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The X Rhymes Apr 24
it’s not difficult to measure
what’s gained and what is lost
to buy now, pay at leisure
to Hell with what it costs

since failsafes are not fool proof
and yours has failed before
uncomfortable, like any truth
but that is Murphy’s Law

that anything that can go wrong
more than likely will
press ahead and before long
you’re landed with the bill

when taking sticks and poking snakes
you’re only tempting fate
payback’s a ***** make no mistake
the universe can’t wait

and that’s when **** will happen
and outcomes are deserved
it’s a well established pattern
when caution’s been reserved

so don’t bemoan the consequence
when falling through the floor
costs you more than pounds and pence
provoking Murphy’s Law
Universal truth. Although pounds and pence localises it somewhat. Substitute dolliars and cents if you like. Other countries can add their own currency, so long as it rhymes.
On the night of initiation,
curves of pale luster began to gleam unwrinkled from the darkened divots along the lunar surface
A perspective unseen for so long, it was viewed as a defaulted “wink” on the face of the moon
And therefore, forgotten, unmentioned, until it’s means were sought  

From days ‘fore, and long since now dust
Scribing authors, secrete beads of frenzy  into ink filled phial
Sending tremors down, into the quill tip
Filling scrolls for permanence in a preemptive defense against continuous unraveling thoughts would befall
this fluency into incoherent clutter  

Pioneers of preprint in a provoking tome,
would speak educated reasons why these areas of Moon had been locked under sealed dark punishment

since Empedocles mixed cosmic elements to breed an undeniable proving truth

Exhibiting the myth of danger
The established absolute and supervening fizzling sunset
proving the existence of love...


“Since I have given you words from my within
like the ecliptic rising and burning massive,
Our mutual visibility of late is either one-sided
short lived
I’ll take a detour around the comforts of romance
And try to talk my way into your pants
By tossing at you, letters squeezed together,
for your minds transcription into the heart of my subliminal write  
In hopes you’ll feel a trickling gush
If I get really lucky these words will find you like a volcano erupts a ****
The same way water, beating against years of stone can fall
And crash through a dam with pouring force so insatiable it’s territory is marked in history
BR Dragos Aug 27
Sadly enough there are philosophers in this world
who have no questions to answer and
nothing to theorize about
All the thought provoking practices
have apparently been consumed, have
been done into extinction, devoured and
digested and shat
It is over
Humanity has no mysteries left
for the mysteries have no humanity
and are therefore heartless and soulless
and a waste of time

There is nothing left to discover
The world is a big play but all the
characters and all the scenes and all the
settings and the interactions have been
discovered as to ultimately rob us of the
sense of journey

Now it's like we just exist here
Perhaps to worship those who existed
before us and discovered all things for us
To stand in their shadow and bask
in the knowing that we will never create a
new poem or a new novel anymore than we
will design a never before seen color

Only that which I have never seen before
might qualify as new, and only to me, for
the concept of new can never be universal

And the more new things I see, the less
new things I see
and the less value they bear
Old people will agree to this
And the rest, they will grow old one day
When the senses will wear out and the
ear will know that music is made
out by the same
and the eye will know that
all the colors are the same colors
mixed differently

Ultimately the mind will understand that
all ideas are the same idea told
and heard differently
and passed along differently

And the idea says that happiness
starts with being and ends
with thinking

or perhaps this is only how I think of it
or how you hear it
The Mellon Oct 2018
People are beautiful,


Pretty people please a perverted industry,
Of powerful men
Preferring **** to passion to progress,

Preferring ******* productions over
#metoo protests
As mr. president likes to grab 'em by the p..

Provoking pain-passing-fists
Pulsating pro-rights protests,
Journalists plee for coverage praying no one pulls a
Knife and produces plumes of blood from the press
All while
Young picassos paint Guernica in America.

A broken people of a nation perpatrating hate-

Where red plus blue can only make purple-
But dark blue and dark red parish and persecuted plee for due process?

Plain racism profoundly perpatrates power and policy because polititions prefer power over people!

A parchment in hand is worth two poor people on the shores of Philippine islands passing pork bones around on plastic forks polluteing ashore to portion a pathetic excuse for super.

Admittedly population proceeding proper capacity depleting the recourse needed per proper production for product based programs-
-tax breaks produce proper rich persons-
Poor penny pedalers paddle street corners prostituting their dinner from someone's porch steps.

Pathetic "Presidential" GOPs
Catapaulting propaganda past press outlets producing media paranoia.

Piranhas perhaps are the least problematic politition ashore.
Petulance is peace right?

Perhaps Palestinian misplacement and
Poor communication produce
A melting *** per pound of C 4
Terrarist propaganda pasted
On highways toting plywood posters
Providing hate.

Parasitic politics polluting a proud nation
Patrolled by plastic islands and pay-per-view gun violence.
Police brutality providing protection for
Parkland shooting,
The NRA having premeditated lawsuits against progress

Programs protecting people getting

-Sorry blocked,

By political party(s)
Preferring deep pockets to
Public safety

Appocoliptic predictions
Loom in present day policy
As unreputable "science" papers
Preach lies to gospel preachers

Perhaps human problems
Produce paper cuts
Peeling skin to skin
For radical apologies to bleed out,

Perhaps bleeding pools
Poor out filling
Evaporated paradise
With EPA Pruit's preference of
Proper science.

Perhaps penguins and polar bears
Produced proper plans:

Die off before the planet plummets per plume cloud of nuclear power.
Or more likely planetary pestilence
For people.
Inspired by Harry Bakers poem "Paper People"
Stephen S Jul 23
I'm afraid this little poem,
doesn't have a lot to say.
No musings about life and death.
or lost loves along the way.

There's no long rumination,
about the world in which we live.
And in terms of inspiration,
well, it hasn't much to give.

It's not deep or thought provoking,
or even whimsical at all.
It's in no way wildly ambitious,
but rather short and plain and small.

Perhaps you're a bit curious,
about why I chose to write it.
I had a pen and I had an urge,
and it did not seem right to fight it.

Yes, it's just a little poem,
and you may find it quite a bore.
However, if I keep writing,
it won't be little anymore.

So thanks for stopping by
and taking time to read my friend,
but I think it's time we brought
this little poem to an end.
Lost for words yet again
1:24am still awake
Head filled with screams
Laughter following
Hounds on a fox hunt
Looking for a sign
Where the rabbit tracks start
Tumbleweeds rolling
Maybe if I keep listening
I’ll finally hear that poetic voice
The shy one
Only speaking when it’s had enough
When silence becomes its enemy
Provoking embers into flames
I’ll continue to jot down
Asking if it has anything to say
Alcohol anonymous meetings
Share your feelings
The reasons for your actions
Pass when you don’t feel like it
Somethings got to give
Please just say something to me
Even if it is
Another suicide note
We can’t carry out
Deaths not a fast food restaurant
We simply wait for a table
When you feel like writing but you have too much to say and it become a jumbled mess of words. I call it abstract poetry. Eventually something makes sense
The thoughts are provoking
Your necessitous thoughts that you collect
In your professing of love
And the kindness shared in the petals of the rose of the beauty so eloquently
The impulse, thoughtfulness and pressing matters of *******
They rivet in the circumstance of the talk of life
You make the population with your coitus
The flower of your love in the spiritual innocence
There is no old time sake, I mean the drink
The risqueness by which you hold those flowers
Makes if I want the same symbolism in my rich life
And if I thought about the past, it would be thrown like a sculptor's hand
Sullied by the system of marrying two concepts
The rose and the somnambulant feeling of your love
Keeps my love awake without the water
I'm sleepwalking into your trustful hands
The kiss would wait for a time
Sealed by a rose
Unwatered, wilting
ConnectHook Feb 2016
by John Greenleaf Whittier  (1807 – 1892)

“As the Spirits of Darkness be stronger in the dark, so Good Spirits which be Angels of Light are augmented not only by the Divine Light of the Sun, but also by our common Wood fire: and as the celestial Fire drives away dark spirits, so also this our Fire of Wood doth the same.”

COR. AGRIPPA, Occult Philosophy, Book I. chap. v.

“Announced by all the trumpets of the sky,
Arrives the snow; and, driving o’er the fields,
Seems nowhere to alight; the whited air
Hides hills and woods, the river and the heaven,
And veils the farm-house at the garden’s end.
The sled and traveller stopped, the courier’s feet
Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit
Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed
In a tumultuous privacy of storm.”


The sun that brief December day
Rose cheerless over hills of gray,
And, darkly circled, gave at noon
A sadder light than waning moon.
Slow tracing down the thickening sky
Its mute and ominous prophecy,
A portent seeming less than threat,
It sank from sight before it set.
A chill no coat, however stout,
Of homespun stuff could quite shut out,
A hard, dull bitterness of cold,
That checked, mid-vein, the circling race
Of life-blood in the sharpened face,
The coming of the snow-storm told.
The wind blew east; we heard the roar
Of Ocean on his wintry shore,
And felt the strong pulse throbbing there
Beat with low rhythm our inland air.

Meanwhile we did our nightly chores, —
Brought in the wood from out of doors,
Littered the stalls, and from the mows
Raked down the herd’s-grass for the cows;
Heard the horse whinnying for his corn;
And, sharply clashing horn on horn,
Impatient down the stanchion rows
The cattle shake their walnut bows;
While, peering from his early perch
Upon the scaffold’s pole of birch,
The **** his crested helmet bent
And down his querulous challenge sent.

Unwarmed by any sunset light
The gray day darkened into night,
A night made hoary with the swarm
And whirl-dance of the blinding storm,
As zigzag, wavering to and fro,
Crossed and recrossed the wingàd snow:
And ere the early bedtime came
The white drift piled the window-frame,
And through the glass the clothes-line posts
Looked in like tall and sheeted ghosts.

So all night long the storm roared on:
The morning broke without a sun;
In tiny spherule traced with lines
Of Nature’s geometric signs,
And, when the second morning shone,
We looked upon a world unknown,
On nothing we could call our own.
Around the glistening wonder bent
The blue walls of the firmament,
No cloud above, no earth below, —
A universe of sky and snow!
The old familiar sights of ours
Took marvellous shapes; strange domes and towers
Rose up where sty or corn-crib stood,
Or garden-wall, or belt of wood;
A smooth white mound the brush-pile showed,
A fenceless drift what once was road;
The bridle-post an old man sat
With loose-flung coat and high cocked hat;
The well-curb had a Chinese roof;
And even the long sweep, high aloof,
In its slant spendor, seemed to tell
Of Pisa’s leaning miracle.

A prompt, decisive man, no breath
Our father wasted: “Boys, a path!”
Well pleased, (for when did farmer boy
Count such a summons less than joy?)
Our buskins on our feet we drew;
With mittened hands, and caps drawn low,
To guard our necks and ears from snow,
We cut the solid whiteness through.
And, where the drift was deepest, made
A tunnel walled and overlaid
With dazzling crystal: we had read
Of rare Aladdin’s wondrous cave,
And to our own his name we gave,
With many a wish the luck were ours
To test his lamp’s supernal powers.
We reached the barn with merry din,
And roused the prisoned brutes within.
The old horse ****** his long head out,
And grave with wonder gazed about;
The **** his ***** greeting said,
And forth his speckled harem led;
The oxen lashed their tails, and hooked,
And mild reproach of hunger looked;
The hornëd patriarch of the sheep,
Like Egypt’s Amun roused from sleep,
Shook his sage head with gesture mute,
And emphasized with stamp of foot.

All day the gusty north-wind bore
The loosening drift its breath before;
Low circling round its southern zone,
The sun through dazzling snow-mist shone.
No church-bell lent its Christian tone
To the savage air, no social smoke
Curled over woods of snow-hung oak.
A solitude made more intense
By dreary-voicëd elements,
The shrieking of the mindless wind,
The moaning tree-boughs swaying blind,
And on the glass the unmeaning beat
Of ghostly finger-tips of sleet.
Beyond the circle of our hearth
No welcome sound of toil or mirth
Unbound the spell, and testified
Of human life and thought outside.
We minded that the sharpest ear
The buried brooklet could not hear,
The music of whose liquid lip
Had been to us companionship,
And, in our lonely life, had grown
To have an almost human tone.

As night drew on, and, from the crest
Of wooded knolls that ridged the west,
The sun, a snow-blown traveller, sank
From sight beneath the smothering bank,
We piled, with care, our nightly stack
Of wood against the chimney-back, —
The oaken log, green, huge, and thick,
And on its top the stout back-stick;
The knotty forestick laid apart,
And filled between with curious art

The ragged brush; then, hovering near,
We watched the first red blaze appear,
Heard the sharp crackle, caught the gleam
On whitewashed wall and sagging beam,
Until the old, rude-furnished room
Burst, flower-like, into rosy bloom;
While radiant with a mimic flame
Outside the sparkling drift became,
And through the bare-boughed lilac-tree
Our own warm hearth seemed blazing free.
The crane and pendent trammels showed,
The Turks’ heads on the andirons glowed;
While childish fancy, prompt to tell
The meaning of the miracle,
Whispered the old rhyme: “Under the tree,
When fire outdoors burns merrily,
There the witches are making tea.”

The moon above the eastern wood
Shone at its full; the hill-range stood
Transfigured in the silver flood,
Its blown snows flashing cold and keen,
Dead white, save where some sharp ravine
Took shadow, or the sombre green
Of hemlocks turned to pitchy black
Against the whiteness at their back.
For such a world and such a night
Most fitting that unwarming light,
Which only seemed where’er it fell
To make the coldness visible.

Shut in from all the world without,
We sat the clean-winged hearth about,
Content to let the north-wind roar
In baffled rage at pane and door,
While the red logs before us beat
The frost-line back with tropic heat;
And ever, when a louder blast
Shook beam and rafter as it passed,
The merrier up its roaring draught
The great throat of the chimney laughed;
The house-dog on his paws outspread
Laid to the fire his drowsy head,
The cat’s dark silhouette on the wall
A couchant tiger’s seemed to fall;
And, for the winter fireside meet,
Between the andirons’ straddling feet,
The mug of cider simmered slow,
The apples sputtered in a row,
And, close at hand, the basket stood
With nuts from brown October’s wood.

What matter how the night behaved?
What matter how the north-wind raved?
Blow high, blow low, not all its snow
Could quench our hearth-fire’s ruddy glow.
O Time and Change! — with hair as gray
As was my sire’s that winter day,
How strange it seems, with so much gone
Of life and love, to still live on!
Ah, brother! only I and thou
Are left of all that circle now, —
The dear home faces whereupon
That fitful firelight paled and shone.
Henceforward, listen as we will,
The voices of that hearth are still;
Look where we may, the wide earth o’er,
Those lighted faces smile no more.

We tread the paths their feet have worn,
We sit beneath their orchard trees,
We hear, like them, the hum of bees
And rustle of the bladed corn;
We turn the pages that they read,
Their written words we linger o’er,
But in the sun they cast no shade,
No voice is heard, no sign is made,
No step is on the conscious floor!
Yet Love will dream, and Faith will trust,
(Since He who knows our need is just,)
That somehow, somewhere, meet we must.
Alas for him who never sees
The stars shine through his cypress-trees!
Who, hopeless, lays his dead away,
Nor looks to see the breaking day
Across the mournful marbles play!
Who hath not learned, in hours of faith,
The truth to flesh and sense unknown,
That Life is ever lord of Death,
And Love can never lose its own!

We sped the time with stories old,
Wrought puzzles out, and riddles told,
Or stammered from our school-book lore
“The Chief of Gambia’s golden shore.”
How often since, when all the land
Was clay in Slavery’s shaping hand,
As if a far-blown trumpet stirred
Dame Mercy Warren’s rousing word:
“Does not the voice of reason cry,
Claim the first right which Nature gave,
From the red scourge of ******* to fly,
Nor deign to live a burdened slave!”
Our father rode again his ride
On Memphremagog’s wooded side;
Sat down again to moose and samp
In trapper’s hut and Indian camp;
Lived o’er the old idyllic ease
Beneath St. François’ hemlock-trees;
Again for him the moonlight shone
On Norman cap and bodiced zone;
Again he heard the violin play
Which led the village dance away.
And mingled in its merry whirl
The grandam and the laughing girl.
Or, nearer home, our steps he led
Where Salisbury’s level marshes spread
Mile-wide as flies the laden bee;
Where merry mowers, hale and strong,
Swept, scythe on scythe, their swaths along
The low green prairies of the sea.
We shared the fishing off Boar’s Head,
And round the rocky Isles of Shoals
The hake-broil on the drift-wood coals;
The chowder on the sand-beach made,
Dipped by the hungry, steaming hot,
With spoons of clam-shell from the ***.
We heard the tales of witchcraft old,
And dream and sign and marvel told
To sleepy listeners as they lay
Stretched idly on the salted hay,
Adrift along the winding shores,
When favoring breezes deigned to blow
The square sail of the gundelow
And idle lay the useless oars.

Our mother, while she turned her wheel
Or run the new-knit stocking-heel,
Told how the Indian hordes came down
At midnight on Concheco town,
And how her own great-uncle bore
His cruel scalp-mark to fourscore.
Recalling, in her fitting phrase,
So rich and picturesque and free
(The common unrhymed poetry
Of simple life and country ways,)
The story of her early days, —
She made us welcome to her home;
Old hearths grew wide to give us room;
We stole with her a frightened look
At the gray wizard’s conjuring-book,
The fame whereof went far and wide
Through all the simple country side;
We heard the hawks at twilight play,
The boat-horn on Piscataqua,
The loon’s weird laughter far away;
We fished her little trout-brook, knew
What flowers in wood and meadow grew,
What sunny hillsides autumn-brown
She climbed to shake the ripe nuts down,
Saw where in sheltered cove and bay,
The ducks’ black squadron anchored lay,
And heard the wild-geese calling loud
Beneath the gray November cloud.
Then, haply, with a look more grave,
And soberer tone, some tale she gave
From painful Sewel’s ancient tome,
Beloved in every Quaker home,
Of faith fire-winged by martyrdom,
Or Chalkley’s Journal, old and quaint, —
Gentlest of skippers, rare sea-saint! —
Who, when the dreary calms prevailed,
And water-**** and bread-cask failed,
And cruel, hungry eyes pursued
His portly presence mad for food,
With dark hints muttered under breath
Of casting lots for life or death,

Offered, if Heaven withheld supplies,
To be himself the sacrifice.
Then, suddenly, as if to save
The good man from his living grave,
A ripple on the water grew,
A school of porpoise flashed in view.
“Take, eat,” he said, “and be content;
These fishes in my stead are sent
By Him who gave the tangled ram
To spare the child of Abraham.”
Our uncle, innocent of books,
Was rich in lore of fields and brooks,
The ancient teachers never dumb
Of Nature’s unhoused lyceum.
In moons and tides and weather wise,
He read the clouds as prophecies,
And foul or fair could well divine,
By many an occult hint and sign,
Holding the cunning-warded keys
To all the woodcraft mysteries;
Himself to Nature’s heart so near
v That all her voices in his ear
Of beast or bird had meanings clear,
Like Apollonius of old,
Who knew the tales the sparrows told,
Or Hermes, who interpreted
What the sage cranes of Nilus said;
A simple, guileless, childlike man,
Content to live where life began;
Strong only on his native grounds,
The little world of sights and sounds
Whose girdle was the parish bounds,
Whereof his fondly partial pride
The common features magnified,
As Surrey hills to mountains grew
In White of Selborne’s loving view, —
He told how teal and loon he shot,
And how the eagle’s eggs he got,
The feats on pond and river done,
The prodigies of rod and gun;
Till, warming with the tales he told,
Forgotten was the outside cold,
The bitter wind unheeded blew,
From ripening corn the pigeons flew,
The partridge drummed i’ the wood, the mink
Went fishing down the river-brink.
In fields with bean or clover ***,
The woodchuck, like a hermit gray,
Peered from the doorway of his cell;
The muskrat plied the mason’s trade,
And tier by tier his mud-walls laid;
And from the shagbark overhead
The grizzled squirrel dropped his shell.

Next, the dear aunt, whose smile of cheer
And voice in dreams I see and hear, —
The sweetest woman ever Fate
Perverse denied a household mate,
Who, lonely, homeless, not the less
Found peace in love’s unselfishness,
And welcome wheresoe’er she went,
A calm and gracious element,
Whose presence seemed the sweet income
And womanly atmosphere of home, —
Called up her girlhood memories,
The huskings and the apple-bees,
The sleigh-rides and the summer sails,
Weaving through all the poor details
And homespun warp of circumstance
A golden woof-thread of romance.
For well she kept her genial mood
And simple faith of maidenhood;
Before her still a cloud-land lay,
The mirage loomed across her way;
The morning dew, that dries so soon
With others, glistened at her noon;
Through years of toil and soil and care,
From glossy tress to thin gray hair,
All unprofaned she held apart
The ****** fancies of the heart.
Be shame to him of woman born
Who hath for such but thought of scorn.
There, too, our elder sister plied
Her evening task the stand beside;
A full, rich nature, free to trust,
Truthful and almost sternly just,
Impulsive, earnest, prompt to act,
And make her generous thought a fact,
Keeping with many a light disguise
The secret of self-sacrifice.

O heart sore-tried! thou hast the best
That Heaven itself could give thee, — rest,
Rest from all bitter thoughts and things!
How many a poor one’s blessing went
With thee beneath the low green tent
Whose curtain never outward swings!

As one who held herself a part
Of all she saw, and let her heart
Against the household ***** lean,
Upon the motley-braided mat
Our youngest and our dearest sat,
Lifting her large, sweet, asking eyes,
Now bathed in the unfading green
And holy peace of Paradise.
Oh, looking from some heavenly hill,
Or from the shade of saintly palms,
Or silver reach of river calms,
Do those large eyes behold me still?
With me one little year ago: —
The chill weight of the winter snow
For months upon her grave has lain;
And now, when summer south-winds blow
And brier and harebell bloom again,
I tread the pleasant paths we trod,
I see the violet-sprinkled sod
Whereon she leaned, too frail and weak
The hillside flowers she loved to seek,
Yet following me where’er I went
With dark eyes full of love’s content.
The birds are glad; the brier-rose fills
The air with sweetness; all the hills
Stretch green to June’s unclouded sky;
But still I wait with ear and eye
For something gone which should be nigh,
A loss in all familiar things,
In flower that blooms, and bird that sings.
And yet, dear heart! remembering thee,
Am I not richer than of old?
Safe in thy immortality,
What change can reach the wealth I hold?
What chance can mar the pearl and gold
Thy love hath left in trust with me?
And while in life’s late afternoon,
Where cool and long the shadows grow,
I walk to meet the night that soon
Shall shape and shadow overflow,
I cannot feel that thou art far,
Since near at need the angels are;
And when the sunset gates unbar,
Shall I not see thee waiting stand,
And, white against the evening star,
The welcome of thy beckoning hand?

Brisk wielder of the birch and rule,
The master of the district school
Held at the fire his favored place,
Its warm glow lit a laughing face
Fresh-hued and fair, where scarce appeared
The uncertain prophecy of beard.
He teased the mitten-blinded cat,
Played cross-pins on my uncle’s hat,
Sang songs, and told us what befalls
In classic Dartmouth’s college halls.
Born the wild Northern hills among,
From whence his yeoman father wrung
By patient toil subsistence scant,
Not competence and yet not want,
He early gained the power to pay
His cheerful, self-reliant way;
Could doff at ease his scholar’s gown
To peddle wares from town to town;
Or through the long vacation’s reach
In lonely lowland districts teach,
Where all the droll experience found
At stranger hearths in boarding round,
The moonlit skater’s keen delight,
The sleigh-drive through the frosty night,
The rustic party, with its rough
Accompaniment of blind-man’s-buff,
And whirling-plate, and forfeits paid,
His winter task a pastime made.
Happy the snow-locked homes wherein
He tuned his merry violin,

Or played the athlete in the barn,
Or held the good dame’s winding-yarn,
Or mirth-provoking versions told
Of classic legends rare and old,
Wherein the scenes of Greece and Rome
Had all the commonplace of home,
And little seemed at best the odds
‘Twixt Yankee pedlers and old gods;
Where Pindus-born Arachthus took
The guise of any grist-mill brook,
And dread Olympus at his will
Became a huckleberry hill.

A careless boy that night he seemed;
But at his desk he had the look
And air of one who wisely schemed,
And hostage from the future took
In trainëd thought and lore of book.
Large-brained, clear-eyed, of such as he
Shall Freedom’s young apostles be,
Who, following in War’s ****** trail,
Shall every lingering wrong assail;
All chains from limb and spirit strike,
Uplift the black and white alike;
Scatter before their swift advance
The darkness and the ignorance,
The pride, the lust, the squalid sloth,
Which nurtured Treason’s monstrous growth,
Made ****** pastime, and the hell
Of prison-torture possible;
The cruel lie of caste refute,
Old forms remould, and substitute
For Slavery’s lash the freeman’s will,
For blind routine, wise-handed skill;
A school-house plant on every hill,
Stretching in radiate nerve-lines thence
The quick wires of intelligence;
Till North and South together brought
Shall own the same electric thought,
In peace a common flag salute,
And, side by side in labor’s free
And unresentful rivalry,
Harvest the fields wherein they fought.

Another guest that winter night
Flashed back from lustrous eyes the light.
Unmarked by time, and yet not young,
The honeyed music of her tongue
And words of meekness scarcely told
A nature passionate and bold,

Strong, self-concentred, spurning guide,
Its milder features dwarfed beside
Her unbent will’s majestic pride.
She sat among us, at the best,
A not unfeared, half-welcome guest,
Rebuking with her cultured phrase
Our homeliness of words and ways.
A certain pard-like, treacherous grace
Swayed the lithe limbs and drooped the lash,
Lent the white teeth their dazzling flash;
And under low brows, black with night,
Rayed out at times a dangerous light;
The sharp heat-lightnings of her face
Presaging ill to him whom Fate
Condemned to share her love or hate.
A woman tropical, intense
In thought and act, in soul and sense,
She blended in a like degree
The ***** and the devotee,
Revealing with each freak or feint
The temper of Petruchio’s Kate,
The raptures of Siena’s saint.
Her tapering hand and rounded wrist
Had facile power to form a fist;
The warm, dark languish of her eyes
Was never safe from wrath’s surprise.
Brows saintly calm and lips devout
Knew every change of scowl and pout;
And the sweet voice had notes more high
And shrill for social battle-cry.

Since then what old cathedral town
Has missed her pilgrim staff and gown,
What convent-gate has held its lock
Against the challenge of her knock!
Through Smyrna’s plague-hushed thoroughfares,
Up sea-set Malta’s rocky stairs,
Gray olive slopes of hills that hem
Thy tombs and shrines, Jerusalem,
Or startling on her desert throne
The crazy Queen of Lebanon
With claims fantastic as her own,
Her tireless feet have held their way;
And still, unrestful, bowed, and gray,
She watches under Eastern skies,
With hope each day renewed and fresh,
The Lord’s quick coming in the flesh,
Whereof she dreams and prophesies!
Where’er her troubled path may be,
The Lord’s sweet pity with her go!
The outward wayward life we see,
The hidden springs we may not know.
Nor is it given us to discern
What threads the fatal sisters spun,
Through what ancestral years has run
The sorrow with the woman born,
What forged her cruel chain of moods,
What set her feet in solitudes,
And held the love within her mute,
What mingled madness in the blood,
A life-long discord and annoy,
Water of tears with oil of joy,
And hid within the folded bud
Perversities of flower and fruit.
It is not ours to separate
The tangled skein of will and fate,
To show what metes and bounds should stand
Upon the soul’s debatable land,
And between choice and Providence
Divide the circle of events;
But He who knows our frame is just,
Merciful and compassionate,
And full of sweet assurances
And hope for all the language is,
That He remembereth we are dust!

At last the great logs, crumbling low,
Sent out a dull and duller glow,
The bull’s-eye watch that hung in view,
Ticking its weary circuit through,
Pointed with mutely warning sign
Its black hand to the hour of nine.
That sign the pleasant circle broke:
My uncle ceased his pipe to smoke,
Knocked from its bowl the refuse gray,
And laid it tenderly away;
Then roused himself to safely cover
The dull red brands with ashes over.
And while, with care, our mother laid
The work aside, her steps she stayed
One moment, seeking to express
Her grateful sense of happiness
For food and shelter, warmth and health,
And love’s contentment more than wealth,
With simple wishes (not the weak,
Vain prayers which no fulfilment seek,
But such as warm the generous heart,
O’er-prompt to do with Heaven its part)
That none might lack, that bitter night,
For bread and clothing, warmth and light.

Within our beds awhile we heard
The wind that round the gables roared,
With now and then a ruder shock,
Which made our very bedsteads rock.
We heard the loosened clapboards tost,
The board-nails snapping in the frost;
And on us, through the unplastered wall,
Felt the light sifted snow-flakes fall.
But sleep stole on, as sleep will do
When hearts are light and life is new;
Faint and more faint the murmurs grew,
Till in the summer-land of dreams
They softened to the sound of streams,
Low stir of leaves, and dip of oars,
And lapsing waves on quiet shores.
Of merry voices high and clear;
And saw the teamsters drawing near
To break the drifted highways out.
Down the long hillside treading slow
We saw the half-buried oxen go,
Shaking the snow from heads uptost,
Their straining nostrils white with frost.
Before our door the straggling train
Drew up, an added team to gain.
The elders threshed their hands a-cold,
Passed, with the cider-mug, their jokes
From lip to lip; the younger folks
Down the loose snow-banks, wrestling, rolled,
Then toiled again the cavalcade
O’er windy hill, through clogged ravine,
And woodland paths that wound between
Low drooping pine-boughs winter-weighed.
From every barn a team afoot,
At every house a new recruit,
Where, drawn by Nature’s subtlest law,
Haply the watchful young men saw
Sweet doorway pictures of the curls
And curious eyes of merry girls,
Lifting their hands in mock defence
Against the snow-ball’s compliments,
And reading in each missive tost
The charm with Eden never lost.
We heard once more the sleigh-bells’ sound;
And, following where the teamsters led,
The wise old Doctor went his round,
Just pausing at our door to say,
In the brief autocratic way
Of one who, prompt at Duty’s call,
Was free to urge her claim on all,
That some poor neighbor sick abed
At night our mother’s aid would need.
For, one in generous thought and deed,
What mattered in the sufferer’s sight
The Quaker matron’s inward light,
The Doctor’s mail of Calvin’s creed?
All hearts confess the saints elect
Who, twain in faith, in love agree,
And melt not in an acid sect
The Christian pearl of charity!

So days went on: a week had passed
Since the great world was heard from last.
The Almanac we studied o’er,
Read and reread our little store
Of books and pamphlets, scarce a score;
One harmless novel, mostly hid
From younger eyes, a book forbid,
And poetry, (or good or bad,
A single book was all we had,)
Where Ellwood’s meek, drab-skirted Muse,
A stranger to the heathen Nine,
Sang, with a somewhat nasal whine,
The wars of David and the Jews.
At last the floundering carrier bore
The village paper to our door.
Lo! broadening outward as we read,
To warmer zones the horizon spread
In panoramic length unrolled
We saw the marvels that it told.
Before us passed the painted Creeks,
A   nd daft McGregor on his raids
In Costa Rica’s everglades.
And up Taygetos winding slow
Rode Ypsilanti’s Mainote Greeks,
A Turk’s head at each saddle-bow!
Welcome to us its week-old news,
Its corner for the rustic Muse,
Its monthly gauge of snow and rain,
Its record, mingling in a breath
The wedding bell and dirge of death:
Jest, anecdote, and love-lorn tale,
The latest culprit sent to jail;
Its hue and cry of stolen and lost,
Its vendue sales and goods at cost,
And traffic calling loud for gain.
We felt the stir of hall and street,
The pulse of life that round us beat;
The chill embargo of the snow
Was melted in the genial glow;
Wide swung again our ice-locked door,
And all the world was ours once more!

Clasp, Angel of the backword look
And folded wings of ashen gray
And voice of echoes far away,
The brazen covers of thy book;
The weird palimpsest old and vast,
Wherein thou hid’st the spectral past;
Where, closely mingling, pale and glow
The characters of joy and woe;
The monographs of outlived years,
Or smile-illumed or dim with tears,
Green hills of life that ***** to death,
And haunts of home, whose vistaed trees
Shade off to mournful cypresses
With the white amaranths underneath.
Even while I look, I can but heed
The restless sands’ incessant fall,
Importunate hours that hours succeed,
Each clamorous with its own sharp need,
And duty keeping pace with all.
Shut down and clasp with heavy lids;
I hear again the voice that bids
The dreamer leave his dream midway
For larger hopes and graver fears:
Life greatens in these later years,
The century’s aloe flowers to-day!

Yet, haply, in some lull of life,
Some Truce of God which breaks its strife,
The worldling’s eyes shall gather dew,
Dreaming in throngful city ways
Of winter joys his boyhood knew;
And dear and early friends — the few
Who yet remain — shall pause to view
These Flemish pictures of old days;
Sit with me by the homestead hearth,
And stretch the hands of memory forth
To warm them at the wood-fire’s blaze!
And thanks untraced to lips unknown
Shall greet me like the odors blown
From unseen meadows newly mown,
Wood-fringed, the wayside gaze beyond;
The traveller owns the grateful sense
Of sweetness near, he knows not whence,
And, pausing, takes with forehead bare
The benediction of the air.

Written in  1865
In its day, 'twas a best-seller and earned significant income for Whittier
zee Mar 14
Her pleas were a song
Continuous, poignant and long
For who would hear her inaudible pleas?
Chained up in a tower, pleading for keys

The tune was a lullaby
No matter how much anyone was to try
The songbird was imprisoned by the immortal agony and revel
She’d made a deal with the devil

Not knowing of his penalties and tricks
She knew what’s done is done and blunders are difficult to fix
Though even to the most oblivious it was clear
That she was to waste the rest of her immortal life in fear

And so, as she seemed to her subjects as mighty and great
Her own verdicts, her foolishness and actions were like a hefty weight
She wore them under her own skin
Incapable to bear her own sin

Her reflection was something she could not see
For all she sought to do was to get rid of its provoking face and flee
Her soul had been sold
For everything around it, was damp and cold

The devil is not someone rational they told her
Alas she did not heed, therefore misfortune she did stir
The contract was inscribed in blood
And now she was a fearful flood

No one heard her soundless cries
And saw her endless tries
No one heard her hushed pleas
And saw her heart freeze

But her soul had been imprisoned in everlasting misery
And all she had was an aftertaste that felt bitterly
The bitterness of life
Had cut into her humanity with a knife

All she ever aspired was to find meaning
Not turn out to be demeaning
Or be the motive people sealed their doors at night

And why men carried guns with fright

She may have been the fiend of the town
With a malicious crown
But all she craved to be was an angel with wings
Though all she did was dangle from the devil’s strings
Noura abdulla Jul 10
Tell me what they have told you about seas, the lost ones,
The ones they keep romanticizing,
Kept sugar coating its depth with love metaphors and tumblr aesthetics.
I've been under the water for years
And let me tell you it is not poetic, it is not even scientifically provoking.
So when i tell you I'm drowning I'm not making significant love confession or some movie pick up line. When I tell you I'm drowning It means I'm out of daylights
to occupy,
It's been days since the last time sun broke through my skin,
It means I’ve been wasting too many lungs on acid smoke and stolen identity,
It means I spilled the half-water left in the cup.
Thick layers of wreckage, fatal survival attempts, and letters of grudges to  your last forgotten birth-day.
I would have set fires to lead you back home, or enough to burn it
I would’ve set flames and birthday cakes
I would’ve lit fifteen candles and spelled your name and sang you a'happybirthday' without sounding like the apologies they never left.
But you know what they say about gasoline invading waters
it's been ages since fire last gave up her fight.

it's your mom first homemade in 3 months, it's baked mac and cheese with chicken, your favorite, you say thankyou as she sits down and puts more macaroni in your plate, sober than ever.
Your dad steals a smile to his plate then to you
it's been so long since this dining room were alive you could almost swear that walls were cursing you names and chanting foreign prayers into your ears
but the taste of normality is much better than hospital waiting rooms.

Count to fifteen, and fell yourself with objectless activities to avoid becoming,
because it's better sleeping away your reality than acknowledge it, isn't it?
Between Your Father's empty liquors,
And your Mom's Xanax ,
count to fifteen.

the noises calls out of the bathroom just like the one on your thanksgiving
Count to fifteen,
This is not what you think it is
Count to fifteen.
It is what you think it is.
Count to fifteen.
it's never your fault
Count to fifteen.
psychiatrists say it'll pass.
Too Much statistics to put faith into

Plates are empty, again
Packed Bags under your eyes beneath thick walls of unsaid iloveyous, chocked up on a family dinners.

Now it's just you and your dad again
They say it's for the best,
They tell you everything will be okay
And You tell your friends you're fine,
because why other wise?
That the earth isn't swelling, that you aren't sweating, that you prefer long sleeves even in the hot summer days because why not, right?
Like big cycles of lies and vice verses of irony.

But for all what’s worth, may my words give you the lifeline you need.
And may you let die to let regain to let life breathe you again.
Jade Oct 2018
By my standards,
he is a ten.

I'm sure you're
laughing right now--
"ooohhhh, she think's
he's a TEN"--
but that's not
what I mean.

What I am trying to say is that,
on a scale from one to ten,
one being indicative of
experiencing little to no pain
and ten being indicative of
experiencing a pain whose presence
is capable of knocking the wind
straight out of me--
a pain that I do not
dare to fathom
for fear of prolonging it--
he was a hurricane.

My hurricane.

The eye of the storm,
his aloof ignorance
paralleled against the
violently cyclonic nature
of this heartache--
cacophonic in its impact
and blasphemous in
every context of the word

I don't think
getting caught in the rain
has ever hurt quite this much.

I surrender to this hurt
the way the sea surrenders
to the Almighty Poseidon;
the way my feet surrender
to the rocks
tied round my ankles;
the way my soul surrenders
to its contusions
(so is a casualty
of a broken heart).

I imagine what it would be
like to kiss him
when I wake up in
the middle of the night,
lucid dreaming and
shivering against the bed sheets
(must be hypothermia,
I think;
the coldness of his
absence settling among the
loneliest parts of me).

I try to remind myself
that he was never
any happy ending of mine--
just an ending.
And something tells me
kissing him would feel
a little less
like thimbles
and a little more
like sewing needles.

After all,
he always did have
a way of silencing me,
my lips stitched together
into the most morbid
of embroideries.

Because god forbid
you dare question
a tempest--
even when he has
left you
to stew in your
own ruin--
for fear of provoking
his stormy wrath.

Part of me has
always been
afraid of him,
you know.  
Looking back now,
that should have been
my first indication
that I had been entertaining
an abusive relationship.

he never laid a hand
on me.

I was terrified that
there would come a day
when he would eventually snap.

I can envision it--
ribs crack like lightning;
bruises congealing beneath
my eyes like grape jelly;
fingerprints seared
across my cheek;
my head held underwater
until I've stopped
breathing altogether.

Of course, there exists
more than one way
to destroy a person,
though he will claim
that he has done nothing
to wrong me.

he would tell me that
I am just reading
too much into things.

S'pose it's your turn then,

Trace the brailed veins
of my shattered heart,
and feel all the ways
you have broken me so.

Let your eyes flit
across the expanse
of these water-logged stanzas--
and tell me,
does the poetry not speak
for itself?

Or does my drowning not suffice?
Don't be a stranger--check out my blog!

(P.S. Use a computer for an optimal experience)
See the pains tears adhere listing fears peer
Pressure steers the hardest from the rear
I use to coast the host of a space ghost close
To myself was my heart that didn't boast
I was caught up in a champagne toast dose
Way over far from sober hoping I'd love over
And over again but pain strikes again and again
careless whispers in the wind deciphering
My rotting thoughts that was already brought
Sizzling to a froth holes in my heart part
By the swarming moths and slow sparks
Set forth in the darkness of a church ministry
Looking at myself looking at me gloomy
But roomy far from spacious sagacious
To my surrounding see the fog clouding
My ever conscious so clear from downing Everclear
Gave me much more to appear see the Spears
Pinching inching every wound and soon
To be kissed by the leaking stabbing grooms
Orange blossoms to blooms let the stars zoom
Its the spur of the moment standing firm
Burns desire every turn oh how I yearn learn
From my past mistakes of taking intakes wait
I was rushing to hard to create a hate fate
Was following and swallowing me wholely
Two broken vessels hoping to coupe thresholds
That the flesh holds but notion the molds
crafted scolds towers of sadness scaffolds
Blind folds even though I can see vividly
I thought me and you and I was meant to be
Fastened to sanctity with no seatbelts
Welts felt on the back of my mind kind
Was one of my closest homies til you burned me
Without lighting a fire now my brain rewires
Your provoking words thrown my swords
The mighty pen ascending devils grinning
Magnitude of rude record breaking crudes
How could you ever walk away from me and flee
The everlasting love trinity through divinity
Now I gotta guard my soul with golden gloves
Of stress and agony that surfaces chaos above
Hector Sep 2018

Tus ojos, tus labios, tu boca

cual manantial que me arrulla y me refresca-

Te deseo,

como la noche a  la luna que le alumbra y le provoca

o como los montes al río.

Te deseo entre las olas y entre la arena caliente

que me quema las pisadas,

entre minutos u horas o en épocas pasadas

donde existes como Eva en paraíso

y yo mordiendo manzanas con el pecado en mi mente,

deseándote ahora y deseándote por siempre

sin promesas o compromisos

niña de tierna mirada y boca de carmesí,

te deseo,

simplemente y así-


I Desire You

Your eyes, your lips, your mouth

like a spring lullaby that refreshes-

I desire you,

like the night desires a moon provoking and shining

or like the mountains a river.

I desire you in the waves and in between the hot sand

that burns all my footprints,

in between minutes and hours or through the ages

where you existed like Eve in paradise

and I keep biting the apple sinning in a mind

that desires you now and desires you forever

without compromises or promises

my girl of tender looks and crimson lips,

I desire you,

simply like this-

September 2018
(soon, my muse will learn English again...)
Creo que sí mirásemos siempre al cielo acabaríamos por tener alas.
Gustave Flaubert


“I want her to melt into me, like butter on toast. I want to absorb her and walk around for the rest of my days with her encased in my skin.”
― Sara Gruen
Split Nov 2018
it takes every restless cell

within my thought-provoking flesh

to not look into those gorgeous grey glossed eyes.

one sinful glimpse impetuously fills me with warmth

the hellish warmth of foreseen light

leaping from dream to reality.
Sanidhya Rai Feb 20
Oh you lady, you glanced at my sight,
The might of your stare shook my stride.
A glance that my eyes craved for,
A glance that opened the window to the soul.
Way too shattering,
Yet ecstatic.

Oh you lady, you spoke in my mind,
The words that filled up my life.
A speech that sparked the light,
A speech that left me with troublesome nights.
Way too engulfing,
Yet enlightening.

Oh you lady, you touched my heart,
Left a lingering subtleness of your palm.
A touch that my heart longed for,
A touch that made it who it was.
Way too provoking,
Yet calming at par.

Oh you lady, you clasped your heart onto mine,
Showed me what love is which no one else could find.
A firmly tied thread through which I dangled,
Reality and serenity cast me into a fight.
Way too catastrophic outside,
Yet all gentle inside.

Love in my eyes,
Liveliness in yours.
Fathomless trust of yours,
My dauntless promise to be by your side.
Each stanza represents a segment of a love story: the first time two people met, their first conversation, the very first touch and a never ending sight of love and togetherness.

This poem depicts how a person like me fell in love, which is chaotic yet comes with a number of promises.
Ed C Mar 14
Its hard sometimes
to feel the lust.
To feel the genuine gaze of longing
from eyes that see passed flesh ripping pulls
and grasping fingers. Your nails
leave trails along thighs that disappear
into the hairs. Like rivers on a map
where streams are crossing
violently and parallel.
Think about it
Glass Mar 15
you are unsure of the moment
of when you dreamed of cotton candy clouds and
God, asking for another chance to spiral
but you've been through lifetimes of "wonderful rehearsals of a blooming blackberry bush"
that its become revenant,
a persuasiveness of another trustful lilac that your life
will never been a desirable garden but you've found
a diagnosis to lose all the highway
sighs, "provoking the past and

- G
October Nov 2018
The same sad rhetoric
Running lines of deepened wounds
Repetitious stanzas in bitter tune
Get a clue, my girl
Dig deeper to words more provoking
These same sad lines have you choking
Let’s take a break
I hope to strand together a sense of letters worth more than just the meaning of heartache
I feel stuck in my writing. I’m not growing or expanding my subject matter. My words are stale. Same sad story. Come on, next girl.
Ciara Jul 6
I can't afford loving you,  honey
I no longer wait in the back
Too many were reckless endeavors
That drove me far off of the tracks
It's true,  I'm a far better best friend
A wingman with love spells and cards
I'm meant to help lovers in turmoil
And tell of their story as bard

The cards long predicted your coming
Venus provoking the best
Yet Athena had told me,  "stay single"
And I'd rather you not like the rest
Because love can be fun when it's midnight
When you're longing for someone to hold
But right at the wake of the morning
One's ardour will always grow cold

Love looks sweet when seen from the outside
A pure shell of raspberry pink
With color is bright months of summer
You'd never step back twice to think
But I ate the six seeds,  each one desperate
And I wish I had just spat out then
Because I never knew just how bitter
The world is when pawning with men

Any you could convince me you're different
And sure,  something tells me you are
But the bitter taste came as too painful
And nothing has swayed me thus far
So I'll shove 'schroding's' kitten down under
I'm curious,  still I won't look
'Cause the Gods say,  "life's built by an order"
And it's high time I've lived by the book

So goodbye, 'cause I can't afford hurting
Or asking the cards any more
I know of my place in the love world
As the wise man,  the lowly,  the poor
And I'll still assist you on your journey
I'm always a second away
But I can't have a man who will keep me
From the island out there in the bay
Kate Copeland Aug 19
All has been invented before
but love - when we're out on the terrace
without the sun but anyway
cos it's a Wednesday and
we just want to get hammered
cos it's a Wednesday and
I just want to look
in your eyes to find the verve
regardless of being at work,
going to work, let's never work
it's the kick of a drink (or two)
the kick of your sparkle (or two)
You look away
I weigh you
cos I do not like it (when)
You say I'm too zappy
been told that by the other him
Start jumping to tease you
Start talking to kindle you
I do not like myself like that yet
I do like it less you're provoking
me ignoring me while your eyes
not distant but observant, inviting
me to say more to crawl next to -
I'll manage, I'll wait
and get you home regardless
Seth Beeson Dec 2018
I adore words.
They surprise me.
Provoking thought and ideas...
they often come from words.

Think of words,
just the word.
How many letters are there there in "words?"
Is it five?
I suppose that's true.
However, I propose an option number too.
When I see "words,"
letters abound.
Because I see the letters that "words"
Can you?

There is power in words,
you know?
The power to influence a yes or no.
Words can comfort.
Like a much needed hug.
Warm and sweet
gentle love.
But words can hurt.
Quick is the tongue,
like a lightning strike.
And harsh words leave marks
like a viper's bite.

Do you even understand words?
I envy those who do.
But more than just the meaning.
They are more than a definition.
A definition?
Distinct pieces
of the puzzle.
The puzzle you know as
Connected to create an extravagant
picture with a greater meaning than
that single piece!
A sentence.
The means
of making meaningful
words multiply until
they have a meaning.
Masterfully crafted by
a mindful wordsmith.

I think...
I like these elements.
Chadd dé Von Aug 10
World Sufferation invoked by fellow mans *******.
Provoking, casting hatred based upon natures of different races.
How long will we conform to condemnation and live by the basics?
When promises were met that we can fly and see what's greater.
I feel the scorn in my flesh, I may just dig in my chest and i might just tear out whats left
So that its cut on this set, just moving onto the next
Here, promises they were kept, dark intentions spiritual death.
Here's how I resurrect.
Chadd dé Von
Kamva Apr 13
Words spoken By Men
As Provoking They Are
Echo In The Sky Wide And Blue
Till They Reach The Doves Far Up
They Convey Despair Dark And Emotionelss
Now Look Carefully At The Sunset
See How The Doves Dissappear With It?
Listen To The River Too
See How It Keeps Silent At The Same Time
The Code Of Life Exists Within Every Being
And Love Stands Still With Every Travesty
Centuries Old Bell's Toll At The High Hour
Bee's Bumble Yet No Honey
Is Our Spheriod Leaning Towards Doom?
A poem that seems to question things and asks is the end near?

— The End —