists,
i guess a the end is required of such a poem as this.
Feb 14, 2016
Feb 14, 2016 at 10:20 AM UTC
To cultivate in ev’ry noble mind
Habitual grace, and sentiments refin’d,
Thus while you strive to mend the human heart,
Thus while the heav’nly precepts you impart,
O may each ***** catch the sacred fire,
And youthful minds to Virtue’s throne aspire!
When God’s eternal ways you set in sight,
And Virtue shines in all her native light,
In vain would Vice her works in night conceal,
For Wisdom’s eye pervades the sable veil.
Artists may paint the sun’s effulgent rays,
But Amory’s pen the brighter God displays:
While his great works in Amory’s pages shine,
And while he proves his essence all divine,
The Atheist sure no more can boast aloud
Of chance, or nature, and exclude the God;
As if the clay without the potter’s aid
Should rise in various forms, and shapes self-made,
Or worlds above with orb o’er orb profound
Self-mov’d could run the everlasting round.
It cannot be—unerring Wisdom guides
With eye propitious, and o’er all presides.
Still prosper, Amory! still may’st thou receive
The warmest blessings which a muse can give,
And when this transitory state is o’er,
When kingdoms fall, and fleeting Fame’s no more,
May Amory triumph in immortal fame,
A nobler title, and superior name!
1.9k
Scornful Seed
On this stony shore I bleed for a lost people in highest need
Drowning in the access of privilege abused
From the awe of dawn till bathed sun set quietly we pollute
Our moral heritage decimated while we our conscience sear
A superior man of the bar trembles in anticipation of judgment
Enter the proud the brash untold misdeeds that scar the soul
Soon purist scrutiny all will detect guilt filled torment
What could have been? Serenity still as the moon
Old glory presides over a house newly divided
Space fixed ocean land coexist air tenderly the earth adorns
Nature abides souls of this republic were once to God undivided
Every pore and fiber of their being alive by his word
Assurance our spirit’s armor all enemies vanquished
Envied by the highest monarch individual men set to rule
This new pristine forest green cascading rivers splashed
Master piece of greatest design Puritans by hardship never mashed
With mighty voice and pen they confirmed liberty freedom self evident
Fairness and truth ruled by tempered mercy
Mob rule gave way to reason with in all it is resident
Our collected greatness could be viewed in one B.C. MR President
The price Concord Valley Forge Gettysburg to name a few
Our home land’s safest guard isn’t soldiers and armaments
Prayer the best weapon held by those who have heaven in view
Continued peace and restoration of prosperity is his to renew
Nov 24, 2011
Nov 24, 2011 at 3:45 PM UTC
( for my former cat, Charlie)
Bastet slits green eyes
ancient protector of women
& children
under the iron slither of a moon
The Nile dances in her veins
as she draws near
& the last rattlesnake
breath of a mouse dances
under her.
What philosopher
could paint her grace
& viciousness
at once
or apples bobbed
at Halloween
at which she
presides in all her
ebony & majesty
Aug 1, 2015
Aug 1, 2015 at 12:25 PM UTC
Away, ye gay landscapes, ye gardens of roses!
In you let the minions of luxury rove:
Restore me the rocks, where the snow-flake reposes,
Though still they are sacred to freedom and love:
Yet, Caledonia, belov’d are thy mountains,
Round their white summits though elements war:
Though cataracts foam ’stead of smooth-flowing fountains,
I sigh for the valley of dark Loch na Garr.
Ah! there my young footsteps in infancy, wander’d:
My cap was the bonnet, my cloak was the plaid;
On chieftains, long perish’d, my memory ponder’d,
As daily I strode through the pine-cover’d glade;
I sought not my home, till the day’s dying glory
Gave place to the rays of the bright polar star;
For fancy was cheer’d, by traditional story,
Disclos’d by the natives of dark Loch na Garr.
“Shades of the dead! have I not heard your voices
Rise on the night-rolling breath of the gale?”
Surely, the soul of the hero rejoices,
And rides on the wind, o’er his own Highland vale!
Round Loch na Garr, while the stormy mist gathers,
Winter presides in his cold icy car:
Clouds, there, encircle the forms of my Fathers;
They dwell in the tempests of dark Loch na Garr.
“Ill starr’d, though brave, did no visions foreboding
Tell you that fate had forsaken your cause?”
Ah! were you destined to die at Culloden,
Victory crown’d not your fall with applause:
Still were you happy, in death’s earthy slumber,
You rest with your clan, in the caves of Braemar;
The Pibroch resounds, to the piper’s loud number,
Your deeds, on the echoes of dark Loch na Garr.
Years have roll’d on, Loch na Garr, since I left you,
Years must elapse, ere I tread you again:
Nature of verdure and flowers has bereft you,
Yet still are you dearer than Albion’s plain:
England! thy beauties are tame and domestic,
To one who has rov’d on the mountains afar:
Oh! for the crags that are wild and majestic,
The steep, frowning glories of dark Loch na Garr.
1.7k
Is the system just?
Is it fair to the end?
Or do those with more innocent looks win?
Unjust rampages spur on till justice presides,
Long winded breaks.
So the guilty may hide,
The fight back and forth.
Won with bills and laws,
It's still so unclear to see those hidden claws.
But in the end a winner appears,
Leaving one to ask.
"Was a winner ever truly here"?
Apr 16, 2016
Apr 16, 2016 at 10:42 AM UTC
Crackling. Rocking. Crackling. Creaking and oscillating, a century old Mahogany Wood seceded to the paSsage of time.
Particles of sand, confounded by the Peninsula’s chaotic, blasting breeze now revealed a shade of burnt tar.
Outside of the second floor Maissonette, sways the rocking chair once warmed by Grandpa.
A Tactless, impatient, rhythmic Requiem Bashes near the wiNdow pane as the sunset falls Under the frame.
Empty Folklore presides like the Residue of a once lambent effigy… SwOosh. Hush!
Cocktails were a Preamble to lunch like diabetes to Nephropathy.
Corrosive Rhetoric seeped in to expose the ego of a Sommelier.
A smile would Parachute down when you needed it like Nicotine to remind that no Precedent had been set, just an Anomaly.
Cutthroat beginnings, this was no Analog man.
In grade school his Cosmos found Zion and “The world to come”.
This baby’s Cradle, abandoned High atop a mountain was blown by a Chinook towards the Atlantic.
“I was found swallowed in a stained Table cloth by Balkan children on a treasure hunt, with no Guarantee and no resignatIon. "
The boTtle narrates these chronicles and a smile parachutes down when you need it like nicotine.
Dionysus Crafted his accounts while most Garnered his spiels with Snide. As they witnessed dream remembrance; he thought his memory was Presumably accurate, and although his tales were triFling to the gathering audience, they became his Heliocentric history.
Calling me a young Galleon and handing me a map, Grandpa scanned his hand across the vast land
guaranteeing trEasure would be found if I had no resignation.
This Asinine assertion to my teenage sister Symbolized the Barring of her unheeding imagination by time and then a smile parachuted down just when she needed it like nicotine.
_TRF
Dec 14, 2016
Dec 14, 2016 at 11:13 AM UTC
me gustas cuando me miras así,
con esas ganas que no se saben disimular;
eres un rey,
eres mi rey.
tus besos de cafe,
tus pestañas largas de niño,
Tus ojos entre-cerrados;
Eres un rey,
Eres mi rey.
Eres un rey,
Los modales de una nobleza extinta,
Tu nariz aristócrata,
Tu piel de emperador Azteca;
Eres mi rey.
Este cuerpo,
Esclavo tuyo,
Mi rey,
Te espera,
Te cumple,
Te quiere.
Eres un rey,
Eres mi rey.
Ordenas con tus dedos,
Mandas con los labios,
Dictas con tu lengua....
Comandas cada guerra,
Mi rey,
Que empieza en mi corazón,
Y eres el general
Que solo sabe ganar..
Presides de las pequeñas montañas
Que son mis pechos así,
De el río de deseo que sabes empezar en mi,
Reinas en mi alma,
Que florece con tus besos,
Eres un rey,
Eres mi rey.
Feb 19, 2013
Feb 19, 2013 at 1:17 AM UTC
Peerless profundities profusely proffered,
Produce prolapse and propensities pro-fluent,
Presumption presides, practitioners pilfer,
Perception perfunctory, penance penurious.
Dec 24, 2011
Dec 24, 2011 at 11:10 PM UTC
A praying mantis presides
Over and over
A congregation of fools
Assuming a God-like position,
Predicting today, predicting forever.
He preaches, the act of holiness,
The act of reality,
Where smooching is divine,
A path to miracle.
But miracles do occur
The deaf became dumb,
The dumb became deaf,
The healthy became sick,
The sick became dead,
The dead….I wonder !
Apr 8, 2011
Apr 8, 2011 at 4:13 PM UTC
A tranquil silence presides as night arrives and the moon begins to shine
Wolves stand upon rocks in their thick grey locks and howl at twelve o’ clock
An immutable drip from the precipitation slips and splashes upon a surface
as does a tear that gracefully falls from the face with a purpose.
Leaves occasionally rustle amongst themselves and the grass giggles
The margins of my brain begin to echo eerily to the rhythm of nothing,
like an acappella that is performed by a tone deaf woodpecker with no beak.
Stargazer’s eyes become mystified as they stare at the sleeping sky
watching the sea of stars twinkle to the beat of dead space.
Crickets crick a hook like they are stuck on one being used as fishing bait
A streaming river in the distance whistles a soothing, harmonious lull,
and the biting wind whispers mellifluously just like a flute
As closed eyes listen to an orchestra perform like that of a church,
and midnight is when the service begins.
Apr 1, 2013
Apr 1, 2013 at 11:50 AM UTC
an azure hue
presides over our bush patch
an azure hue
such an imposing shade of blue
brilliant the colour in dispatch
of its resplendence there's no match
an azure hue
Apr 11, 2018
Apr 11, 2018 at 8:44 PM UTC
The long, lonely, misty road
You can’t see what’s around you
The moon reflecting the mist
And the pain that’s inside you
I gave away my vision
To an image I had portrayed
Then became stuck in the realm
Where my mind became constrained
No way to stay in control
A quake resides inside me
That is just waiting to blow
The cold truth that presides me
If it wasn’t so hurtful
I wouldn’t want to *****
Deep tunnels twisted in knots
I regret what I promised
I thought that I had made right
The all that I left for you
As these sporadic events
Are all piecing together
It’s really quite eerie
To see the dots all align
Yet they began as a blur
As if they were mystified
So I am walking this road
A road with no where to go
It feels like it’s just a test
To an outcome that’s untold
But I keep walking the road
As I hold on to my hope
For it is all that guides me
Till the answer provides me.
Mar 11, 2013
Mar 11, 2013 at 1:50 PM UTC
Dusty drapes ripped to shreds
Pristine carpets now flecked with mould
Windy gusts blow through the windows
Time ticking, growing old
Pots and clocks shivering in the cold
A lone candelabra giving heat
Looming gargoyles' fixated glares
A petal falls, smelling sweet
He presides over a hollow husk
A castle once proud now disguised
Unkempt greenery peeking between cracked bricks
This new reality, he denies
Fearsome howls cut through the air
Echoing his fight so resolute
Torn canvas of family paintings
Reflecting the Beast's solitude
May 13, 2016
May 13, 2016 at 11:46 AM UTC
A pumpkin-colored limo arrives at the curb
of the black-and-white gala. Housemaid
overnight transformed to debutante
strides from the rear door to overwhelm
the party of common beauties. How
all gasp to view the delicacy of each
step in her long-gown procession to
the powerful, polished, marble floor of nobility.
There, unknown to the grand society, she twirls
and touches fingertips to those of the
ambassador, who is looking not for goodness,
but for beauty, who is believing the two
come together in one body here on earth.
The swelling, graceful energy that will
be passed on to future story-loving ears
rips apart the subdued elegance of the night.
Before the middle of the darkness, she slips
out of society’s sight, given over to a
sacred vow that only she can understand–
a transformative voice that guides her hours.
An object, much like my own body, connects
the spheres of magical and practical,
of night-time dreaminess and day-time
weariness–that sliver of land I understand.
Then a foot-hold on earth, a lost shoe, a link
to all evening romance, presides over
the public sentiment. Citizens desire
to align themselves with everlasting goodness.
Out of the cinders of hot fire gone cold
and lost, the steadfast inquiry continues,
until we arrive at the judgment that frees
us from our poverty and enslavement.
A single, white shoe may lift us
and step us toward such bliss.
May 6, 2015
May 6, 2015 at 10:34 AM UTC
Zeus himself presides over the ferrying of these souls,
Zion awaits them, their final collective fate at hand,
Yet slowly it turns its back upon them,
Xenophanes mocks from his post,
Wailing, they fall
Velocity increasing infinitely,
Until they see no more the lustrous light
Trapped eternally in dark
Stabbed with betrayal and fear, their souls
Run amok, fleeing from the source of their anguish
Questioning existence.
Periodically in the abyss, the helpless aggregate conscious is
Overwhelmed with memory of Paradise
Now to them denied for eternity.
Mephisto remains, their only companion,
Leeching from them the final vestiges of hope now left within, once
Kept hidden to protect the warriors, now
Jabbed and pummeled to death.
In this state of perpetual umbra
Heaven so distant, now only faded, as if on parchment,
Gained by the souls is a sense of locality, once
Forgotten but now reattained, and
En masse, the group instantly
Derives that they have returned from beyond the mortal plane, the terra once again
Collates beneath their soles, and the collective decides they must return
Before the open sun, to bear themselves
Against the gods, against sanctity itself, and thus they cry:
May 7, 2012
May 7, 2012 at 1:44 AM UTC
They swore I’d be that girl
The pitiable dissenter, to whom
You would not dare confide your thoughts
Or allow one moment of your time
But I’ll leave a shadow in your heedless heart
A place I once called home
Where destiny was wrongly scribed
And cruelty ceaselessly presides
On the dusty mantle, now shall sit
In this pale and vacant room
The portrait of a son, a life
Bartered for your vain delights
Enjoy the silence.
Jul 5, 2010
Jul 5, 2010 at 3:01 PM UTC
Close your eyes, lock the doors,
close your mind, a prison bolt
slam it shut.
Monsters are knocking, haste
harassment, starved,
armies full, of them.
Flood, flushing, drowning
me out, a rat in a gutter
ignoring its snare.
Snarling, wishing to feast, my
blood they so crave, vampires
blood suckers of dusk.
Passing the dis-ease, my
executions pass, the dis-ease
of this very age.
Blood is dripping, empty
carcass stripped bare, feed
from all there is of me.
On the inside, still locked away
my soul was taken, nightly theft
you have all of me, ****** harm.
My soul sits, waiting, as you pass
by my street,
my family clones, embraced at home.
Drink me up, make it quick,
**** me dry,
dear Carmen please don't cry.
It's all an alibi, one that sings,
as a lullaby,
a secret way out.
Passages behind closed, library
doors, caging me, in this
locked out house.
Bourbon and ***** forced,
oozing through, pores
seeping.
Alcohol weeps, tears,
skin cuts, red weapons,
a tyranny of pain.
Veins bleed, from single malt,
monsters watching me, cough
it all up.
Throwing a loop, I allow
them to jump,
through open shoots.
Private nights, protect me
from what I seek,
so desperately, a leak in the system.
A breach in oath, suicide presides,
my life starts to be,
brushed aside.
You made me this way, and I ask
why continue to stay,
you continue to make me pay.
My lover, my friend, my life,
it's nothing more,
than endless strife.
*For you,
for you
for you.*
I'd do almost anything.
© Sia Jane
Feb 18, 2014
Feb 18, 2014 at 9:33 AM UTC
A brief sense of history takes over my olfactory lobes
Sniffing, I smell ancient burnt bricks and lime mortar
My hands reach for the uneven floor piled with ages of dust and the ragged walls portraying a dull grey...
Reminiscent of the times lost and stabbed by cruel hands of destiny...
Pieces of carvings of flowers and animals lay scattered on the frozen grounds
An eerie stillness presides over them causing my heart to tremble in an unknown sorrow...
Statues, full and broken seem to lay all over as if knocked out by the ravages of time...
Time...
What enigma is this time? Like a vain ruler, it rules over the ruin...unaffected by the lost happiness of this once glorious kingdom...
Darkness is the new king and silence the queen
That reigns terror in this empty palace day and night
Roots seem to have penetrated into its giant stone of a heart...
And wild birds have found a shelter in its once forbidden chambers...
I wander aimlessly pondering over the sights I see...
The full moon shines on my face through a crack in the roof...
As if wondering about the purpose of my visit into this empty land
I remain silent feeling the chill of mystery that surrounds my soul...
I suddenly realise that I feel solace in this vacancy... That same vacancy tries to reign over my heart... shredding it into pieces...
Maybe that is why I can so much sympathise with this non living entity...
It is as if my mind and the mind of this ancient structure are one and the same...
We seem to connect to each other, like old lost friends...
For who better can understand the essence of a ruin other than the one whose life feels like a ruin...
Tired I lay over it's bare ground feeling the memories of the days gone by...The ringing laughters,the shedded tears ,the spilled secrets and the peace lost forever...
Time passed over on the wings of a bat...
And finally an ancient sleep took over...!
Nov 30, 2020
Nov 30, 2020 at 8:45 AM UTC