Hello Poetry
Submit your work and get some sparkles! Create free account
Words
"recommences" poems
A follow on poem to 'In the Sunroom (Suicide)"  (1) writ many years later... ~For MWK~ <> A stray thought. a burring burrowing, thorny tawny: A wish, yet to get, but vetted for each of us. *This within, this redoubt, a contemplative oasis, my indoor poet's nookery rookery sanctuary each one, each is, deserves, all, one such, a place holy filled, with lice and dirt of a life, strained and trained for emission and transmission of the best of the worst, and the triumphant emergent commission of our individualized most excellent fresh best where crumbs of apple crisp pie solidify, vanilla bean ice cream melt offsets the oven heated warmth, and from this interactive contrasts combative, a poem pie reborn, newly disguised, familiar words, yet unheard and before this very never, went unspoken and now goes forth svelte and unbroken *rhymes of yore, forgot from a before, but making up the walls of the here and now, a sunroom to spread out the lit lights of egress and entrance, of fire door no exits that now are chiseled closed, lock in, lock up, and somehow, one, stills to learn from the stilling quiet solitude. to penetrate the prostrate kneeling grinning grief, how to expel and spell the words that grant relief visit my sunroom, though no fiction. the sun rays *********** create the friction of that which cannot ever be withered nor contained, and your mouth opens wide and a poem birthed and delivered, pastiche paste composted of truth and dreams of fiction, fine diction, with a shrug, a smile, a satisfaction extracted extraordinary, you garner moments of satisfaction but cloud cover returns, and the process of sunrise exposition recommences, and one revisits the elemental sequencing of all the predecessor pain, but this time, for gain, for gain, <> written this sabbath Saturday 12:38am EST Sat Aug 2 2025 in the sunroom, on Shelter Island
0
Aug 2, 2025
Aug 2, 2025 at 12:59 AM UTC
nat-lipstadt
Each of us needs a sunroom
A follow on poem to 'In the Sunroom (Suicide)"  (1) writ many years later... ~For MWK~ <> A stray thought. a burring burrowing, thorny tawny: A wish, yet to get, but vetted for each of us. *This within, this redoubt, a contemplative oasis, my indoor poet's nookery rookery sanctuary each one, each is, deserves, all, one such, a place holy filled, with lice and dirt of a life, strained and trained for emission and transmission of the best of the worst, and the triumphant emergent commission of our individualized most excellent fresh best where crumbs of apple crisp pie solidify, vanilla bean ice cream melt offsets the oven heated warmth, and from this interactive contrasts combative, a poem pie reborn, newly disguised, familiar words, yet unheard and before this very never, went unspoken and now goes forth svelte and unbroken *rhymes of yore, forgot from a before, but making up the walls of the here and now, a sunroom to spread out the lit lights of egress and entrance, of fire door no exits that now are chiseled closed, lock in, lock up, and somehow, one, stills to learn from the stilling quiet solitude. to penetrate the prostrate kneeling grinning grief, how to expel and spell the words that grant relief visit my sunroom, though no fiction. the sun rays *********** create the friction of that which cannot ever be withered nor contained, and your mouth opens wide and a poem birthed and delivered, pastiche paste composted of truth and dreams of fiction, fine diction, with a shrug, a smile, a satisfaction extracted extraordinary, you garner moments of satisfaction but cloud cover returns, and the process of sunrise exposition recommences, and one revisits the elemental sequencing of all the predecessor pain, but this time, for gain, for gain, <> written this sabbath Saturday 12:38am EST Sat Aug 2 2025 in the sunroom, on Shelter Island
Continue reading...
48
The day is ending, The night is descending; The marsh is frozen, The river dead. Through clouds like ashes The red sun flashes On village windows That glimmer red. The snow recommences; The buried fences Mark no longer The road o’er the plain; While through the meadows, Like fearful shadows, Slowly passes A funeral train. The bell is pealing, And every feeling Within me responds To the dismal knell; Shadows are trailing, My heart is bewailing And tolling within Like a funeral bell.
0
1.7k
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Afternoon In February
The day is ending, The night is descending; The marsh is frozen, The river dead. Through clouds like ashes The red sun flashes On village windows That glimmer red. The snow recommences; The buried fences Mark no longer The road o’er the plain; While through the meadows, Like fearful shadows, Slowly passes A funeral train. The bell is pealing, And every feeling Within me responds To the dismal knell; Shadows are trailing, My heart is bewailing And tolling within Like a funeral bell.
Continue reading...
24