"rowed" poems
A black crow's darting eyes
spans the wheat field
and an orange pumpkin patch.
She sees
tall grasses of brown
seedlings,
bristling in the wind,
soon to be bushels of grain
and a pumpkin pie that she never savored.
She sits, atop her tree perch,
at times warm and storybook,
hidden by tree branches,
and at times out of harm's way
and infamy.
Her friends, the sun, and clouds in concert,
dancing along.
Her other friends bring alms and smiles.
Life is so good at times.
Down the road sits a mill
next to a waterfall
and a cabin,
with reindeer horns
hanging above the doorway.
She is in her element, happy,
carrying for her nestlings.
Back and forth her parental eyes dart
the hilly fields, a smoked filled chimney, and her babies,
all crawling with sustenance and awe.
Storybook.
A mother feeding a worm to her baby.
Storybook.
Off to her side is not a blind eye
watching her,
scary stick figures of
straw tucked under red shirts and hats,
with a tied tinfoil strips dotting
her eyes and tease.
Scarecrows, cease.
At times life is good nature, hand in hand,
knock on wood.
If only life could be circumspect.
Than darkness filling the light
and a stutter of life.
For a sad page is turned,
pause
... tears.
Then, feathers fall.
Hers.
The sound of a thud.
Silence and tears of her friend's swelling.
A baby's cry, missing her mother.
More orphaned tears.
Who would be this despicable?
On that rogue day.
A kick of a donkey,
an ***
one bad rock on her path,
breaks the air,
as three little elementary kids were walking along
to school.
One, me, with a rock in his hand,
taking aim at her perch
and the death of the black crow's pages.
I confess.
... Bless me, Father, for I have sinned
it has been fifty years since
my last confession ...
a Tom Sawyer-like childhood gone worse.
I repent.
Some fifty years later I think of those first cairns,
including stealing the reindeer horns and milling
my brother and sister's storybook.
Waterfalls
stream tears, and a sorry boat
rowed downstream
sadly
thereafter.
Logan Robertson
7/25/2018
Jul 25, 2018
Jul 25, 2018 at 6:02 PM UTC
A story, a story!
(Let it go. Let it come.)
I was stamped out like a Plymouth fender
into this world.
First came the crib
with its glacial bars.
Then dolls
and the devotion to their plactic mouths.
Then there was school,
the little straight rows of chairs,
blotting my name over and over,
but undersea all the time,
a stranger whose elbows wouldn't work.
Then there was life
with its cruel houses
and people who seldom touched-
though touch is all-
but I grew,
like a pig in a trenchcoat I grew,
and then there were many strange apparitions,
the nagging rain, the sun turning into poison
and all of that, saws working through my heart,
but I grew, I grew,
and God was there like an island I had not rowed to,
still ignorant of Him, my arms, and my legs worked,
and I grew, I grew,
I wore rubies and bought tomatoes
and now, in my middle age,
about nineteen in the head I'd say,
I am rowing, I am rowing
though the oarlocks stick and are rusty
and the sea blinks and rolls
like a worried eyebal,
but I am rowing, I am rowing,
though the wind pushes me back
and I know that that island will not be perfect,
it will have the flaws of life,
the absurdities of the dinner table,
but there will be a door
and I will open it
and I will get rid of the rat insdie me,
the gnawing pestilential rat.
God will take it with his two hands
and embrace it.
As the African says:
This is my tale which I have told,
if it be sweet, if it be not sweet,
take somewhere else and let some return to me.
This story ends with me still rowing.
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My First Day at Hogwarts
On a Saturday morning,
I woke up in pain.
Perched on top of my head,
Was an owl shaking its mane.
As I focused my glance,
the owl got clearer.
There was something clutched in its beak;
a pale yellow letter.
When I opened it,
words started to bloom,
Mr Y. Vartak,
The inner bedroom.
‘You have a place
in Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry,
Points will be taken for wrong,
and awarded for bravery.’
I showed it to my parents,
Who were not at all surprised.
They were in fact very happy,
I am a wizard I realized!
We took a plane to London,
Visit Diagon Alley.
In a hurry to buy my first wand,
robes and stationery.
It was the first of September,
so we hurried to Kings Cross.
We got to platform nine and three quarters,
after struggling through the chaos.
I had everything in my trunk,
I had nothing more to get.
My parents surprised me,
by giving me an owl as a pet.
I got a seat in the Hogwarts Express,
and put my robes,
There was a boy opposite me,
he was juggling bewitched globes.
We got off the train,
At Hogsmeade Station.
There was an amazing castle,
that was beyond my imagination.
We rowed across the lake,
sitting on boats,
It was getting colder,
so we pulled on our coats
We entered the hall,
Full of eyes.
There was a roof above us,
that represented the vast skies.
There was a dusty hat,
in the middle of a stage,
It had a rip near the brim,
so it looked older than its age.
A professor named Minerva,
Put that hat on my head.
The rip opened like a mouth,
Interesting is what it said.
The Sorting Hat as it was called,
said that he had to think some more,
After a while it yelled:
‘He’ll go in GRYFFINDOR!’
I joined the Gryffindor,
at the Start-Of-Term Feast.
We were so involved I talking,
we cared for our sleep the least.
After the feast, we departed,
for Gryffindor Common Room,
Outside the portrait hole, there was,
a shiny black broom.
I changed from my robes to my nightdress,
lay down watching the dying ember.
My eyelids were getting heavy,
I walked into a deep slumber.
This poem is written by me,
Yash Singh.
Specially written for my favourite,
Joanne Kathleen Rowling.
Sep 8, 2019
Sep 8, 2019 at 7:20 AM UTC
I stumbled across a letter from an old friend,
its contents were long and wordy but they had their end.
It was just her way of saying she appreciated our friendship.
A friendship unanchored, blew away with the wind
with paper sails that have only thinned.
Birthdays used to be a grand affair; a day to celebrate
but each year the wishes dwindle down so I reciprocate.
Radio meets silence while we're both aware of the days
until it becomes a memory of the song that no longer plays.
Too busy trying to navigate channels that changed.
Then an invitation to a graduation came to me one year
a wedge of uninterrupted distance bridged by a, "Dear."
I don't know if olive branches can hold my weighted heart
but I sent my response to expect me there
before I decided to not care.
When the day came you said, "I didn't think you would come!"
I kept quiet how I cried in my car a block from
your home. I hid my face in your arms and squeezed you tight
because the wedge between us was five-years wide.
"I said I would," is all I replied.
And we asked each other questions that friends don't ask.
What did you study? Where do you live? What do you do?
We joke around but do not laugh as hard as we used to.
My past brought to my present like a nostalgic gift.
A chance to heal over our ocean-wide rift.
And there were no known reasons! I can't turn back the clock!
I just drifted like a small boat barely tethered to its dock
until a storm came and everyone forgot to tie me down.
Or maybe it was on purpose, or maybe I couldn't secure me.
I was the fourth in a unit of three, send me out to sea.
But there is a positive to all of this turmoil
there is a reason the invitation made it to my door.
I rowed myself through the five-year waves back to shore
and tethered my boat and checked the knots times ten.
When friends become strangers we get to meet again.
May 20, 2020
May 20, 2020 at 1:15 PM UTC
The ******
Tried so very hard to please his crew
But you see
Out on the high seas
Tensions run high
But you cannot take words
Back
See the crew loved the ******
They just didn’t know how to show it
In the night
The ****** rowed on a rowboat
Far away from the harsh crew
The crew saw him
Stop they yelled
But the ****** was already gone
Just
Like
That.
Jul 3, 2011
Jul 3, 2011 at 8:23 AM UTC
328
A Bird came down the Walk—
He did not know I saw—
He bit an angle-worm in halves
And ate the fellow, raw,
And then he drank a Dew
From a convenient Grass,
And then hopped sidewise to the Wall
To let a Beetle pass—
He glanced with rapid eyes
That hurried all abroa—
They looked like frightened Beads, I thought—
He stirred his velvet head
Like one in danger, Cautious,
I offered him a Crumb,
And he unrolled his feathers
And rowed him softer home—
Than Oars divide the Ocean,
Too silver for a seam—
Or Butterflies, off Banks of Noon,
Leap, plashless as they swim.
3.7k
I couldn't see, but water
reflecting, it danced from the sun
black cormorant dove under stars and pearls of sea
for silvery fish to fill his beak
a small boat I rowed
long through water weeds, cat tail reeds
paddles cut the diamond day sparkling
sandy shores mollusk strewn
rippled shells shimmering blue
oysters bubbled, shallows breathing
seagull smiled watchful scheming
a beach fire to warm the night
the dusky sun, no longer to keep
soon the moon between the trees
radiant, it wakes the stars from sleep
Aug 7, 2012
Aug 7, 2012 at 1:42 PM UTC
I would have rowed to you
had you not rowed to me, to the city
inside our heads and outside our bodies
and one cracked knuckle was there,
the welcoming committee –
we are inside, we are inside we are in
the most delicious parts of you and me
I breathe in some scent,
fly into another sector, another crevice
thinking love does the strange things:
I would have rowed to you had you
not rowed to me – I would have
rowed to you had you not rowed to
me. And we drown in each other, baby.
Dec 8, 2012
Dec 8, 2012 at 10:56 PM UTC
she had a telescope in her pocket.
one of those cool tiny ones, like a pirate might have
if he were searching for buried treasure.
she told me it was magic, let her see
enchanted things
like fairies and mermaids
and little trolls with fuzzy hair.
they were scared of normal people.
they were really shy, she said
but they were real and alive,
breathing air and eating brunch
and taking baths
like us.
she’d look through her telescope when we walked to school
or through the park
lost in it, like she wasn't even there next to me
but somewhere else, on an island
that no one had a map of.
sometimes she’d point, say
“look! in that tree, right there!”
so I’d squint and try to see
what only she could see
but all I’d see was some leaves
or a nest
or nothing at all.
sometimes I’d lie next to her on the lawn
and close my eyes.
and she could breathe an image behind my closed eyelids
and I could feel the breeze as fairies flew by,
and hear the mermaids’ tails sweeping against toasted rocks
and it was like I’d rowed a ship
across that ocean to her island
I’d found the map, I was next to her,
and the world was just as she said it was--
magical.
but the difference between me and her was
she could open her eyes, and still see it all.
but I’d open my eyes, and all I’d see
was some leaves
or a nest
or nothing at all.
May 2, 2014
May 2, 2014 at 5:40 PM UTC
The Pobble who has no toes
Had once as many as we;
When they said "Some day you may lose them all;"
He replied "Fish, fiddle-de-dee!"
And his Aunt Jobiska made him drink
Lavender water tinged with pink,
For she said "The World in general knows
There's nothing so good for a Pobble's toes!"
The Pobble who has no toes
Swam across the Bristol Channel;
But before he set out he wrapped his nose
In a piece of scarlet flannel.
For his Aunt Jobiska said "No harm
Can come to his toes if his nose is warm;
And it's perfectly known that a Pobble's toes
Are safe, -- provided he minds his nose!"
The Pobble swam fast and well,
And when boats or ships came near him,
He tinkledy-blinkledy-winkled a bell,
So that all the world could hear him.
And all the Sailors and Admirals cried,
When they saw him nearing the further side -
"He has gone to fish for his Aunt Jobiska's
Runcible Cat with crimson whiskers!"
But before he touched the shore,
The shore of the Bristol Channel,
A sea-green porpoise carried away
His wrapper of scarlet flannel.
And when he came to observe his feet,
Formerly garnished with toes so neat,
His face at once became forlorn,
On perceiving that all his toes were gone!
And nobody ever knew,
From that dark day to the present,
Whoso had taken the Pobble's toes,
In a manner so far from pleasant.
Whether the shrimps, or crawfish grey,
Or crafty Mermaids stole them away -
Nobody knew: and nobody knows
How the Pobble was robbed of his twice five toes!
The Pobble who has no toes
Was placed in a friendly Bark,
And they rowed him back, and carried him up
To his Aunt Jobiska's Park.
And she made him a feast at his earnest wish
Of eggs and buttercups fried with fish, -
And she said "It's a fact the whole world knows,
That Pobbles are happier without their toes!"
3.2k
Hood Canal
I couldn't see, but water
reflecting, it danced from stars of sun
Black cormorant dove under stars and pearls of sea
silvery fished his netted beak
A small boat left untied to float, I rowed
weaving cat tail reeds, long through water weeds
Paddles cut my diamond day - sparkling
jewel of soul swayed, prayed to dive me deeper
Sandy shores mollusk strewn
rippled shells covered shimmering blue
Oysters bubbled shallows breathing
seagull smiled watchful scheming
Beach fire to warm the night
and rock the dusky sun to sleep
the coming moon between trees
dark night, the stars to weep
Dec 13, 2012
Dec 13, 2012 at 9:33 AM UTC
The Norsemen rowed in Dragon boats
And sailed the mighty seas
Through howling winds and snarling waves
They prayed to Thor for guidance
The Vikings travelled far and wide
To find their willing victims
One look at these men armed with swords
And they knew their days were numbered!
The Berserkas is there other name
And plundering was their game
A flash of steel was all it took
And untold riches came their way
Mar 16, 2016
Mar 16, 2016 at 6:12 PM UTC
Fall to me, all you streets of Rome,
With your embrowned oils from torched walls and breccia of shadows,
The pizzicato of stairways and afternoon slowly closed
Like the thick, leathery-echo from this book of all roads.
Fallen, smoldering empire of storefronts and back-shop heirlooms,
Your lupine hills unbound with milk of cur in the wind and woods,
To your fallow fields rowed deep by a conquest of oars,
To the deepest silence and soot-muted oneness of Pompeii,
And a sky that is an ancient coin, without worth,
But still rubbed smooth at the edges by overfond lovers.
Jun 14, 2019
Jun 14, 2019 at 4:16 PM UTC
The night was passing, and the Grecian host
By no means sought to issue forth unseen.
But when indeed the day with her white steeds
Held all the earth, resplendent to behold,
First from the Greeks the loud-resounding din
Of song triumphant came; and shrill at once
Echo responded from the island rock.
Then upon all barbarians terror fell,
Thus disappointed; for not as for flight
The Hellenes sang the holy pæan then,
But setting forth to battle valiantly.
The bugle with its note inflamed them all;
And straightway with the dip of plashing oars
They smote the deep sea water at command,
And quickly all were plainly to be seen.
Their right wing first in orderly array
Led on, and second all the armament
Followed them forth; and meanwhile there was heard
A mighty shout: "Come, O ye sons of Greeks,
Make free your country, make your children free,
Your wives, and fanes of your ancestral gods,
And your sires' tombs! For all we now contend!"
And from our side the rush of Persian speech
Replied. No longer might the crisis wait.
At once ship smote on ship with brazen beak;
A vessel of the Greeks began the attack,
Crushing the stem of a Phoenician ship.
Each on a different vessel turned its prow.
At first the current of the Persian host
Withstood; but when within the strait the throng
Of ships was gathered, and they could not aid
Each other, but by their own brazen bows
Were struck, they shattered all our naval host.
The Grecian vessels not unskillfully
Were smiting round about; the hulls of ships
Were overset; the sea was hid from sight,
Covered with wreckage and the death of men;
The reefs and headlands were with corpses filled,
And in disordered flight each ship was rowed,
As many as were of the Persian host.
But they, like tunnies or some shoal of fish,
With broken oars and fragments of the wrecks
Struck us and clove us; and at once a cry
Of lamentation filled the briny sea,
Till the black darkness' eye did rescue us.
The number of our griefs, not though ten days
I talked together, could I fully tell;
But this know well, that never in one day
Perished so great a multitude of men.
2.6k
have you seen Eurydice
and did she kiss you with gold on her tongue,
and when she bit your lips like a ripe-bruised fruit
did you taste the metal-black sheen of your blood?
and when you rowed her down the river did
her white chemise trail, unblackened, through the mud?
and if she kissed you, I don't blame her;
the Holy Ghost receives her subjects, penitents, lovers
with all the love in her wilder heart,
so tell me, brother Charon,
have you seen Eurydice?
I'd hoped she'd be in the river-weeds,
drawn down to the water from her faery meads.
May 6, 2013
May 6, 2013 at 9:49 PM UTC
words are better on paper and candlelight
the smell of ink and crisp turns of pages white
the binding creaks and soul writ in
this screen is not the same thing friend
it's maddening for this phone to change my words
ah, how often it does so
as if it knows
as if it grows
what could it show
when has itself,
alone so rowed
of feelings felt
or horrors shown
or magick felt
or fury spoke
or walked along a razors edge
hanging on by just a thread
or strained beyond all known thought
or had a thought that wasn't taught
or quenched a lust
so fervent wrought
or plagued its mind
with glory sought
or told a tale
that others'd not
what a soul
that this thing's got
Dec 4, 2013
Dec 4, 2013 at 12:52 AM UTC
in times gone by
Zhou Maoshu sat in his boat
and the boatman rowed it out
Zhou Maoshu went in his boat
to appreciate the lotuses
strewn about in the lake
And the vast sky was everywhere
and the willow huge in the foreground
and a line of them
receding into the mist
and Zhou Mashu sang a song
there in the lake as he sat in his boat:
*water spreads about
and the lotus
is scattered over it
I, Zhao Mashu, am in my boat
and this is neither a journey or end;
here we are but another part of the whole -
it is the seeing of beauty
and that is all there is
here and beyond
now and ever*
Sep 19, 2012
Sep 19, 2012 at 8:31 AM UTC
In the days of seafaring yore, in a candied littoral time, my parents shared a love for wingsails; propelling their craft on the surface of gentle waters.
It was here my father navigated me into existence, by taking my mother for a long enchanted boat ride.
And like a hook and eye, they so clasped and rowed into the boundless deep. The tender rhythm of their waves stirring a rivulet that would come to be called me.
Floating in this colostrum bed underneath the heart's thicket, I settled to sleep; dreaming of cradle song and breastmilk.
My unborn hands and feet routinely practiced swimming toward the open shore; until that day when a familial voice called.
And there in the dilation of a growing current, I sprang forth; thirsting for their love from my very first cry.
Feb 24, 2022
Feb 24, 2022 at 7:15 PM UTC
Ah, you ask
what the origin is of the word pharaoh
Let me assure you first
such questions need to be asked
and you have come to the right person
for I am an antimologist
one specialized in the study of the origin of words
1
Let us consider....pharaoh...pharaoh...pharaoh...
Ah, I have it...the answer retrieved
from the safe confines and treasuries
in the deepest recesses of my mind....
The pharaoh
was so called
for these rulers were,
in spite of the scorching heat and unforgiving sun,
these rulers were always fair
and never became dark
and so that clears the mystery of the first half of pharaoh
2
And moreover, it is revealed in the papyri
and graffiti in the tombs
these Pharaohs could row -
even as Rulers these Pharaohs could row -
you know
row, row, row your boat
and they could row
the full length and breadth of the Nile
And thus from the 2 Divine attributes
of FAIR and ROW
came the title: PHARAOH
3
But....but...but! you say
Ah, I know, I know - you are about to ask
why then is the word spelt as PHARAOH
and not as FAIRROW?
Ah, such questions you have this morning -
what are you on?
Too much sugar and candy floss last night?
Well, you are lucky as I’m not only an antimologist
but also an IsDorian
and so I shall dispel your doubts at once:
It’s simple - remember they were Ancient Egyptians
and these Ancient Egyptians did not know their English well
and so instead of the proper English FAIRROW
they gave us the mangled PHARAOH -
and let us not be too hard on them
as you also recall this was all in the infancy of human civilization
and we shall be graceful enough in our maturity to accept these errors,
for after all, these Ancient Egyptians were but as children
in the History of Human Motion
And I hope I have now dispelled your morning perturbations
as I rowed you over
the rivers of knowledge of antimology, IsDory
and the secret knowledge of FAIRROW and the PHARAOH
Nov 21, 2011
Nov 21, 2011 at 5:12 AM UTC
And He fetched for my heart
Gentle
Fast
That was beating,
Lub dub
Banging until cracks
Weakened
into a hole
Around my chest.
No longer
Lub dub
But a panicked
Hop hop,
Leg-less run marathon
Out of my rib cage.
Lifeless,
Pumping worry
And jealousy,
Replacing my blood,
Until anxiety rowed
broken sail boats
In my veins.
He grabbed it
Said "Stop."
"Patience."
And that's how the heart learned
How to play the waiting game.
May 22, 2014
May 22, 2014 at 12:26 PM UTC
Even in the train it is cold.
Netanya snuggles closer to me,
her eyes searching me,
her hand clutching mine.
Had a job getting out,
she says.
Does he know
where you are going?
No, I just said
I was going out.
Was he suspicious.
Who cares?
She breathes out,
her breath like smoke;
it fills our area
of the carriage.
Why Brighton?
I like it there;
it reminds me
of my childhood.
She lays her head
on my shoulder,
her hand holding mine;
warmth moving
through mine.
Outside it is dark;
evening sky menacing.
How are things?
We rowed,
we always row.
I look at her hair
on my shoulder,
dark, wavy.
Won't going out
for so long
make things worse?
I hope so;
I hope he moves out,
hope he moves away.
What about the kids?
They'll understand,
kids do;
they like you.
I look out
at the passing view,
lights in the distance
from passing
villages or towns,
trees swimming past.
We arrive at Brighton rail station,
get out the train
and walk into the town
hand in hand.
We must come here
and stay the weekend.
When?
When we can.
I look at her beside me.
She's serious.
What would he say?
He'll say nothing.
He thinks it's just
a mid-life crisis
and I’ll get over it.
We walk down
to the seafront;
the wind and cold
biting at us.
The sea's rough.
I like it rough,
I like to sense
nature's power,
she says,
snuggling
close to me.
We go into a shelter
and sit down
in the semi-dark.
We kiss and embrace.
No one is about.
It seems far
from my usual world,
kind of surreal.
Her lips are on mine.
Feel her pulse.
Her living through me
and I through her;
I feel along her back,
feeling the smooth coat
she is wearing;
my fingers sensing
and imaging
what ever is beneath.
We sit there
for what seems hours,
kissing, holding,
looking out
at the rough sea.
Was I being
someone else
or was I just
being me?
Dec 6, 2014
Dec 6, 2014 at 3:37 AM UTC
Alice chalks
secretly, in
red and white,
a caricature
of the new
nanny her
father has hired.
The stick like
figure is spread
eagled across
the side wall
of the house,
red hair, eyes
and mouth,
white long
protruding
teeth and
four fingers
on each hand.
She has heard
her parents row;
the new nanny
took her by
her small hand
to the nursery
and sat her in
a chair; stay
there, she said.
She draws a
thin white line
of chalk through
the nanny's heart.
She stares, smiles,
and wipes her
hands on her
pinafore and
put her hands
behind her back.
Her father had
punished; her
mother had
cried and rowed
and now Alice
waits outside,
by the wall,
staring at the
caricature, the
stick nanny
with an arrow
through her heart.
The sun is dull;
rain threatens;
birds sing; the
thin maid walks
with a mild limp.
Alice waits for
rain; her hands
sense the area
of punishment
pain. Mother
loves and hugs
and kisses. Her
Father glares
and shouts
and smacks
and never misses.
Dec 14, 2013
Dec 14, 2013 at 6:02 PM UTC
Achilles does not sleep.
Instead, he seeks the lover’s embrace and curved lips alongside which he went to war;
Those same that he did not find,
Once the dark mist had come swirling down over his eyes
And his soul went winging down to the House of Death,
with a soldier’s sigh of relief.
He had whispered in Charon’s ear, “Take me to him.”
Charon had rowed on, but held his silence.
By way of greeting, a thousand faces turned away,
And no trace of his beloved’s sweet smile as he disembarked, no warm hand to take his own.
“Patroklus,” he cries,
And goes unheard.
Thus; Achilles does not sleep.
He is Achilles; he does not wait.
He is Achilles; instead, he aches.
He is Achilles; instead, he searches.
Over the horizon, he chases Patroklus’ laugh and the turn of his wrist.
He lingers in all the shadowed corners of eternity,
Leafs through the pages of unforgiving, unyielding posterity,
Whispers “Patroklus, best of the Myrmidons” and sends his name through the winds.
The headstrong runner does not drag his feet as he scours the world,
As he chases ghosts across the face of the earth.
Restless, he is never still,
Knows that each step must carry him closer,
Knows that each ragged cry may be the one
That is finally answered,
Each rendition the wound to be finally salved.
He haunts, and is haunted.
‘I did not feel it,’ he thinks. 'It should have been as though Hektor’s pierced my side, in turn. Did they not say we were one?’
As if what he felt, when they told him, had not been enough.
(Scamander would disagree).
One day, smiling among the cypress, he will cease.
One day, the thousand faces turned away will melt to the one alone that within itself holds his heart.
One day, his greeting will be that sweet smile that he found only in the dawn.
One day, a warm hand will take his own, and the word with which his beloved left him will be the same as that which retrieves him:
'Ἀχιλλέυς.’
Until the day when his heart pours out golden,
Achilles will not sleep.
Apr 28, 2016
Apr 28, 2016 at 10:17 AM UTC
there was a big black cat and he just longed to be
a pirate on the ocean sailing on the sea
with his pirate ship and his pirate hat
and a big black patch a proper pirate cat.
he started on his journey across the oceans blue
hoping to find treasure in lands he never knew
he came across an island and he rowed a shore
there were lots of things he never saw before.
he took a look around to see if he could see
find a hiddden place where treasure just might be
suddenly a parrot come flying from and a tree
then he said to cat just you follow me.
cat he followed parrot along the island shore
they walked for a while then a little more
then they saw a box buried in the the sand
cat began to dig and parrot gave an hand.
they dug out the box the treasure had been found
opened up the lid and and had a search around
there were lots coins and some golden rings
goblets made of silver and lots of other things.
cat was very happy his dream it had come you
now he was a pirate and had a parrot to
Mar 5, 2015
Mar 5, 2015 at 8:49 AM UTC
you row, row, your wooden boat,
rough, sturdy, hardy, made for wear and strain
you yourself
gathered, determined, as tough as nails
as uncouth as your boat
how long have you rowed?
How much is time, what is space and distance
as the ship behind you is never reached
for it forever recedes, as you row, row
and perennially speed the prow
towards
Towards what?
Towards that
Which forever recedes, as you row, row
You row, row, the wooden boat
And all time and effort, all will and motion
is but oil and canvas
A picture, an impression, an illusion
A verisimilitude
of what?
Capturing what?
To embrace what?
That which eludes
Past time, past space, past mind and body
you row, row, your wooden boat
rough, sturdy, hardy, made for wear and strain
you yourself
gathered, determined, as tough as nails
as uncouth as your boat
how long have you rowed?
Nov 23, 2012
Nov 23, 2012 at 5:24 AM UTC