"retires" poems
Red Red
blood poppies
splatters the ground blanket the ground
on a cold on a calm
Orange Orange
autumn day autumn day
a bitter, biting wind a cool, rousing breeze
meets the meets the
Yellow Yellow
piercing sun warming sun
beating down shining down
on dead, littered bodies on thriving, vibrant flora
skin turning emerging from
Green Green
decay grass
an ugly scene a brilliant display
of man's loss of nature's victory
Blue Blue
uniforms sky
war-torn, battered endless, infinite
hidden retires
by the to the
Purple Purple
night night
Jan 16, 2015
Jan 16, 2015 at 9:50 PM UTC
The roses of Love glad the garden of life,
Though nurtur’d ’mid weeds dropping pestilent dew,
Till Time crops the leaves with unmerciful knife,
Or prunes them for ever, in Love’s last adieu!
In vain, with endearments, we soothe the sad heart,
In vain do we vow for an age to be true;
The chance of an hour may command us to part,
Or Death disunite us, in Love’s last adieu!
Still Hope, breathing peace, through the grief-swollen breast,
Will whisper, “Our meeting we yet may renew:”
With this dream of deceit, half our sorrow’s represt,
Nor taste we the poison, of Love’s last adieu!
Oh! mark you yon pair, in the sunshine of youth,
Love twin’d round their childhood his flow’rs as they grew;
They flourish awhile, in the season of truth,
Till chill’d by the winter of Love’s last adieu!
Sweet lady! why thus doth a tear steal its way,
Down a cheek which outrivals thy ***** in hue?
Yet why do I ask?—to distraction a prey,
Thy reason has perish’d, with Love’s last adieu!
Oh! who is yon Misanthrope, shunning mankind?
From cities to caves of the forest he flew:
There, raving, he howls his complaint to the wind;
The mountains reverberate Love’s last adieu!
Now Hate rules a heart which in Love’s easy chains,
Once Passion’s tumultuous blandishments knew;
Despair now inflames the dark tide of his veins,
He ponders, in frenzy, on Love’s last adieu!
How he envies the wretch, with a soul wrapt in steel!
His pleasures are scarce, yet his troubles are few,
Who laughs at the pang that he never can feel,
And dreads not the anguish of Love’s last adieu!
Youth flies, life decays, even hope is o’ercast;
No more, with Love’s former devotion, we sue:
He spreads his young wing, he retires with the blast;
The shroud of affection is Love’s last adieu!
In this life of probation, for rapture divine,
Astrea declares that some penance is due;
From him, who has worshipp’d at Love’s gentle shrine,
The atonement is ample, in Love’s last adieu!
Who kneels to the God, on his altar of light
Must myrtle and cypress alternately strew:
His myrtle, an emblem of purest delight,
His cypress, the garland of Love’s last adieu!
3.7k
This bold mahogany dawn never retires
Buckets of roses unfold along the slopes of this graphite mountain
Smoke stirs from the cave wall paintings
Where wild horses lead the feral battles of yesterday
The most vulnerable humans could ever be is now
With four eyes and four arms open.
She might be as wet as a blonde Swedish shark- no matter.
The best and worst of life comes from the sacred triangle
Oct 14, 2015
Oct 14, 2015 at 5:18 AM UTC
Gemini sheriff of happy town
kills all the frequent cow-catching waffle machines.
He rounds up all his cowboys
and retires all the shepherds in a cloud most curious.
Somewhere soon there will be a better thing to do
than reach for the cookie jar all life long.
Unfortunately there will come so many who also wear the star.
All them good folks are stuck in a stampeding herd of confusion.
Oct 25, 2014
Oct 25, 2014 at 1:50 PM UTC
One of the most abused gifts of life,
Even toothpaste commercials use it to advertise,
Brings pleasure whilst leaving others in deep strife,
Its one thing that creates soul ties,
It deserves more than just physical feelings to be undergone,
Though,it seems in this area we have chosen to be ignorant and to harden our hearts like stone,
As long as we satisfy our momental desires..
And when the deed is done,our conscience fights itself then retires..
It retires from caring who the deed is done with later on..
Aug 11, 2015
Aug 11, 2015 at 8:55 AM UTC
.
On the old porch outside her room
she sits a'spinning on her loom,
weaving memories of times long gone,
gently singing a Native song.
Of rivers running on the plains
swollen from the mountain rains,
of the deserts endless sands,
and of toil with calloused hands.
She sang of buffalo and of bear,
of a paradise for all to share,
she also sang of the forests deep
and of where wolves go to sleep.
Her song dies away like a friend
when her spinning is at its end.
The Great Mother retires in silent gloom
and snuffs out the candles in her room.
Thus stilling the night of a Woman's Moon.
© Pagan Paul (28/01/19)
Jan 29, 2019
Jan 29, 2019 at 9:25 AM UTC
317
Just so—Jesus—raps—
He—doesn’t weary—
Last—at the Knocker—
And first—at the Bell.
Then—on divinest tiptoe—standing—
Might He but spy the lady’s soul—
When He—retires—
Chilled—or weary—
It will be ample time for—me—
Patient—upon the steps—until then—
Hears! I am knocking—low at thee.
2.8k
dinner Greenport-side, watching the shuffling ferries do
their sworn duty, a back ‘n forth wearisome toll,
while we sip a rose and a PBR, respectively and with respect
no enthusiasm afterward for anything but an early off to bed,
and slip into pj’s asap
me in my knackered wholly Hanes fundie knickers,
no thinking required
but she
retires, re-attires in a summery combo,
a gray sweat t-shirt and green and white
plaid pj pants
which she is unawares are my favorites
cause they lop off fifty years,
a teenage woman re-incarnate recreated
cause her figure now womanly full,
better than then
morning awake l, a disturbance of the peace,
recall a snuggling a wake up hug,
and her bottoms conspicuously
gone missing
over break fast I inquire
over yogurt and berries and a
smoked mozzarella omelette,
what happened to those plaid bottoms?
assuming I was innocent of any transgressions
as best I could recall
with a sheepish childlike grin,
that made look like she was twenty again,
to match the now yoga toned body,
she confesses:
forgot to tie the bowstrings
and they slipped down to my ankles
blessed and cursed I thought!
too much of a gentleman to take advantage,
AND my situational awareness was slipping badly,
but when a poem comes across,
ready and pre-writ,
I’m still young enough to grab aholt of it
and never let go
6/23/18
Jun 23, 2018
Jun 23, 2018 at 2:42 PM UTC
He stands there against the silhouette of orange glow.
Hammering steel, sweating.
Hands aching slightly more each time.
"Fuerte."
He retires from his workshop.
Duerme, "Fuerte," duerme.
Oct 5, 2013
Oct 5, 2013 at 2:53 AM UTC
the moon it hides
behind the high rises
of this noise
bumps and grime
he probably knows
the evenings of the souls
getting plyed home
to their pigeon holes
for when he retires at dawn
they start again with vigour
dreaming of better days
they race without a trigger
hypnotized they seem
this rat race has no pity
careful not to blink here
this is maximum city
Jan 6, 2015
Jan 6, 2015 at 9:48 AM UTC
When the moon retires running her length
the river lies a fishbone on the white plate
feebly breathing like the slosh from oars,
the shadow digs a hole in the bush.
The faintest chill rattles don't escape
and the chatters dull as broken notes,
the shadow picks up from the mist
with the intent of an absorbed dreamer.
The gold diggers in that forbidden land
filter their preys keen to fill some more
from the mines lining the grey riverbank
with each reap a little closer to attainment.
The precise compass weighs the measure
tightening the muscles into a symphony
for that climb onto the ****** in one spring
before stealing the stilled, deep into silence.
Aug 8, 2018
Aug 8, 2018 at 10:04 AM UTC
thorns in the thicket of thought and
thistles of the heart's crown makes a bitter tea
which she pours thin for her porcelain dolls
with plaster-of-paris cakes 'n' cookies neatly adorned
with christmas colors daintily painted in blood and tears
the bard speaks the rueful tale with cliffhanger pauses
and excited joyous moments enclosed in the
crisp images of winter wonderland
the bard is a figure of such stories
long white beard and eyes that twinkle like stars
but now that the tale is told
the song sung.....
the bard retires his joyful face in his private room
with its smoky mirrors
and clutter of memorials to his younger days
his words once on the powdered lips of elegance
now are the dirt stained humble man's bread and butter
they were grand stories
they were adoration's to velvet goddesses....
but now they are but thorns in the thicket of thought
picturesque visions of nubile nymph's only sadden the old man
the bard packs away his joyful face
it is for the readers whom he loves
the road weary eyes linger upon her lace
she was a beautiful moment of summer in his winter life
she's now a sacred image protected by
thorns in the thicket of thought
Sep 19, 2014
Sep 19, 2014 at 2:11 PM UTC
Yea verily
The Movers and Shakers are society’s paveway makers.
They recognise a need, feel a cause and initiate action.
These people make things happen, they are the driving force in our society.
By virtue of their very nature, they are rarely perfect,
they have backgrounds and have, invariably, at some some stage of their life,
trodden on the daisies.
Our society could not do without these people.
They are a rare minority and because of their positivity and momentum
They make enemies.
The enemy of the Movers and the Shakers are the Naysayers and the Finger Pointers.
The Naysayers and Finger Pointers are the reactive side of society.
They rarely initiate and rarely expose themselves to the spotlight.
They fester in the shadows in their masses and froth into braying criticism
Which may, or may not, develop into righteous finger pointing and condemnation.
(Depending, of course, on the issue at hand and the degree of hysteria generated.)
The Naysayers and Finger Pointers are society’s negatives.
(They would say that they are society’s necessary checks and controls…
Which perhaps, to some degree they are.)
The realm of the Tall Poppy Syndrome is the perfect territory for Naysayer/Finger Pointer operation.
It provides the right mix of avarice, envy and vengeance to blend clandestinely beneath a covering cloak of righteous indignation.
And it provides the symbiotic platform for mass reaction from the great unwashed.
I note that Mayor Bob Parker and benefactor Sir Owen Glenn are the latest recipients of negative onslaught.
The Mayor has just announced that, after many years of public service, he has had a guts full of the braying abuse and is throwing in the towel.
I sincerely hope that he retires with wealth and lovely wife and that he bathes in the satisfaction of his many, many achievements…well away from the accusing crowd.
And if I was Sir Owen Glenn, I would abruptly cancel the offered, generous, $2 million finance for the Anti Domestic Violence Campaign
and with fierce eye tell the Naysayers and Finger Pointers of New Zealand society to go stuff themselves… then turn and walk away, never to return.
Marshalg
Pukehana Paradise
AUCKLAND
5 July 2013
Jul 5, 2013
Jul 5, 2013 at 4:28 PM UTC
In the shade
where the pain of fading out
is all about the colours sat light upon the leaves.
Where each blossom grieves
where the rosebud bleeds into another day
and snapdragons snap and snap away
I shall stay.
Watching honey bees at play and dragonfly's that do not snap
but snap back at snapdragons that take a bite
of the slight breeze that whispers through my hair.
I've been here before,
here is where the dream began and in this dream I can
believe,
that every petal on the bloom does not have to grieve
and that 'Shiva'
does not destroy the beauty to be found
silently sprouting from the heavenly ground.
The foxglove that was never worn by man nor beast
is not the least and most of all
when snowdrops fall they do not drop but droop.
The bandicoot
who does not care watches the wind blow through my hair
and then retires back to its lair
Soon I will be back in mine
but one more time I'll stand and look
before fading in again
to the pain
of fading out.
Apr 18, 2013
Apr 18, 2013 at 5:51 AM UTC
When the horns wear thin
And the noise, like a garment outworn,
Falls from the night,
The tattered and shivering night,
That thinks she is gay;
When the patient silence comes back,
And retires,
And returns,
Rebuffed by a ribald song,
Wounded by vehement cries,
Fleeing again to the stars—
Ashamed of her sister the night;
Oh, then they steal home,
The blinded, the pitiful ones
With their gew-gaws still in their hands,
Reeling with odorous breath
And thick, coarse words on their tongues.
They get them to bed, somehow,
And sleep the forgiving,
Comes thru the scattering tumult
And closes their eyes.
The stars sink down ashamed
And the dawn awakes,
Like a youth who steals from a brothel,
Dizzy and sick.
1.9k
Loneliness is now upon his throat
I know it for sure
What ails him hasn't a cure
He's shrinking like a sinking boat.
On the perch a plumed pain
He's lost without a care
Tells the vacant stare
Dooming into a never regain.
Death is an easy height to scale
When life remains to grieve
Without any incentive
As love retires to a dark well.
He's fading in the lost glory
And I know it for sure
What's killing him has no cure
My budgie called Story.
Jun 11, 2016
Jun 11, 2016 at 11:50 AM UTC
I bid thee welcome to the masquerade!
T’is a place in which we dance circles around each other,
Dawning a facade.
We dodge, turn, and promenade
All to elude one another
All to trick the other into fraud.
And yet, we still dance.
Fanciful gowns, embroidered in gold!
Shined shoes and a powered nose,
Hidden by thy mask.
Thy game is defunct and old
T’is all concealed by magnificent clothes!
Do not scrape the skin, but in its glow thy must bask.
Be thy wary not to trip on thy skirts.
Secret rendezvous down a dark rue!
A place where a white lie springs
Onto thy heart’s soft flesh - slashed.
"I love you!"
A heart beat faster than the hummingbird's wings.
"Nah, good woman, t’was a feeling long surpassed."
A heart with no beat, imploded and crumbling.
I bid thee adieu from the masquerade!
T'was a place where we danced circles around each other,
And shall closet our facade.
We have dodged, turned, and walked our promenade
All to elude one another
All to trick the other into fraud.
And yet, thy mask never truly retires.
Apr 23, 2013
Apr 23, 2013 at 12:01 AM UTC
Not of ancient lore,
or some cross to bear.
But here. But now.
No Prince Charming
at the castle door.
Only her, Miss Damsel herself.
In some paper city,
called Zilch,
where things fall apart fast.
She's trapped in no tower,
but a loft instead.
With tin-foil crown,
she climbs across
the kitchen table
to slay the dragon,
in the flames
of his own black-hearted
bedevilment.
A dagger to the heart
of the matter,
and all is quiet again.
Then with a satisfied yawn,
she retires for her afternoon nap.
Oct 19, 2020
Oct 19, 2020 at 12:05 PM UTC
The Gift of the Sleeping Magi
**"But in a last word to the wise of these days
let it be said that of all who give gifts,
these two were the wisest.
Of all who give and receive gifts,
such as they, are wisest.
Everywhere, they are wisest.
They are the Magi."
O. Henry**
The woman, traveling alone, thru dangerous
West Side badlands, dancing lands,
where resident fairies, ex-ballerinas all,
magical mystify a passerby's thoughts,
mesmerizing them with their mercurial maneuvers,
tango dancing upon shimmering glass pieces,
enslaving all who gaze upon them forever,
turning their captives into sleeping beauties.
Restlessly awaiting her return,
the hombre-lover early retires
to the bed chamber,
weary from another day's
woeful world worries,
long past midnight, he awakens,
disoriented, discombobulated,
and alone.
Fearing the worst,
he summons her return with text spells
and magical ringing cell's bells,
all to no avail.
He dresses,
readying for the search,
to bring her home.
Ready to depart,
he opens the door,
only to find the woman
asleep before their door.
Unwilling to awake
her sleeping hombre,
she gifts him a
rest undisturbed.
Shoulder grasped, elbow guided,
her eye glasses surgically removed,
he returns her to their bed,
to complete her own rest.
instantly, she is re-gifted,
colliding with a gravity pulling her,
into a pleasurable deep sleep.
Now wide-eyed awake,
the hombre muses and
poetry pens this tale
of his restless confusion.
O. Henry's words refurbished,
rise up, infiltrate his consciousness.
**Of all who give and receive gifts,
even the simplest,
rest undisturbed, rest completed,
they are the wisest,
everywhere they are wisest.
They are Magi.**
2::03 AM, a few years ago.
Oct 30, 2013
Oct 30, 2013 at 6:36 PM UTC
The sad and solemn night
Hath yet her multitude of cheerful fires;
The glorious host of light
Walk the dark hemisphere till she retires;
All through her silent watches, gliding slow,
Her constellations come, and climb the heavens, and go.
Day, too, hath many a star
To grace his gorgeous reign, as bright as they:
Through the blue fields afar,
Unseen, they follow in his flaming way:
Many a bright lingerer, as the eve grows dim,
Tells what a radiant troop arose and set with him.
And thou dost see them rise,
Star of the Pole! and thou dost see them set.
Alone, in thy cold skies,
Thou keep'st thy old unmoving station yet,
Nor join'st the dances of that glittering train,
Nor dipp'st thy ****** orb in the blue western main.
There, at morn's rosy birth,
Thou lookest meekly through the kindling air,
And eve, that round the earth
Chases the day, beholds thee watching there;
There noontide finds thee, and the hour that calls
The shapes of polar flame to scale heaven's azure walls.
Alike, beneath thine eye,
The deeds of darkness and of light are done;
High towards the star-lit sky
Towns blaze--the smoke of battle blots the sun--
The night-storm on a thousand hills is loud--
And the strong wind of day doth mingle sea and cloud.
On thy unaltering blaze
The half-wrecked mariner, his compass lost,
Fixes his steady gaze,
And steers, undoubting, to the friendly coast;
And they who stray in perilous wastes, by night,
Are glad when thou dost shine to guide their footsteps right.
And, therefore, bards of old,
Sages, and hermits of the solemn wood,
Did in thy beams behold
A beauteous type of that unchanging good,
That bright eternal beacon, by whose ray
The voyager of time should shape his heedful way.
1.5k
Why is it that when the sunny happy day retires
And the mysterious moon shows it's face
Our feelings sprang up like zombies in a grave
Bursting free of life
But only at night, and not in the day?
Jun 13, 2014
Jun 13, 2014 at 11:30 PM UTC
i know it today,
life is a short stay,
amidst all wants and desires,
of which one never retires,
desires for self and self ones,
greed together of million tonnes,
such things though many times,
force me to think of crimes,
betraying someone's trust,
for things less worthier than dust,
seeing death every other day,
still thinking we are here to stay,
for and ever till,
our pocket affords the bill,
but no thought is given,
wether we go to hell or heaven,
our debts money won't pay,
karmas will be counted for each day,
during our life's course,
when we did things with force,
which was given temporarily to us,
to display whoz god and what he does,
acts of humans should be such,
giving an estimate of how much,
greatness would be in the one,
who owes such a nice son,
who loves him and all,
whoz values are infinitely tall,
whoz presence inaugrates all ethical energies,
whoz work is beyond all intelligent strategies,
who realises god's omnipresence,
and make him his life's essence,
remember all my dear friends,
when all of our life ends,
our powers won't accompany us,
as in life's course it does,
what goes with thw soul then,
is all of those times when,
we have made someone smile,
and loved some other for a little while,
laughed in someone's good times,
cried in other time of destiny's sad rhyme.
I know it today..........................
Mar 22, 2013
Mar 22, 2013 at 4:20 PM UTC
The loneliness I'm keeping
But my sanity is leaking
When my past is speaking
Of the mistakes I'm reaping
I walk an uneasy line
Between shame and pride
But I travel in the wrong direction
And feel I have lost my connection
To myself
To my wealth
Of knowledge I have gained
For now it is stained
Because of my shame
Others see my game
Because I have lied
For the sake of pride
And they start playing
By happily filleting
My dignity
Into infinity
Pieces and desires
Until my mind retires
So I travel from the horrific
To the terrific
Near the Pacific
To be specific
A place
Where people don't wear a scarlet letter
For being as light as a feather
Where there are psychologists
Who understand my ****** logic
Who help me with my vice versus
And the sulfur beneath my surface
Now I'm back in the crowd
I cut through the shroud
And make there here
Through love and tears
I become a spokesman
And speak for myself
Sep 5, 2017
Sep 5, 2017 at 2:51 AM UTC
Sitting in that tiny room
you call your
office
sweating in sweat
heater blaring
chills of regret.
Inflammatory response
tightened up
tripped out
grimace has become
your middle name.
To steal from Bob Dylan
"there must be some way
out of here"
No wonder
plunging head long
headaching
heart breaking
into red brick walls
second story shaky
jail cells flaking
one too many souls
borrowing one soul too many.
We don't really
get it our way.
Bursting out of all that gray
making your way.
The streets will be
calling your name
to be the light angel again
drifting into dark
consciousness to light
the way.
Descending
back into
that
twisted tiny room
you call your office
in a modular tomb
and the only window
is
sleep.
Oct 18, 2014
Oct 18, 2014 at 10:56 AM UTC
I want to find a Boo-Boo
for my Smokey Bear
So now that you’re aware
of this just stop your
staring at me
Please hear my plea
Next time you
talk to Yogi
ask him ‘bout a
Boo-Boo Bear for
Smokey
The forest fires burn
burn, burn, burn, burn
Keep tryin’ to contain them
but those whack-a-moles
yearn to be free
Please listen to me
Next time you
talk to Yogi
ask him ‘bout a
Boo-Boo Bear for
Smokey
Smokey needs a
Boo-Boo Bear so
when he retires
he’ll take over his work
preventing forest fires
Can’t you see?
Please hear my plea
Next time you
talk to Yogi
ask him ‘bout a
Boo-Boo Bear for
Smokey
Mark Toney © 2021
“Created in 1944, the Smokey Bear Wildfire Prevention campaign is the longest-running public service advertising campaign in U.S. history, educating generations of Americans about their role in preventing wildfires … Though he has already accomplished so much, Smokey’s work is far from over. Wildfire prevention remains crucial, and he still needs your help. His catchphrase reflects your responsibility: Only you can prevent wildfires. Remember that this phrase is so much more than just a slogan: it’s an important way to care for the world around you.”—smokeybear.com
“Boo-Boo Bear is a Hanna-Barbera cartoon character on The Yogi Bear Show. Boo-Boo is an anthropomorphic bear cub who wears a blue or purple bowtie. Boo-Boo is Yogi Bear's constant companion, and often acts as his conscience.”—Wikipedia | Boo-Boo Bear
Nov 20, 2021
Nov 20, 2021 at 11:50 PM UTC