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High in the midst, surrounded by his peers,
Magnus his ample front sublime uprears:
Plac’d on his chair of state, he seems a God,
While Sophs and Freshmen tremble at his nod;
As all around sit wrapt in speechless gloom,
His voice, in thunder, shakes the sounding dome;
Denouncing dire reproach to luckless fools,
Unskill’d to plod in mathematic rules.

Happy the youth! in Euclid’s axioms tried,
Though little vers’d in any art beside;
Who, scarcely skill’d an English line to pen,
Scans Attic metres with a critic’s ken.

What! though he knows not how his fathers bled,
When civil discord pil’d the fields with dead,
When Edward bade his conquering bands advance,
Or Henry trampled on the crest of France:
Though marvelling at the name of Magna Charta,
Yet well he recollects the laws of Sparta;
Can tell, what edicts sage Lycurgus made,
While Blackstone’s on the shelf, neglected laid;
Of Grecian dramas vaunts the deathless fame,
Of Avon’s bard, rememb’ring scarce the name.

Such is the youth whose scientific pate
Class-honours, medals, fellowships, await;
Or even, perhaps, the declamation prize,
If to such glorious height, he lifts his eyes.
But lo! no common orator can hope
The envied silver cup within his scope:
Not that our heads much eloquence require,
Th’ ATHENIAN’S glowing style, or TULLY’S fire.
A manner clear or warm is useless, since
We do not try by speaking to convince;
Be other orators of pleasing proud,—
We speak to please ourselves, not move the crowd:
Our gravity prefers the muttering tone,
A proper mixture of the squeak and groan:
No borrow’d grace of action must be seen,
The slightest motion would displease the Dean;
Whilst every staring Graduate would prate,
Against what—he could never imitate.

The man, who hopes t’ obtain the promis’d cup,
Must in one posture stand, and ne’er look up;
Nor stop, but rattle over every word—
No matter what, so it can not be heard:
Thus let him hurry on, nor think to rest:
Who speaks the fastest’s sure to speak the best;
Who utters most within the shortest space,
May, safely, hope to win the wordy race.

The Sons of Science these, who, thus repaid,
Linger in ease in Granta’s sluggish shade;
Where on Cam’s sedgy banks, supine, they lie,
Unknown, unhonour’d live—unwept for die:
Dull as the pictures, which adorn their halls,
They think all learning fix’d within their walls:
In manners rude, in foolish forms precise,
All modern arts affecting to despise;
Yet prizing Bentley’s, Brunck’s, or Porson’s note,
More than the verse on which the critic wrote:
Vain as their honours, heavy as their Ale,
Sad as their wit, and tedious as their tale;
To friendship dead, though not untaught to feel,
When Self and Church demand a Bigot zeal.
With eager haste they court the lord of power,
(Whether ’tis PITT or PETTY rules the hour;)
To him, with suppliant smiles, they bend the head,
While distant mitres to their eyes are spread;
But should a storm o’erwhelm him with disgrace,
They’d fly to seek the next, who fill’d his place.
Such are the men who learning’s treasures guard!
Such is their practice, such is their reward!
This much, at least, we may presume to say—
The premium can’t exceed the price they pay.
Alyssa Underwood Sep 2021
I
--
The LORD is asking, “Do you trust Me, child?”
And surely He is worthy of all trust,
but visceral reactions oft’ seem just
in keeping soul’s anxieties well riled.
While panic, shame and dread stir doubting winds,
obsessive, tight, compulsive thoughts pour fuel
into this downward spiraling boil of gruel
where toxic interactions breed more sins.
So for relationships I feel unfit,
and now old interests die and pleasures wane,
as each new hope in Earth’s good brings fresh pain,
where dark depression’s presently my bit.
Yet in this wilderness I hear God call,
“Child, look to Me. I am your ALL in all.”

II
--
I meditate upon the word of God
to heal a mind that’s broken from the fall,
and lying in morn’s bed I now recall
the former paths of fullness I have trod.
I clear the course of tangling debris
that fogs perspective’s distance-viewing sight
and clogs the narrow way which lets in light,
so with God’s truth I’m able to agree.
I gaze toward the future that is sure,
to glory that is promised out of trial.
I push through lying voices of denial,
rememb’ring my inheritance secure.
So healing first begins by sizing scope,
for in true measure I can grasp true hope.

III
---
Long sheltered in the recesses of mind
on pedestals that overshadow truth
are lies which I have entertained since youth
like tape recordings stuck on forced rewind.    
There‘s something of appeal in misbelief,
some comforting, perverted, dressed-up face
which keeps foul strongholds rooted into place
and lets such rotten seedlings harvest grief.  
But I must choose to undermine their message,
uncovering deception’s hidden lairs
whose cultivation grounds for growing tares
leave roadblocks to integrity’s safe passage.
God’s probing, piercing words—what precious gifts!—
can excavate, expose and extract myths.

IV
---
I apprehend these truths in David’s psalm:
“I’m fearfully and wonderfully made,”
and all my days of life are firmly laid
within the sovereign care of God’s own palm.
And yet another voice keeps creeping out.
“You’re too unfit for blessed community,
hence from belonging full immunity
is your dim lot,” says paralyzing Doubt.
For ‘gainst the Word that says I‘m rightly hewn
rub all the bristling edges of myself,
but would one set forever on a shelf
a Bösendorfer piano out of tune?
No, value is a function of creation,
and He who made has promised restoration.

V
--
Restoration’s anchored in redemption,
and my redemption‘s grounded in God’s love.
Nowhere in far reaches man has thought of
could mind unfurl the breadth of such conception.
Sloshing, hesitating in the shallows,
I wander close to shore in Love‘s vast sea.
Then from the swell I hear a coaxing plea
to dive into the deeper wake of hallows.
What‘s this weight that pins my frame from racing
toward His unknown billows of delight?
Do I not trust that He will clasp me tight,
help me bear the fiercest waves I’m facing?
What guile of devils am I heeding here
which keeps me bound by paralyzing fear?

VI
---
Disheartened by my want for firm resolve
to swim toward agápē’s unplumbed depths
for int’macy with Him who paid my debts—
the only One from sin who can absolve,
I wander, wond‘ring what I’ve missed to see
within my comprehension of Christ‘s love
when He would vacate majesty above
and suffer cruelest death to set me free.
They stripped Him, flogged Him, spit, pulled out His beard,
then pressed a crown of thorns down on His head.
They nailed Him to rough cross to leave for dead—
Creator of the world now by it jeered.
In love this traitor by her King was served:
Christ Jesus bore God‘s wrath which I deserved!

VII
----
Considering what labors Christ performed
to buy my freedom off sin’s slav’ry block
that of His fullness, with Him, I could walk
in resurrected life (not just reformed),
can I not trust that He will see me through
each trial, tribulation, sorrow, loss
when He would not forsake me at the cross
but carried all my grief and suff‘ring too?
And just as death‘s cold grave could not contain
my Savior but gave way to watch Him rise,
whatever loss my path has to comprise
shall work for me eternal glorious gain.
So while my courage may still be in lack,
the settled thing is there’s no turning back.

VIII
-----
Wading through fresh tidal pools of mercy
along a piece of coast that‘s not too wide—
among the crags and caves where stragglers hide,
hoping to evade crowd controversy—
I know I‘ll have to move on before long.
But in the warm meanwhile of the day,
I kneel to rest; and as I start to pray,
my heart begins to open to a song—
a gentle, soothing lullaby I’ve known
sung to the tune of ‘Eventide‘ as hymn,
reminder that this life is fading, dim
but that in Christ I never walk alone.
And as I raise the words, “Abide with me…,”
here comes my Shepherd, walking by the sea.

IX
---
What now is this waylaying, sin-sick soul?
Diversional winds from cliffside descend.
Where‘s pressing fire my devotions attend?
Brain‘s robbed of sanity, sleep, self-control.
Jesus comes near numb heart in distraction
and bids me again to clean deadwood out.
Jesus, I‘m desperate, drowning in doubt!
Help me expel what‘s needing subtraction!
Discipline, prudence, wisdom, contentment
can work to restore both body and brain,
while worship will lift locked heart from restraint—
its untethering from woe’s resentment.
I won‘t, without wisdom, taste truest Love,
yet Love holds true keys to wisdom above.

X
--
Mottling mind’s hazed subconscious sockets—
bedecked by ego’s restless crave for fill—
infections grow to permeate my will,
ladening, with dross, affection‘s pockets.
Foul seepage soon coagulates to plaque,
forces clefts which weaken my foundation,
foments psyche’s stormed disintegration
till half-light’s flushing falls to midnight‘s black.
Yet amid murk‘s rotting, rank confusion
with ev‘ry faculty succumbed to rift,
My Shepherd plucks me fiercely from the cliff,
tending thorn-torn blight with Love‘s ablution.
Healing, though, requires my surrender—
all cooperation I can lend 'her.'

XI
---
Jesus asked a question at Bethesda,
the pool by which an invalid was lain,
for thirty-eight lost years left in his pain—
twisted, timed, tormenting, teared siesta.
“Do you desire to be made well?” He asked.
“I’ve none to help me!” was the plaintive cry,
then Jesus spoke miraculous reply
that to get up and walk the man was tasked.
That’s not to say all healing will be found
within this present life of ills and woes,
but still I hear Christ probing through the throes
if I am truly willing to be sound.
Or would I rather lie on crippling bed,
an invalid of spirit, heart and head?

XII
----
Shuffling through some past miscalculations
surrounding toxic breakage of the vines
that ought secure the healthy bound’ry lines  
guarding interpersonal relations—
rememb‘ring my susceptibility
to ego-shuttled, codependent err‘rs
which strain to manage others‘ own affairs
and so invert responsibility—
I ponder if I‘ll ever grow to learn
proper seeds for sowing mutual trust
with vital tools for gently sanding rust
to help stave off a bondship‘s breaking-burn.
One thing I know, that trusting in the LORD
steers love‘s impetus to carry forward.

XIII
-------
“I’m not enough and yet too much,” I've read.
Succinctly that describes my current angst,
and I can‘t justify to war against
these arguments which whirl around my head.
I’ve been told, “You’re just a little intense,”
by many people, not just one or two,
and this they voice clangs manifestly true,
as gaping holes defect my bound‘ry fence.
Voluminous in content and in force,
bestowing as prized gifts what isn‘t sought
or wanted by those for whom gifts are brought,
I falter in my need to change set course.
And where it comes to giving what‘s desired,
real competence seems found to have expired.

XIV
-----
Someone wrote, “true soul mate is a mirror“—
like limelight they‘ll reveal your unseen faults.
Where no one else delights to search your vaults,
“soul mate“ renders time to be apt hearer.
It matters not, was said, that they don‘t stay,
so long as they‘re an agent for reform—
the one who makes you desp‘rate to transform
by breaking heart and making ego fray.
Danger lies in nuanced underpinnings.
I thought I‘d found my soul mate in abuse
and used “he needs my fuel“ as excuse
to take a twisted game to extra innings.
Here I’ll grant these crazed imaginations
were at core demonic machinations.

XV
-----
Casting down romantic schoolgirl notions
that sin-drenched bonds might fashion souls complete,
I drag bewitching grails to Jesus’ feet—
spurning now to drink past guile‘s potions.
As I linger longer in His presence,
I‘m freshly bathed from marring guilt and shame,
reminded I‘m made whole in Jesus‘ Name—
partaker in the fullness of His essence.
Identified eternally with Christ,
secured by His unfailing love through grace,
one day I‘ll walk perfected face-to-face
with Him from whom true life is all-sufficed.
And as I muse, I taste true heart‘s desire—
rekindling, renewed with holy fire.

XVI
-----
Attitude is prime, determinant hinge
on which the door of restoration swings—
deciding what response subconscious brings
and on which morsels mind should bestly binge.
Plenty is dependent on perspective.
Mountain, plain or valley alter sight 
and size by which is measured present, plight.
Simply switching lens can be corrective.
In Christ, Ephesians tells me, I‘ve been raised,
seated with Him in the heavenly realm—
positioned by the One who steers the helm
that Father, Son and Spirit would be praised!
Worship, like a rudder, sets the outlook
to keep me highly grounded in God‘s Book.

XVII
------
Why should I to the worship of false gods
surrender my outlook frivolously?
Idols grab first gaze notoriously,
rob joy as will‘s defenses yield heart‘s nods.
What then? Can I suppose I might steal back
a measure of exuberance through more
skewed genuflecting to gilt calf before—
itself beleaguered, plagued by woeful lack?
Now heed, wayfaring soul of mine, what‘s true:
Creation‘s bounty-goods will make you slave
and with sweet Siren‘s flutes your mind deprave
when to them you lend focus Christ is due.
Lay firm your eyes on Him—pure, restful bed,
cover, fuel, completer, Fountainhead.

XVIII
-------
Wandering down some cobbled, crowded street,
I‘m nowhere headed, rapt in mindless thought,  
and as I saunter south I happ‘ly spot
a friend long-lost but fiercely longed to meet.
Just up ahead, he’s mixed well in the throng
but might be caught if I push through and race!
Heartbeat quickens. Oh, to see his face,
this one with whom I’m sure I must belong!
Yet when I actually seize him and he turns,
I’m devastated, sunk. It isn’t him.
Then moping northbound—dazed, dejected whim—
I stumble on the One for whom heart burns!
How strange, as I had grappled, chased and shoved,
that I’d been running from the One I loved!

XIX
-----
He‘s reservoir for which parched spirit begs,
familial feast cast heart longs to attend,  
elixir fractured psyche craves, to mend,
secure foundation ‘neath soul‘s skittish legs.
Jesus is hearth fire, garden blooming,
joy‘s kiss that welcomes prodigals with tears,
arms’ tender brawn consoling weak ones‘ fears,
shelt‘ring lullaby as nightstorm‘s looming.
Who else can scatter stars, strew mountain snow,
to whet beloved‘s taste for pristine grace?
What other love’s like this, that He‘d embrace
excruciating death to grace bestow?
And best, most faithful lovers of this earth?—
dull pennies next to Christ‘s resplendent worth!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

VOLUME II:
(** — XXXII) [Edited in 9/27-29/21]

**
----
Closing the door on chaining obsessions
requires some short-circuiting of thought
previously allowed to flow uncaught
and forge ever-deepening depressions.
Pathways in my brain can be rerouted
by changing interactions with my world,
observing what’s most easily unfurled—
presently what’s to five senses suited.
‘Mindfulness’ can be a Christian practice
and doesn’t have to rest on Buddha’s shelf—
“awak’ning non-existence of the self”—
or from unseen, eternal things distract us.
True mindfulness is found in gratitude—
joyful, eucharisteo attitude.

XXI
-----
A biblical version of ‘mindfulness‘
is found in 1 Thessalonians 5,
revealing as God’s will that saints should strive
for ever-prayerful joy and thankfulness.
Pond‘rous gratitude staves off resentment,
greed and pride. As was taught to Timothy,
what‘s created and giv‘n by God should be
received in sacred thanks with contentment.
Creation reflects God‘s bounteous glory
and demonstrates His loving grace and care,
so in same grace and glory we can share
each time we recognize Him in our story.
Ten thousand tiny gifts write each day‘s page,
and he who welcomes most is most like sage.

XXII
------
In restoration, elasticity
of mind is a factor to celebrate.
So please don‘t ever underestimate
the wonders of neuroplasticity.
New brainpaths form and old channels falter,
depending on what choices I might make.
Fresh experience of which I partake
will physically help my brain to alter.
Here‘s one great hope I must now remember:
What’s hardwired today can still be displaced,
and thoughts might soon flow on paths greenly graced,
as I feast my soul’s eyes on brain’s Mender.
Bent mindfulness toward Giver and His gifts
best brings joy‘s healing for my mental rifts.

XXIII
-------
Realizations that some obsessions
are desires to vicariously ride
the mindfulness of others who don‘t hide
their own keener sensory possessions,
aptly are aiding to turn my focus
from curiosity to understand
their thoughts, which often‘s led my heart-demand—
want to consume their minds‘ crops like locusts.
What I‘ve perceived as love, concern to know,
empathy for others‘ worlds internal,
might be more escape from mine external—
attempts to hide from life‘s real, present show.
Avoidance wears all sorts of vibrant masks
to keep me blinded to here-moments‘ tasks.

XXIV
-------
Viewing secondhand eviscerations,
as others spill their innards on the page,
may seem the safest way to heart engage—
surrogated life participation.
Substituting others‘ honed perceptions
where I ought learn observance of my own
will keep childlike experience ungrown,
smother creativity’s conceptions.
Social media’s pitfalls lie therein,
along with greater dangers lurking large.
Despite its many goods, there’s needed charge
that gorging on a good thing leads to sin.
Shutting website windows is like trailhead,
opening mountain path to higher tread.

XXV
------
I‘m learning to sit with anxiety
raised by self-denial of habit’s fix,
mindful how my heart solicits tricks  
to alternate for true society.
Discomfort speaks in volumes to soul’s ear
like smoke alarm alerting to a fire.
It tells me, “Quick, investigate! Inquire!
Please find the source of inner burning fear!”
Nervousness as friend might offer insight
if I can hear and listen to its warning,
objectively without the shame-filled scorning
that tends to follow panic-stricken plight.
Practice putting tension in glass cage
to monitor its undercurrent’s rage.

XXVI
-------
It’s time to preach a sermon to myself,
for fears are overtaking me in waves;
and spirit must combat what habit craves—
flesh seeking consolation in false pelf.
Scrutinize what’s underneath such worry.
Do I believe the LORD is still in charge
of details of my life and world at large?
Look to Him. Don’t yield to anxious hurry.
Do I believe He’s with me and He’s good,
a faithful Shepherd tending to each need?
Then look to Him. Don’t drown in fretting’s greed.
Christ’s sheep don’t have to look elsewhere for food.
Each wait is opportunity to grow,
for God has holy riches to bestow.

XXVII
--------
God’s character and sovereign wisdom hem
my life, as His responsibility.
No wrong will steal my true identity,
whatever slips or schemes might spill from men.
Christ’s Ruler over all, but do I let
Him fully reign as Master in my heart?
Do I acknowledge I’m His work of art
and purpose for His hammers, chisels get?
Intimacy and glory are the friends
to which His sanctifying lessons point
and meld together as love’s dovetail joint
whenever I surrender to these ends.
Soul, set your hope on grace to be revealed.
Entrust to God strain’s mysteries still sealed.

XXVIII
---------
LORD, HELP! Why is my mind so distracted?
And why then, letting it be drawn away
for half an hour, am I now okay
to let my compulsions be retracted?
Give in to let go feels like solution,
but know it only deepens the desire
for later curiosity‘s inquire—
grants no satisfying resolution.
Those thirty minutes mindfulness was lost,
yet could it be empowered by the fall,
as I look closer inside to recall
that giving way to habit bears great cost?
I won‘t grow discouraged by the setback
but seek to further understand self‘s lack.

XXIX
-------
Low-pitched, humming anxiousness was sitting
all day inside my torso‘s cavity.
Mindful sensing lent no gravity
to coax the stubborn squatter through outwitting.
Head was tired from too little sleeping,
so frankly seemed to coast and just make do.
Soul felt no fresh excitement by woods‘ view
and lacked bright energy for much guard keeping.
One moral of this story is night‘s rest
must become priority for healing.
Otherwise this shaky default feeling
will grow into another panicked crest.
Though it‘s no excuse to say I‘m tired,
it‘s clear reformed sleep habits are required.

***
------
Changing what’s practical opens a door
to transforming what’s spiritual, mental
and emotionally experiential.
Habit alterations might well restore
enough equilibrium of body,
restfulness, clarity, reason and time
to give me needed aid to better climb
above oppressive moods, both low and haughty.
Early to bed, early to rise...”could be
one thing to make a world of difference
and welcome back some simple common sense,
to open up new space for setting free.
But for that discipline to take effect,
I’ll also have to curb the internet!

XXXI
-------
Every opportunity for worry
is greater opportunity to trust
that God behind the scenes is sanding rust
from parts of me where fear has made faith blurry.
Without unknowing-gusts to stir the pit
of nervousness inside my helplessness,
I might ne‘er seek my Shepherd‘s faithfulness
nor learn to wait on Him and with Him sit.
These are times of richest growing lessons
when I‘m reminded He is LORD, not me,
and that He works to draw in int‘macy
feeble souls to Him through stretching sessions.
Joy is knowing sure—head, heart and will—
He‘s ever whisp‘ring, “Child, come closer still.

XXXII
--------
Recapping basic steps to take thus far:
Find sleep (which may mean need for melatonin
to counteract my haywire serotonin),
and overuse of internet I‘ll bar.
Then with restfulness bring mindful thinking—
keen noticing that‘s graced with gratitude
and sets a stronger skyward attitude,
buoys me up against fret‘s downward sinking.
More important still is meditation
upon the word of God‘s indicatives
which lay foundations for imperatives
to follow as prescriptive medication.
Most crucial element preventing fall
is fix my eyes on Jesus through it all!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

VOLUME I
(I — XIX)

8/23/21— 9/8/21

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

VOLUME II
(** — XXXII)

9/22/21 — 9/29/21

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Cné Oct 2017
how the years go sailing past! they go by in a blink!
one day i pause and grasp the thought, t'is later than i think.

i bury friends and family and start to realize,
i’m mortal after all, my friend ... and everybody dies.

i take an inventory of life's sorrows and it's joys
rememb'ring most the happy times and all my little "toys"

i think of goals accomplished and my failures just as well.
i think of things i can't unsay and doubts i cannot quell.

mortality, that bane of man, seems but another's fate
and miss my own life's pageantry, with naught but empty plate.

how strange my life should end one day.  the final scene must play.
i take each breath for granted and don't cherish every day.

so... "happy birthday to myself!
i’m fifty-two anon !
what happened to my days of youth!?  i missed them.  now they're gone!
Adrienne Lee Nov 2011
there were a few (fairly) successful techniques i used

to erase you.

one day

she may leave,

so

let me share a few.



unfortunately,

the whole ordeal wasn't as easy as sending you to my recycle bin

or backspacing your name out of my chest.

i couldn't paint over the dark alleys in my heart that you had

graffitied with your naked body,

nor could i sell any of the useless crap you left inside me on ebay.

what idiot wants to buy someone else's used compliments or broken promises??

whatever,

online shopping is overrated anyways.



so,

back to heart break...

let's begin with the

obvious.

i deleted you on

facebook,

how could we be "friends"

when seeing your name

was like force-feeding myself

a fresh slice of pain?

i erased your number.

i refuse to be the pathetic drunk

who sexts at three am,

reminiscing on all the good times

i thought we had.

"babeee, rememb er thast one

timse, when we madske love

underf the stasrs..."

so not my style,

must always remain classy,

even when the tornado

seems to heading straight for

your heart,

and the flying **** never seems to stop.

yes, the world may be falling apart,

but you always have the power to

smile.

remember that after the storm,

everything will be rebuilt

stronger.



i burned all of the 1,000 letters you never wrote

and all of the "I love yous" i never read (but in my head)

until

the ash of yesterday

became flames that could

guide me into tomorrow

unscathed.

in less poetic terms,

i stopped thinking about every *******

sweet thing you had ever said to me

and started focusing on other people's

words, namely my own.

6 months later, I am able to

hear the sound of your voice

without cringing.

180 days of un-remembering you,

and i finally am free to be me,

the girl/woman who is sitting here

realizing that you are going to learn

from me learning from you.

it's a crazy, beautiful, weird, ****** up process,

right?

this circle of life...





and finally,

i forced myself to

see you.

similar to the

way in which a diabetic child

gazes longingly through the

window of the neighborhood bakery,

all transparency and overly indulgent imagination,

i looked through you enough times

to convince myself you were the perfect

creation,

sweet but not sickeningly so,

**** but not too sour,

a hint of spiciness to aliven the equation and

a little bitterness to sharpen the sensation.

only problem is,

i forgot i was the chef.

seeing you now through clean eyes,

testing your flavor with a mouth sobered by truth,

your taste is still sweet

but a little fake,

Splenda instead of brown sugar.

I detect the artificiality,

is that why she is leaving you?



no matter the cause,

no matter the outcome of this

most painful breakup,

know that one day, you will love again.

you will meet that one person who will

wake you up from the dream

you didn't realize you were living,

that one who will bring breath

to parts of your body you didn't

know existed.

on the blackest of nights, you will walk around

a corner on some random street

in the middle of no where,

and there she will

be,

standing under a street lamp,

smiling up at the midnight sun.

her body will beckon you,

invite you to dance,

and

you must accept the call.

even if you are  scared,

even if your heart is still broken,

even if you think you still belong to the one who

left you,

you must answer to love,

and in return life

will answer to you.

once you allow yourself to fall again,

the hurt will mend,

and your wings will spread,

wider and more ready than ever.



always remember,

you are the only one

holding yourself prisoner.
Sometimes Starr Jun 2016
there is music being traded between cells
under the canopy,
reposed in the sound

there are dance steps in directions
giving us everything
under the canopy,
reposed in the sound

who said it was nothing
whispered the trees
stood the ground.

how it was anything
wondered a man
rememb'ring a girl
dreamed a world.

Rings around, rings around
and yet here i sit and wait
for my life to begin
how strange.
how up and down
how beautiful
from the top and from the bottom,

*strange.
Don Bouchard Feb 2016
Incessant, nervous breeze,
Gray mornings scudding in,
Branches, stark and thin,

Rain and flurried snow
Blended now, as if they didn't know
Which way the sky must go,
Warming now, but slow.

Bleak skies and weathered land
Beaten colorless by Winter's hand
Seem silent in these days of gray,
But I know fair Spring will have her say.

A neighbor rang, reporting her first robin;
Two trumpeters flew north without stopping,
And geese stand waiting on the icy pond,
Rememb'ring open water just beyond.

This is the time when old ones sigh,
Wondering will winter ever die?
And some decide that it is best
To turn toward eternal rest.

So left my friend this early spring
Before he heard the robins sing,
And I remain to live the winter out alone,
Awaiting green and coveting bird song.
RIP, Fred Arndt
killjoy Oct 2017
remember, remember
the wish you made upon the st
remember, remember
the promise that you would ke

remember, remember
the dreams that would be tr
remember, remember
the people who matters to y

I don't remember
I don't remembe
I don't rememb
I don't remem
I don't reme
I don't rem
I don't re
I don't r
I don't
I don
I do
JK Cabresos Nov 2011
Staring at the ceiling
trying to hide from mem'ries
we've been through
now, I'm free from tears,
but why can't I still forget you?

Your shadow crossed mine
but it never took so long,
your lips touched mine,
your arms wrapped around me,
and then left here so alone.

Why did you go away?
When I've almost given ev'rything.
I trusted you.
I forgave you.
Why?

I'm free from being intoxicated.
I'm free from being insane
but why am I still looking after you,
thinking where have you been?

Free.
Yes! I'm free!

That's what I believe.
I don't know if I'm lying
or what.

But at the end of the day,
I keep on running from the past,
I keep on rememb'ring some mem'ries of us
and it brought me...

...not totally free.
© 2011
t todd Mar 2010
Will words come?
Ideas weave themselves
Like strings of spring vine?

Now it’s time …
A solemn answer,
Just your best.

Eyes cast upward,
Downward, right,
And left.

Eyes that beg
In dramatic
Silence.

Eyes searching
For minute
Flickers –
Tossed out by
Vague heres-and-theres.

Thinking, blinking,
Reaching backward,
Ah!  Something ...  something,
Rememb'ring at last!

Grabbing a time,
With sparks
Of relief;
There they are!
I see them, too!
In those baby eyes.

Follow the steps –
Pour on the juice –
Butter it up –
A kiss for Good Luck.

Our Stories,
Our Amens.
Frankie Morrison Feb 2013
As time goes on, an’ days turn t’ years,
     Though my eyes soon f’get your gorgeous face,
      your beautiful hair,
      your wonderful smile.
     As time goes on, an’ days turn t’ years,
     Though my ears soon f’get
     your voice so sweet,
     your cute laugh,
     of an angel.
    As time goes on, an’ days turn t’ years,
    Though my skin soon f’get
     your tend’r touch,
     so kind, .so gentle.
     As time goes on, an’ days turn t' years,
     Though my mind with age an’ time be dimm’d,
     you’ll be there still
     as vivid col’r mem’rys fade t’ black an’ gray,
     rememb’rs in only thoughts, how great would’a been, th’dance.
     As time goes on, an’ days turn t’ years,
     My heart’ll nev’r f’get ya',
     b’cause he nev’r f’gets
     th’ ones who touch him,
     th’ ones who’s touch leaves an impression,
     ‘specially th’ one who’s touch left an impression so deep,
     that th’ impression can only be fill’d,
     by th’ one who made it.
    As time goes on, an’ days turn t’ years,
    I’ll nev’r f’get ya’,
    please, nev’r f’get me.
    th’ one who loved ya’ from firs’ glance,
    an’ nev’r had his chance t’ dance.
    I love ya’.

            1/08/04  © 2/20/2013
If I was a poet Apr 2018
It's never just a single moment '
It's a confluence of events
Of my tragic demise
Muted with misery ;
Afraid and paralized .
I  cannot rememb'r how't hath happened
' How I lost it all ;
Including my mind .
I'm berefted .
Since I realized ,
I stopped loving the things I loved the most
And nothing rings a bell
Except for a forgotten song
The places change
The pain remain
Lack of entropy
Got no string
Hybridity
Modernization
Temporary
It is, what it is .
Either be dragged
Or, let go
Or be torned '
limb f r o m limb
S E T Nov 2016
Farewell Leonard Cohen
whose every lyric was a poem,
Whose life, the wand'ring minstrel's song,
The Buddhist monk's meditative gong,

Courtly and earthy kneeling on stage
to his lovers, our servant,
In his dashing 70s, still the rage, more fervent,
At the last, asking if we wanted "it darker,"
Life still coursing, but starker,

Of his salad days, at the Chelsea hotel,
A place he met Janis, perhaps not yet in hell
and knew her devotionally and well,
Contemplative star with amorous groupies,
Passionate, ephemerally loopy,

His irony, sans derision or slight
Helping me me through many a night.
For you now, Leonard C, we
"Ring the bells that still can ring," *


And silently sing,
Staying in motion,

Letting go of the "perfect offering" notion,

Rememb'ring withal and despite,
Those fissures in all which let in the light,
*

Your house is in order, a graceful good night.
Leonard Cohen References
"So you Wanted It Darker," L Cohen Final album title, released October 2016
** Chelsea Hotel, song (several incarnations), 1st, 1972
*** From "Anthem," song & album, released 1992; lyric words verbatim and slightly paraphrased.
anna tecson Nov 2021
Whoe'ver the still examines, must define
The wond'rous shifts of the immortal Time;
To kindly witness, the graybeard's silent gaze
From youth to age, from guidebook to learned ways.
Divided only by the fixed life stage,
The youth consults, and the elderly explain.
Slow the transition when the hours date,
From mighty Boy's knees to old aching gait.
While for the Old Man's loss the Young Boy gains,
Old Men comfort and Young Boys wisdom attains.
Here Boy listens to the old learned ways,
There in silent gaze wistful hungry boyhood stays.
Mem'ries and rememb'ring give time for time,
And young knees below, and old above climb.
While simple youngster shake the leg of old,
Experienced veteran like prophet hold,
Eager minds and submission mix their servile roles,
Lads and Late in waiting for their parole.
Smiles and sighs, proverbs and plays life abound,
And form a life-cycle that goes round and round.
Emulated from "Prologue on the Old Winchester Playhouse, over the butcher's shambles" by Thomas Warton.
The night that breeds dark clouds of rankling dolour
Within azure sky of my mind’s great earth,
Delusive affection of thine enlivened fervour,
Of joy of life and lustre triggers dearth.

Thou rememb’rest those fragrant ways trodden,
Back i’th’ longest journey where spring ablaze
Laid the flowers blown down the wood and burden
Our lives like memories galore in craze.

O Fair! Let me know what paineth thee
Such sheer that thou afflictest thy lord.
Bleak is his heart, contriving ‘nother plea,
It haileth thy love to set the erstwhile concord.

However far thou fleest inflicting pain,
Shalt still thou find a peerless love of no stain.
Godspeed Jan 2017
Just like that,
she left,
without leaving a trace,
a picture, a video to remember,
and all that’s left from her,
is in my memory,
my faulty memory.

Oh how I longed for her.
How many times I brushed her off
When she was still existent,
How many times I wished for her
When she is now inexistent.
The irony I can’t comprehend.

I could still remember the times
We’ve been together
The moments we shared
I could still remember
The happiness we had towards
One another
I could still rememb-
Wait…

What was her name again?
Memory is an integral part of the human complex. Without it, life is impartial – meaningless, void of emotion and happiness. We tend to store strong memories close to our heart, be it something joyful or something depressing. These groups of happenings pieces together in a puzzle what we propound as life.
Elizabeth Burns Mar 2016
Will they even remember...
My heart
Will they even rememb...
My soul
Will they even rem...
My smile
Will they even...
My glance
Will they...
My words.
Elizabeth Burns Mar 2016
I think it's your impact that matters
The memory you leave with someone
Do I actually make  a difference?
Have I changed his point of you, his thought patterns?
Have I made a dent?
A mark that stains and never goes away

Will, even my smile, stay in his memory?
Does he even remember my name

I think that's what we want most
To leave  a dent
A mark
To stay within someone's heart
Leave a memory...

Will they remember me?
A face with sad eyes that hid tears
With a beaming smile...
A heart on her sleeve...
Her emotions always bare...

Will they remember me?
And my blonde hair

Will they remember me
Blue eyes that always try to shine
Stay positive
Bring out the light

Will they remember
My sensitive soul
And gentle heart
That always tries to love

Will they even remember...
My heart
Will they even rememb...
My soul
Will they even rem...
My smile
Will they even...
My glance
Will they...
My words.
Steve Page Feb 2018
Am I still me?
Am I still m
Am I still
Am I stil
Am I sti
Am I st
Am I s
Am I
Am
A
Am
Am I
Am I s
Am I st
Am I sti
Am I stil
Am I still
Am I still r
Am I still re
Am I still rem
Am I still reme
Am I still remem
Am I still rememb
Am I still remembe
Am I still remember
Am I still remembere
Am I still remembered?
Prompted by https://hellopoetry.com/mikkbesida/ poem that uses this structure.  
With hope that others' memories of my mother outlast her failing memory.
Simon Monahan Nov 2017
Eyes of fire set deep in gaunt, sunken face
Sun-burnt skin over bones stretched tight
Wild mane glimmers with holy light
The lonely prophet barefoot runs his race

Sat down on uncarved stone on the salt plains
In wilderness heat off’ring prayer
As arid winds tousle his hair
The sun will set, night falls, yet he remains

Chanting psalms over wastes in desert haze
Fasting, searching, waiting for One
Sighing beneath the beating sun
Searing bruised soles walking sands all ablaze

Heart heavy with the taunts of his brother
Rememb’ring mighty works long past
To the old promise holding fast
Dreaming new hope for Zion his mother

Battered by visions of hail and thunder
Summoned, plague and blight to predict
God’s edict none may contradict
Tyrants to fell and kingdoms to sunder

In threadbare raiment of camel’s tired coat
Commands for rended heart he heeds
A call from empty words to deeds
Found wanting now the blood of lamb and goat

Glancing past the veil, lo! above the dome
The glory of Him on the throne
To whom is worship due alone
Intoning a strain to sing exiles home

— The End —