"roguery" poems
Although thy hand and faith, and good works too,
Have sealed thy love which nothing should undo,
Yea though thou fall back, that apostasy
Confirm thy love; yet much, much I fear thee.
Women are like the Arts, forced unto to none,
Open to all searchers, unprized if unknown.
If I have caught a bird, and let him fly,
Another fowler using these means, as I,
May catch the same bird; and, as these things be,
Women are made for men, not him, nor me.
Foxes and goats, all beasts, change when they please,
Shall women, more hot, wily, wild than these,
Be bound to one man, and did Nature then
Idly make tham apter t’ endure than men?
They’re our clogs, not their own; if a man be
Chained to a galley, yet the galley’s free;
Who hath a plough-land casts all his seedcorn there,
And yet allows his ground more corn should bear;
Though Danuby into the sea must flow,
The sea receives the Rhine, Volga, and Po.
By Nature, which gave it, this liberty
Thou lov’st, but Oh! canst thou love it and me?
Likeness glues love: and if that thou so do,
To make us like and love, must I change too?
More than thy hate, I hate’t; rather let me
Allow her change than change as oft as she,
And so not teach, but force my opinion
To love not any one, nor every one.
To live in one land is captivity,
To run all countries, a wild roguery;
Waters stink soon if in one place they bide,
And in the vast sea are more purified:
But when they kiss one bank, and leaving this
Never look back, but the next bank do kiss,
Then are they purest. Change is the nursery
Of music, joy, life, and eternity.
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Take this, my needful heart, Sorceress
Break my sweat from swollen pores
Shake that bead’d desperate desire
Simmered sighs of sweltered stew
Tie me down in ribbon’d faire
Infernos blaze deeply below
Cast your spell, incantation’d bliss
Stick inky pins, pointed seduction
Rag doll dances interpreted
Hypnotize me with roguery
Mesmerizing fragrance kisses
Enchanted eternal hocus pocus
Command me spirit’d
Tease me with feathery phantasm
Paint'd black magic aphrodisiac
Stirring with elixir’d lips
Fashion’d to a perfect fit
Tattooed illusion’d obedience
Witch-Crafted to be your man
Aug 5, 2014
Aug 5, 2014 at 7:24 AM UTC
"Stop dangerously playing at philosophy
Stop acting like you have what it takes to be scholarly
You can't even speak properly
You untiringly, and sloppily, try to come up with snobbery
Your diabolical propensity, this fakery
Is just an attempt to associate yourself with roguery
You should put on the masquerade of frivolity
Be all gossipy. Try being frisky. For once, become the life of a party
So that you fit in nicely. Because that's the body's main vitality
Sincerely,
Society "
Mar 24, 2018
Mar 24, 2018 at 11:49 AM UTC
Oh, in pains is my heart forsaken!
as chastened use has chased away
what Love's abundance canst provide;
and whichever path she may have upon
advanced or taken, I must hastened choose
to search this whole world imagined,
both far and wide.
Ah, how an eminence does make the maiden
youth where ev'ry other breath in innocence sets her
chest to fall, to rise; and now I speak just to thee in truth,
in case thou hasn't heard me hence, or believed me true.
Do cease the actions of mischievous type, as roguery isn't
worth the childish enterprise: rather to me extend thy hand, impassioned, as I to my goddess rise!
Allow me to enter, kiss thee upon that
hand as then, then when I would always
askance grin -ere I'm reduced to inanition
in your absence on this night, such as I have
often chanced to be when first astray in the
variable contrast of ineffectual obscurity.
In my thoughts a resident thou art, my fantasy
perceived as a great charmer, a beauty to beseech
-one whose constant sufferers are the broken heart,
it's action ceased within those past suitors which have
only been half-tutored in that ancient art, which to you
I did teach: but the unbelievers naked eye wilt see nothing
of your radiant form, which I defend, set truly apart!
Yet ye thru usury harm this poor man, as you hurriedly
dart out after I come in; in and out of my reality, on this
you are bent, one that the real world called strangely
marked, a world forlorn that fears that which it doesn't
understand, (or envies.)
Do you, mine maiden, not see things as they were; or in
your leave of absence comprehend that the complex of
elements that reasons hath made thee-as God did make
the universe in an ambiguous flight of fancy-where thru
convictions solely are such dimensions and reflections given
worth?
You are all that torments my fiery soul cruelly, so cruelly,
again and again,
as you do as e'er alter my Heaven, and make falser my Earth!
Nov 3, 2014
Nov 3, 2014 at 9:53 PM UTC
Today I saw a Robin,
first one this year.
And part way up
the grassy hill, the cedar tree,
my mother’s grave.
Here it is halfway through March.
I hadn’t even looked
To find the first.
Hopping, flying just above the ground.
But, more than that, to hear it sing.
Robins were a thing we shared:
“I saw one.” ,
“But are you sure?”,
“Oh, yes, no mistaking that!”
Conviction in our voices making fact.
This winter’s roguery
Took me down a peg
Created pause, a looking-back in me.
When robins came
My mind was somewhere else.
Instead of running out,
I held back and sought security:
The bird stood still.
I wondered: Could it be?
Is that her way of telling me?
I try to resurrect her voice:
“It must be Spring!”
But gone ‘s that part in me
that rises up with joy,
at birds, and early leaves
It’s gone and buried there with her,
beside the cedar tree.“
Jun 9, 2019
Jun 9, 2019 at 5:50 PM UTC