"sabbath" poems - Hello Poetry

"sabbath" poems

Lush is the quietude of the late Saturday afternoon, rich are the silencing sounds, as variegated as the shades of greens of a man-seeded, nature-patchworked lawn rays reveal some bright, some yellowed spots, all a potent color palette resting worry wearied eyes, untroubled by the gentle fading light's illumination, that soon will disappear and seal officially, another week gone by the lawn, acting as an ceiling acoustic tile, absorbing and reflecting the varied din of disharmonious natural sounds orchestrated, an ever present reminder that true quiet is not the absence of noise I hear the chill in the air, insects debating vociferously their Saturday evening plans, the waves broom-swishing beach debris, pretending to be young parents putting away the children's toys for the eve the birds speak in Babel multitudes of tongues, chirps, whistles, clicks and clacks, then going strangely silent as if all were praying collectively the afternoon sabbath service, with an intensity of the silent devotion this moment, i cannot well enough communicate, this trump of light absolutes, and animal maybes, that are visually and aurally presented in a living surround sound screen, Dolby, of course, all a plot of ease and gentility, in toto, sweet serenity here to cease, no more tinkering, leave well enough, plenty well enough

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Jun 7, 2015

Jun 7, 2015 at 10:39 AM UTC

Lush is the quietude of the late Saturday afternoon

Lush is the quietude of the late Saturday afternoon, rich are the silencing sounds, as variegated as the shades of greens of a man-seeded, nature-patchworked lawn rays reveal some bright, some yellowed spots, all a potent color palette resting worry wearied eyes, untroubled by the gentle fading light's illumination, that soon will disappear and seal officially, another week gone by the lawn, acting as an ceiling acoustic tile, absorbing and reflecting the varied din of disharmonious natural sounds orchestrated, an ever present reminder that true quiet is not the absence of noise I hear the chill in the air, insects debating vociferously their Saturday evening plans, the waves broom-swishing beach debris, pretending to be young parents putting away the children's toys for the eve the birds speak in Babel multitudes of tongues, chirps, whistles, clicks and clacks, then going strangely silent as if all were praying collectively the afternoon sabbath service, with an intensity of the silent devotion this moment, i cannot well enough communicate, this trump of light absolutes, and animal maybes, that are visually and aurally presented in a living surround sound screen, Dolby, of course, all a plot of ease and gentility, in toto, sweet serenity here to cease, no more tinkering, leave well enough, plenty well enough

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She took my niece, Made her, her-daughter. Two of them sippin' coffee In yoga clothes, Watching sun-rising over the bay @ 7:00am, on a Sabbath-Saturday. She took my niece, Made her, her-daughter. Life, a puzzle, a jig saw dance, Just found, right now, the right spot, As I espied them, this poem, Product of a momentary glance. Another poem, another piece, When, She took my niece, Made her into Her-Daughter. 7:02am August 24th 2013

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Aug 24, 2013

Aug 24, 2013 at 7:04 AM UTC

She took my niece

She took my niece, Made her, her-daughter. Two of them sippin' coffee In yoga clothes, Watching sun-rising over the bay @ 7:00am, on a Sabbath-Saturday. She took my niece, Made her, her-daughter. Life, a puzzle, a jig saw dance, Just found, right now, the right spot, As I espied them, this poem, Product of a momentary glance. Another poem, another piece, When, She took my niece, Made her into Her-Daughter. 7:02am August 24th 2013

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A beer can, phone book, a grapefruit and an Advent wreath with four candles in its nest of greens Two weeks Two lit Third one's the Pink a life three quarters spent? Next weekend Saturday-- The Sabbath falls in Hanukkah “Blessed art thou, Lord our God King of the universe who dost create lights of fire...” I'll light that third-- the pink one like a barbarian wise woman who traveled too far along life's way to find a Jewish baby, wrapped in rags ...or, was it the old guy that night lying in the street outside a New England bar “Oh Christ! Ya gotta be kidding me!” Nope, He was there alright Wallowing in the freezing slush amid his helpless drunken cries No cell phones then Scrapped my pizza plans On foot alone waving in frustration in the passing headlights a turquoise, wind-crazed scarecrow ______ “Someone's gotta stop? Someone has to help us, don't they?” ______ Now there are two beer cans a grapefruit, and a phone book beside the advent wreath Third candle lit and leaning out for hope along the way

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Dec 15, 2017

Dec 15, 2017 at 3:05 PM UTC

elizabeth-balise

Advent Still Life

A beer can, phone book, a grapefruit and an Advent wreath with four candles in its nest of greens Two weeks Two lit Third one's the Pink a life three quarters spent? Next weekend Saturday-- The Sabbath falls in Hanukkah “Blessed art thou, Lord our God King of the universe who dost create lights of fire...” I'll light that third-- the pink one like a barbarian wise woman who traveled too far along life's way to find a Jewish baby, wrapped in rags ...or, was it the old guy that night lying in the street outside a New England bar “Oh Christ! Ya gotta be kidding me!” Nope, He was there alright Wallowing in the freezing slush amid his helpless drunken cries No cell phones then Scrapped my pizza plans On foot alone waving in frustration in the passing headlights a turquoise, wind-crazed scarecrow ______ “Someone's gotta stop? Someone has to help us, don't they?” ______ Now there are two beer cans a grapefruit, and a phone book beside the advent wreath Third candle lit and leaning out for hope along the way

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Teresa climbs on the bus before the sun, if she has the fare to get there, where she makes the bread; she's been at this two of her nineteen years yet she has fears, they will come for her--green card or not; though they like her rolls she kneads the big ***** pulls, pinches, a sculpting of dough, a laying of trays, one after another then, from the Iglesias, they come, decked in their finery though she does not see she only hears the litany of language she can't comprehend, a clanging of trays, laughter the urging of the jefe to work faster, bake the bread; the communion wafers did not fill them now they are here, breaking fast, forgetting the words they just heard the songs they sang Teresa does not complain; she is glad to feed the worshipers, though they will never know her name nor will they stop for her in the pouring rain, the blistering sun Teresa never wavers next Sabbath will be the same: dawn, the dough, the oven it is the work--her hands which make the bread others break, the grace granted to serve holy, holy, holy...

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Apr 2, 2017

Apr 2, 2017 at 8:49 PM UTC

feeding the holier

Teresa climbs on the bus before the sun, if she has the fare to get there, where she makes the bread; she's been at this two of her nineteen years yet she has fears, they will come for her--green card or not; though they like her rolls she kneads the big ***** pulls, pinches, a sculpting of dough, a laying of trays, one after another then, from the Iglesias, they come, decked in their finery though she does not see she only hears the litany of language she can't comprehend, a clanging of trays, laughter the urging of the jefe to work faster, bake the bread; the communion wafers did not fill them now they are here, breaking fast, forgetting the words they just heard the songs they sang Teresa does not complain; she is glad to feed the worshipers, though they will never know her name nor will they stop for her in the pouring rain, the blistering sun Teresa never wavers next Sabbath will be the same: dawn, the dough, the oven it is the work--her hands which make the bread others break, the grace granted to serve holy, holy, holy...

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A follow on poem to 'In the Sunroom (Suicide)" (1) writ many years later... ~For MWK~ <> A stray thought. a burring burrowing, thorny tawny: A wish, yet to get, but vetted for each of us. *This within, this redoubt, a contemplative oasis, my indoor poet's nookery rookery sanctuary each one, each is, deserves, all, one such, a place holy filled, with lice and dirt of a life, strained and trained for emission and transmission of the best of the worst, and the triumphant emergent commission of our individualized most excellent fresh best where crumbs of apple crisp pie solidify, vanilla bean ice cream melt offsets the oven heated warmth, and from this interactive contrasts combative, a poem pie reborn, newly disguised, familiar words, yet unheard and before this very never, went unspoken and now goes forth svelte and unbroken *rhymes of yore, forgot from a before, but making up the walls of the here and now, a sunroom to spread out the lit lights of egress and entrance, of fire door no exits that now are chiseled closed, lock in, lock up, and somehow, one, stills to learn from the stilling quiet solitude. to penetrate the prostrate kneeling grinning grief, how to expel and spell the words that grant relief visit my sunroom, though no fiction. the sun rays *********** create the friction of that which cannot ever be withered nor contained, and your mouth opens wide and a poem birthed and delivered, pastiche paste composted of truth and dreams of fiction, fine diction, with a shrug, a smile, a satisfaction extracted extraordinary, you garner moments of satisfaction but cloud cover returns, and the process of sunrise exposition recommences, and one revisits the elemental sequencing of all the predecessor pain, but this time, for gain, for gain, <> written this sabbath Saturday 12:38am EST Sat Aug 2 2025 in the sunroom, on Shelter Island

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Aug 2, 2025

Aug 2, 2025 at 12:59 AM UTC

Each of us needs a sunroom

A follow on poem to 'In the Sunroom (Suicide)" (1) writ many years later... ~For MWK~ <> A stray thought. a burring burrowing, thorny tawny: A wish, yet to get, but vetted for each of us. *This within, this redoubt, a contemplative oasis, my indoor poet's nookery rookery sanctuary each one, each is, deserves, all, one such, a place holy filled, with lice and dirt of a life, strained and trained for emission and transmission of the best of the worst, and the triumphant emergent commission of our individualized most excellent fresh best where crumbs of apple crisp pie solidify, vanilla bean ice cream melt offsets the oven heated warmth, and from this interactive contrasts combative, a poem pie reborn, newly disguised, familiar words, yet unheard and before this very never, went unspoken and now goes forth svelte and unbroken *rhymes of yore, forgot from a before, but making up the walls of the here and now, a sunroom to spread out the lit lights of egress and entrance, of fire door no exits that now are chiseled closed, lock in, lock up, and somehow, one, stills to learn from the stilling quiet solitude. to penetrate the prostrate kneeling grinning grief, how to expel and spell the words that grant relief visit my sunroom, though no fiction. the sun rays *********** create the friction of that which cannot ever be withered nor contained, and your mouth opens wide and a poem birthed and delivered, pastiche paste composted of truth and dreams of fiction, fine diction, with a shrug, a smile, a satisfaction extracted extraordinary, you garner moments of satisfaction but cloud cover returns, and the process of sunrise exposition recommences, and one revisits the elemental sequencing of all the predecessor pain, but this time, for gain, for gain, <> written this sabbath Saturday 12:38am EST Sat Aug 2 2025 in the sunroom, on Shelter Island

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Often I think of the beautiful town That is seated by the sea; Often in thought go up and down The pleasant streets of that dear old town, And my youth comes back to me. And a verse of a Lapland song Is haunting my memory still: “A boy’s will is the wind’s will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.” I can see the shadowy lines of its trees, And catch, in sudden gleams, The sheen of the far-surrounding seas, And islands that were the Hesperides Of all my boyish dreams. And the burden of that old song, It murmurs and whispers still: “A boy’s will is the wind’s will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.” I remember the black wharves and the ships, And the sea-tides tossing free; And Spanish sailors with bearded lips, And the beauty and mystery of the ships, And the magic of the sea. And the voice of that wayward song Is singing and saying still: “A boy’s will is the wind’s will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.” I remember the bulwarks by the shore, And the fort upon the hill; The sunrise gun, with its hollow roar, The drum-beat repeated o’er and o’er, And the bugle wild and shrill. And the music of that old song Throbs in my memory still: “A boy’s will is the wind’s will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.” I remember the sea-fight far away, How it thundered o’er the tide! And the dead captains, as they lay In their graves, o’erlooking the tranquil bay Where they in battle died. And the sound of that mournful song Goes through me with a thrill: “A boy’s will is the wind’s will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.” I can see the breezy dome of groves, The shadows of Deering’s Woods; And the friendships old and the early loves Come back with a Sabbath sound, as of doves In quiet neighborhoods. And the verse of that sweet old song, It flutters and murmurs still: “A boy’s will is the wind’s will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.” I remember the gleams and glooms that dart Across the school-boy’s brain; The song and the silence in the heart, That in part are prophecies, and in part Are longings wild and vain. And the voice of that fitful song Sings on, and is never still: “A boy’s will is the wind’s will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.” There are things of which I may not speak; There are dreams that cannot die; There are thoughts that make the strong heart weak, And bring a pallor into the cheek, And a mist before the eye. And the words of that fatal song Come over me like a chill: “A boy’s will is the wind’s will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.” Strange to me now are the forms I meet When I visit the dear old town; But the native air is pure and sweet, And the trees that o’ershadow each well-known street, As they balance up and down, Are singing the beautiful song, Are sighing and whispering still: “A boy’s will is the wind’s will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.” And Deering’s Woods are fresh and fair, And with joy that is almost pain My heart goes back to wander there, And among the dreams of the days that were, I find my lost youth again. And the strange and beautiful song, The groves are repeating it still: “A boy’s will is the wind’s will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”

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6.8k

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Often I think of the beautiful town That is seated by the sea; Often in thought go up and down The pleasant streets of that dear old town, And my youth comes back to me. And a verse of a Lapland song Is haunting my memory still: “A boy’s will is the wind’s will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.” I can see the shadowy lines of its trees, And catch, in sudden gleams, The sheen of the far-surrounding seas, And islands that were the Hesperides Of all my boyish dreams. And the burden of that old song, It murmurs and whispers still: “A boy’s will is the wind’s will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.” I remember the black wharves and the ships, And the sea-tides tossing free; And Spanish sailors with bearded lips, And the beauty and mystery of the ships, And the magic of the sea. And the voice of that wayward song Is singing and saying still: “A boy’s will is the wind’s will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.” I remember the bulwarks by the shore, And the fort upon the hill; The sunrise gun, with its hollow roar, The drum-beat repeated o’er and o’er, And the bugle wild and shrill. And the music of that old song Throbs in my memory still: “A boy’s will is the wind’s will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.” I remember the sea-fight far away, How it thundered o’er the tide! And the dead captains, as they lay In their graves, o’erlooking the tranquil bay Where they in battle died. And the sound of that mournful song Goes through me with a thrill: “A boy’s will is the wind’s will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.” I can see the breezy dome of groves, The shadows of Deering’s Woods; And the friendships old and the early loves Come back with a Sabbath sound, as of doves In quiet neighborhoods. And the verse of that sweet old song, It flutters and murmurs still: “A boy’s will is the wind’s will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.” I remember the gleams and glooms that dart Across the school-boy’s brain; The song and the silence in the heart, That in part are prophecies, and in part Are longings wild and vain. And the voice of that fitful song Sings on, and is never still: “A boy’s will is the wind’s will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.” There are things of which I may not speak; There are dreams that cannot die; There are thoughts that make the strong heart weak, And bring a pallor into the cheek, And a mist before the eye. And the words of that fatal song Come over me like a chill: “A boy’s will is the wind’s will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.” Strange to me now are the forms I meet When I visit the dear old town; But the native air is pure and sweet, And the trees that o’ershadow each well-known street, As they balance up and down, Are singing the beautiful song, Are sighing and whispering still: “A boy’s will is the wind’s will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.” And Deering’s Woods are fresh and fair, And with joy that is almost pain My heart goes back to wander there, And among the dreams of the days that were, I find my lost youth again. And the strange and beautiful song, The groves are repeating it still: “A boy’s will is the wind’s will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.”

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kisses on your warm sweet mouth tender lips caressed exploring your ******* and raised ******* .. belly and thighs enveloped those eager dark delicious places that i covet so your musk erogenous the path to your hungry soul eater of the poison apple your eyes widen bright with delight a strange synesthesia you say your smile a hypnotic alter you prone back arched belly willing as i drag a curved blade slowly across your winsome flesh worshiping you breathing your warm breath into my mouth and nostrils come now you coo i am sheildless then little strangles that excite to see how you do will you love it adorations twisted mind she demon a wizened dizzy Venus please yes her **** drenches the bed a warm viscosity legs widen feet piqued ***** exotic delicatessen Heralded i enter with long sweet butter strokes the sabbath of desire I swear i wont let you suffer... never ! why you say? because i love you lovely scythe you call as if lulled to sleep whispering dreadful incantations . i ache to close the curtain to lifes scalding chatter wrap me in a raggy shawl impale the throat like ive alway dreamed a last exhalation flood gates pour forth as deaths dark fold dissolves all i rock you drugged absinthe and wormwood a last ***** of candles flame white gauze cinched lips on a lost mouth eyes a static pyre i linger wishing you still plush an animated glow so that i could feel your arms, now milky white relics only to take you all over again and again and again dreamer of the abyss yet you stand aberrations, smoke ghost sacrificially swaying your hips calling from Hades dancer of ritual copulation i melt like wax in the sun wither and die myself marriage Italian style dead bells in love blotted out by the Sirens of Mara

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Apr 19, 2017

Apr 19, 2017 at 4:45 PM UTC

kisses on your warm sweet mouth tender lips caressed exploring your ******* and raised ******* .. belly and thighs enveloped those eager dark delicious places that i covet so your musk erogenous the path to your hungry soul eater of the poison apple your eyes widen bright with delight a strange synesthesia you say your smile a hypnotic alter you prone back arched belly willing as i drag a curved blade slowly across your winsome flesh worshiping you breathing your warm breath into my mouth and nostrils come now you coo i am sheildless then little strangles that excite to see how you do will you love it adorations twisted mind she demon a wizened dizzy Venus please yes her **** drenches the bed a warm viscosity legs widen feet piqued ***** exotic delicatessen Heralded i enter with long sweet butter strokes the sabbath of desire I swear i wont let you suffer... never ! why you say? because i love you lovely scythe you call as if lulled to sleep whispering dreadful incantations . i ache to close the curtain to lifes scalding chatter wrap me in a raggy shawl impale the throat like ive alway dreamed a last exhalation flood gates pour forth as deaths dark fold dissolves all i rock you drugged absinthe and wormwood a last ***** of candles flame white gauze cinched lips on a lost mouth eyes a static pyre i linger wishing you still plush an animated glow so that i could feel your arms, now milky white relics only to take you all over again and again and again dreamer of the abyss yet you stand aberrations, smoke ghost sacrificially swaying your hips calling from Hades dancer of ritual copulation i melt like wax in the sun wither and die myself marriage Italian style dead bells in love blotted out by the Sirens of Mara

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A Hebrew Prayer from the Sabbath Morning Service THESE ARE THINGS that are limitless, of which a person enjoys the fruit of the world, while the principal remains in the world to come. They are: honoring one’s father and mother, engaging in deeds of compassion, arriving early for study, morning and evening, dealing graciously with guests, visiting the sick, providing for the wedding couple, accompanying the dead for burial, being devoted in prayer, and making peace among people. But the study of Torah^ encompasses them all. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ I briefly considered editing, adding to, rephrasing this translation. But reconsidered almost immediately, and instead wrote this down. Among the things that are limitless perfect is this prayer.

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Jun 10, 2017

Jun 10, 2017 at 8:34 PM UTC

THESE ARE THINGS that are limitless

A Hebrew Prayer from the Sabbath Morning Service THESE ARE THINGS that are limitless, of which a person enjoys the fruit of the world, while the principal remains in the world to come. They are: honoring one’s father and mother, engaging in deeds of compassion, arriving early for study, morning and evening, dealing graciously with guests, visiting the sick, providing for the wedding couple, accompanying the dead for burial, being devoted in prayer, and making peace among people. But the study of Torah^ encompasses them all. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ I briefly considered editing, adding to, rephrasing this translation. But reconsidered almost immediately, and instead wrote this down. Among the things that are limitless perfect is this prayer.

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Friday marches in. Trumpets playing serenades. Nearly last weeks end. Banners flying high. It's five o clock or there abouts. Hark, Delighted squeals and shouts. Buildings locked, off we trot. To the station, week forgot. Saturday descends with her restful smile. Chill at home just for a while. Wake up in the early hours. In dream state panic. Forgot the day. Thought work was calling me today. Realise it's Saturday. Turn over. Drift back off to sleep. Sunday morn. A sleepless night. Woke up at seven. Coffee on. Then it dawned on me. The weekend's nearly gone. Make the most of Sabbath day. Monday's coming anyway. When back to work. Off I'll trot. Satisfied sort of with my lot. I truly hope Sunday doesn't fly to fast. Sunday waiting for Monday is never a blast! By ladylivvi1 © 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)

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Sep 29, 2013

Sep 29, 2013 at 4:18 AM UTC

Ode to the Weekend!

Friday marches in. Trumpets playing serenades. Nearly last weeks end. Banners flying high. It's five o clock or there abouts. Hark, Delighted squeals and shouts. Buildings locked, off we trot. To the station, week forgot. Saturday descends with her restful smile. Chill at home just for a while. Wake up in the early hours. In dream state panic. Forgot the day. Thought work was calling me today. Realise it's Saturday. Turn over. Drift back off to sleep. Sunday morn. A sleepless night. Woke up at seven. Coffee on. Then it dawned on me. The weekend's nearly gone. Make the most of Sabbath day. Monday's coming anyway. When back to work. Off I'll trot. Satisfied sort of with my lot. I truly hope Sunday doesn't fly to fast. Sunday waiting for Monday is never a blast! By ladylivvi1 © 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)

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~for Maya, the Persian Canadian farmer in the dell~ your poetic riddling questions without hesitation re my claim conceptual refuting with factoids actuarial experiential derived, that cows need milkshake making daily by sunrise nonsense so you wake me up groggy on a Miami Saturday 6:00am with a reciprocal poetic to a dashed off to contra my code of conduct poem-mine; and all that stumbles through my almost reset rested, main stem cortex is an a ancient hebrew homily: on Sabbath Saturday, even the cows sleep late ok; just tween us rare passes the day that a glancing phrase doesn’t register a stabbing whine “of me, of mine do sing” and your point counterpoint incision demands inspiration instant re-mission around 10am when the amiable barn aminals sipping cuppa #3, and the chicken children want a weekend brunch xtra feeding are done, in the yard, put out to pack n' peck n’ play so that’s an intro to this work that jumps the line of a hundreds of other’s poems promised and overdue: insight inside your crafted wake up slam slap was pretty **** near the makers mark bourbon of this distillers bourbon barrels bulbous poem’s bibliothèque that has an impatient waiting list of poems waiting anointing each a personage~poem of that day it was birthed inscribed this particular one for you, ~ my complexity non-Napoleonic just humanoid each, here are my leaders from and into a veining so lovely colored each poem a waving wheat stalk before these old tired eyes close to closing hear once more “of me, of mine do sing” so I follow all of you by dimming yellow light, for this is the soil of nutriment rich from where my words grow taller and the yellow infusion feeds my wheats, the amber, the red hard and soft, the whites, the durums, and mon préféré, prairie spring white, which is my secret nickname for a duality woman, poet and farmer, posing riddles that deserve answers* maybe —- https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2503650/little-ole-me-a-riddle-of-sorts/

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May 12, 2018

May 12, 2018 at 11:17 AM UTC

on Saturday, even the cows sleep late

~for Maya, the Persian Canadian farmer in the dell~ your poetic riddling questions without hesitation re my claim conceptual refuting with factoids actuarial experiential derived, that cows need milkshake making daily by sunrise nonsense so you wake me up groggy on a Miami Saturday 6:00am with a reciprocal poetic to a dashed off to contra my code of conduct poem-mine; and all that stumbles through my almost reset rested, main stem cortex is an a ancient hebrew homily: on Sabbath Saturday, even the cows sleep late ok; just tween us rare passes the day that a glancing phrase doesn’t register a stabbing whine “of me, of mine do sing” and your point counterpoint incision demands inspiration instant re-mission around 10am when the amiable barn aminals sipping cuppa #3, and the chicken children want a weekend brunch xtra feeding are done, in the yard, put out to pack n' peck n’ play so that’s an intro to this work that jumps the line of a hundreds of other’s poems promised and overdue: insight inside your crafted wake up slam slap was pretty **** near the makers mark bourbon of this distillers bourbon barrels bulbous poem’s bibliothèque that has an impatient waiting list of poems waiting anointing each a personage~poem of that day it was birthed inscribed this particular one for you, ~ my complexity non-Napoleonic just humanoid each, here are my leaders from and into a veining so lovely colored each poem a waving wheat stalk before these old tired eyes close to closing hear once more “of me, of mine do sing” so I follow all of you by dimming yellow light, for this is the soil of nutriment rich from where my words grow taller and the yellow infusion feeds my wheats, the amber, the red hard and soft, the whites, the durums, and mon préféré, prairie spring white, which is my secret nickname for a duality woman, poet and farmer, posing riddles that deserve answers* maybe —- https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2503650/little-ole-me-a-riddle-of-sorts/

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inspired by Ben Noah Suri <*> come to us in twilight, and just before sunrise, in the in~between times, when souls exit and enter. through microscopic cosmic windows, and there is nothing but you and the full emptiness of earth and then! fill our void with words as yet unborn, and aid all our passages from nether to glory... for you, we, await... for guidance inherited from all your visions of greater-than-us metamorphosis <*> upon first awakening and reaffirmation of life, reading the first poem of the day 6:59am Sabbath Sep 13 2025

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Sep 20, 2025

Sep 20, 2025 at 7:01 AM UTC

We Await For All of You (1)

inspired by Ben Noah Suri <*> come to us in twilight, and just before sunrise, in the in~between times, when souls exit and enter. through microscopic cosmic windows, and there is nothing but you and the full emptiness of earth and then! fill our void with words as yet unborn, and aid all our passages from nether to glory... for you, we, await... for guidance inherited from all your visions of greater-than-us metamorphosis <*> upon first awakening and reaffirmation of life, reading the first poem of the day 6:59am Sabbath Sep 13 2025

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*she just shakes her head she meets me on the street-corner, me from work, she from dance, in the grayling dusk of a thank god it’s a freedom Friday night, I greet her with words semi-adventurous - “come with me, few errands to run, keep me in good company” to the candy store we go for to purchase my weekend eve lottery tickets and blow-pop lollipops, just in case some kids appear, a surprise omen as they come trick-or-treating just before Thanksgiving the Bangladeshi candyman calls out a long prayer in his native Bangla she asks “what’s that he’s saying?” “Oh, just wishing us a pleasant Sabbath and may his gods smile upon our good lottery fortune” she just shakes her head, from side to side emerging from the store, walking home in the now doubly ***** darkly dusk, a set of white teeth from a passing shadow-man says to me “you’re home late and have a great weekend,” she asks, “who is that?” “why,” I reply, “that is our very own personal postal carrier’ she says: “he delivers mail to ten thousand people all in buildings tall, yet knows your name, your face, where you buy your lottery tickets, your coming and going hours, how came that to be” but waits not for an answer she just shakes her head, from side to side I show her my secret entrance to our apartment house, the fast route to collect our mail, dry cleaning in one fell swoop a secret door, secret elevator taking us directly to our apartment a secret elevator which is under the direction of Bimal from Nepal, who I greet in Nepalese, (my tutor) I, asking after Brian and Bryce, his 100% American boys now she says nothing, but before our door, as I go key digging, she just shakes her head, from side to side later she says: “let’s order in, apprise me of your expertise, some exotic fare from Manhattans First Avenue, known for its aphrodisiacal powers afterwards, you must tell me each dishes name, in its tongue’s nativity, but much, much later,” and as she speaks, grinning, she sticks out her tongue, while she just shakes her head, but this time, up and down

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Nov 18, 2017

Nov 18, 2017 at 10:07 AM UTC

she just shakes her head

*she just shakes her head she meets me on the street-corner, me from work, she from dance, in the grayling dusk of a thank god it’s a freedom Friday night, I greet her with words semi-adventurous - “come with me, few errands to run, keep me in good company” to the candy store we go for to purchase my weekend eve lottery tickets and blow-pop lollipops, just in case some kids appear, a surprise omen as they come trick-or-treating just before Thanksgiving the Bangladeshi candyman calls out a long prayer in his native Bangla she asks “what’s that he’s saying?” “Oh, just wishing us a pleasant Sabbath and may his gods smile upon our good lottery fortune” she just shakes her head, from side to side emerging from the store, walking home in the now doubly ***** darkly dusk, a set of white teeth from a passing shadow-man says to me “you’re home late and have a great weekend,” she asks, “who is that?” “why,” I reply, “that is our very own personal postal carrier’ she says: “he delivers mail to ten thousand people all in buildings tall, yet knows your name, your face, where you buy your lottery tickets, your coming and going hours, how came that to be” but waits not for an answer she just shakes her head, from side to side I show her my secret entrance to our apartment house, the fast route to collect our mail, dry cleaning in one fell swoop a secret door, secret elevator taking us directly to our apartment a secret elevator which is under the direction of Bimal from Nepal, who I greet in Nepalese, (my tutor) I, asking after Brian and Bryce, his 100% American boys now she says nothing, but before our door, as I go key digging, she just shakes her head, from side to side later she says: “let’s order in, apprise me of your expertise, some exotic fare from Manhattans First Avenue, known for its aphrodisiacal powers afterwards, you must tell me each dishes name, in its tongue’s nativity, but much, much later,” and as she speaks, grinning, she sticks out her tongue, while she just shakes her head, but this time, up and down

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We didn’t go to Mea-She’arim on Saturday because they throw stones at cars there on the Sabbath. We wanted to see the locals, certainly, but only to look in a respectful way. We had not expected to make contact. But crossing the road you didn’t notice that you had dropped your book. I picked it up, ran after you. Not knowing how to address you, I touched your sleeve. You turned to me, took the proffered book without a word, and looked at me. Your eyes, beneath your strange hat, between your side-curls, showed no expression. You turned away. Was your garment unclean now? Did the volume need to be purified? I was only returning your book. We had not expected to make contact.

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Oct 2, 2018

Oct 2, 2018 at 10:45 AM UTC

Meeting in Jerusalem *

We didn’t go to Mea-She’arim on Saturday because they throw stones at cars there on the Sabbath. We wanted to see the locals, certainly, but only to look in a respectful way. We had not expected to make contact. But crossing the road you didn’t notice that you had dropped your book. I picked it up, ran after you. Not knowing how to address you, I touched your sleeve. You turned to me, took the proffered book without a word, and looked at me. Your eyes, beneath your strange hat, between your side-curls, showed no expression. You turned away. Was your garment unclean now? Did the volume need to be purified? I was only returning your book. We had not expected to make contact.

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Palm Sunday is upon us, Christ's triumphant arrival, A week before his death, With no chance of survival, Jesus died to save mankind, On that Easter day, Risen on the sabbath, Risen from where he lay, Doesn't look like mankind cares, For what he did on that day, With all the wars that's warring, The world's in disarray.

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Mar 27, 2015

Mar 27, 2015 at 11:54 AM UTC

raymond-dickson

The world's in disarray

Palm Sunday is upon us, Christ's triumphant arrival, A week before his death, With no chance of survival, Jesus died to save mankind, On that Easter day, Risen on the sabbath, Risen from where he lay, Doesn't look like mankind cares, For what he did on that day, With all the wars that's warring, The world's in disarray.

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slept and soaked the sabbath Saturday away. the body, achey breaky, cranked and croaked, slewed by a slew of common miscreants. one, a stitch in my side, feeling like someone's inside, wanting to be born, feet first, coming out the side of my chest, instead of my ****** so, promised poems and bills to pay, put aside for a more poetic bill paying day. awoke once near midday, an unusual wake up call, my nostrils do attend, when the honey odors of cinnamon and vanilla invade the french shores of my subconscious. I love three things French: the elegance of their language grande, their frenchified fries and frenchified toast. was fed some french toast, bathed in vanilla and cinnamon, thus drugged, went back to bed again. as I drifted off for the third time today, heard the woman dramatic say: "must have, must have," two words that I from my past, consider a curse, a grave phrase of choice of my ex-wife, her way of saying I didn't measure up. *must have paprika to roast your chicken for Sunday dinner.* relieved beyond measure, as I to dreamless sleep dispatched, vague recall a poem forming about the spices in my life.

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Feb 22, 2014

Feb 22, 2014 at 5:33 PM UTC

The Spices of Life - Cinnamon, Vanilla and Paprika

slept and soaked the sabbath Saturday away. the body, achey breaky, cranked and croaked, slewed by a slew of common miscreants. one, a stitch in my side, feeling like someone's inside, wanting to be born, feet first, coming out the side of my chest, instead of my ****** so, promised poems and bills to pay, put aside for a more poetic bill paying day. awoke once near midday, an unusual wake up call, my nostrils do attend, when the honey odors of cinnamon and vanilla invade the french shores of my subconscious. I love three things French: the elegance of their language grande, their frenchified fries and frenchified toast. was fed some french toast, bathed in vanilla and cinnamon, thus drugged, went back to bed again. as I drifted off for the third time today, heard the woman dramatic say: "must have, must have," two words that I from my past, consider a curse, a grave phrase of choice of my ex-wife, her way of saying I didn't measure up. *must have paprika to roast your chicken for Sunday dinner.* relieved beyond measure, as I to dreamless sleep dispatched, vague recall a poem forming about the spices in my life.

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324 Some keep the Sabbath going to Church— I keep it, staying at Home— With a Bobolink for a Chorister— And an Orchard, for a Dome— Some keep the Sabbath in Surplice— I just wear my Wings— And instead of tolling the Bell, for Church, Our little Sexton—sings. God preaches, a noted Clergyman— And the sermon is never long, So instead of getting to Heaven, at last— I’m going, all along.

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4.3k

Emily Dickinson

Some keep the Sabbath going to Church

324 Some keep the Sabbath going to Church— I keep it, staying at Home— With a Bobolink for a Chorister— And an Orchard, for a Dome— Some keep the Sabbath in Surplice— I just wear my Wings— And instead of tolling the Bell, for Church, Our little Sexton—sings. God preaches, a noted Clergyman— And the sermon is never long, So instead of getting to Heaven, at last— I’m going, all along.

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The quiet August noon has come, A slumberous silence fills the sky, The fields are still, the woods are dumb, In glassy sleep the waters lie. And mark yon soft white clouds that rest Above our vale, a moveless throng; The cattle on the mountain's breast Enjoy the grateful shadow long. Oh, how unlike those merry hours In early June when Earth laughs out, When the fresh winds make love to flowers, And woodlands sing and waters shout. When in the grass sweet voices talk, And strains of tiny music swell From every moss-cup of the rock, From every nameless blossom's bell. But now a joy too deep for sound, A peace no other season knows, Hushes the heavens and wraps the ground, The blessing of supreme repose. Away! I will not be, to-day, The only slave of toil and care. Away from desk and dust! away! I'll be as idle as the air. Beneath the open sky abroad, Among the plants and breathing things, The sinless, peaceful works of God, I'll share the calm the season brings. Come, thou, in whose soft eyes I see The gentle meanings of thy heart, One day amid the woods with me, From men and all their cares apart. And where, upon the meadow's breast, The shadow of the thicket lies, The blue wild flowers thou gatherest Shall glow yet deeper near thine eyes. Come, and when mid the calm profound, I turn, those gentle eyes to seek, They, like the lovely landscape round, Of innocence and peace shall speak. Rest here, beneath the unmoving shade, And on the silent valleys gaze, Winding and widening, till they fade In yon soft ring of summer haze. The village trees their summits rear Still as its spire, and yonder flock At rest in those calm fields appear As chiselled from the lifeless rock. One tranquil mount the scene o'erlooks-- There the hushed winds their sabbath keep While a near hum from bees and brooks Comes faintly like the breath of sleep. Well may the gazer deem that when, Worn with the struggle and the strife, And heart-sick at the wrongs of men, The good forsakes the scene of life; Like this deep quiet that, awhile, Lingers the lovely landscape o'er, Shall be the peace whose holy smile Welcomes him to a happier shore.

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4.1k

William Cullen Bryant

A Summer Ramble

The quiet August noon has come, A slumberous silence fills the sky, The fields are still, the woods are dumb, In glassy sleep the waters lie. And mark yon soft white clouds that rest Above our vale, a moveless throng; The cattle on the mountain's breast Enjoy the grateful shadow long. Oh, how unlike those merry hours In early June when Earth laughs out, When the fresh winds make love to flowers, And woodlands sing and waters shout. When in the grass sweet voices talk, And strains of tiny music swell From every moss-cup of the rock, From every nameless blossom's bell. But now a joy too deep for sound, A peace no other season knows, Hushes the heavens and wraps the ground, The blessing of supreme repose. Away! I will not be, to-day, The only slave of toil and care. Away from desk and dust! away! I'll be as idle as the air. Beneath the open sky abroad, Among the plants and breathing things, The sinless, peaceful works of God, I'll share the calm the season brings. Come, thou, in whose soft eyes I see The gentle meanings of thy heart, One day amid the woods with me, From men and all their cares apart. And where, upon the meadow's breast, The shadow of the thicket lies, The blue wild flowers thou gatherest Shall glow yet deeper near thine eyes. Come, and when mid the calm profound, I turn, those gentle eyes to seek, They, like the lovely landscape round, Of innocence and peace shall speak. Rest here, beneath the unmoving shade, And on the silent valleys gaze, Winding and widening, till they fade In yon soft ring of summer haze. The village trees their summits rear Still as its spire, and yonder flock At rest in those calm fields appear As chiselled from the lifeless rock. One tranquil mount the scene o'erlooks-- There the hushed winds their sabbath keep While a near hum from bees and brooks Comes faintly like the breath of sleep. Well may the gazer deem that when, Worn with the struggle and the strife, And heart-sick at the wrongs of men, The good forsakes the scene of life; Like this deep quiet that, awhile, Lingers the lovely landscape o'er, Shall be the peace whose holy smile Welcomes him to a happier shore.

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~for the one who will know it was written for her~ muddy verb and adjective, muddling and muddled have you ever seen a pas de deux/deluxe, one dancer, proscriptive, and her partner, prescriptive? the stage, of course, exactly the width of your head, from ear to shining ear this couple o’muses dance en concert, though their very natures are anti-logarithmic, the value of their exponential activity is a descriptive nomenclature I am overly abstruse this Saturday morn, mushing mathematics and ballet, verbal word games as is my wont wanted, everyone sleeping while I rise at 6am, doing ablutions, seeking absolution, pulling weeds from our respective gardens, answering old friends I have yet to meet, to whom I answer, “still here, though long time no see,” which is of course hysterical funny, inherently contradictory, as the brain grasps well my Red and Dead Sea brain cells, a splitting motif muddling and muddled, proscribed from getting on transport, to deliver to you the proper healing prescriptive, as if I had in my possess to diagnosis and correctly assess even though one of my many passport names, a requirement, to visit, this inter-netting ether, that both combines and separates, permits me safe passage, over the historical lineage of borderlines of land and sea, to deliver this message, to you woman *I am here, waiting patiently, though long time no see like ever, absentia, dementia, both self-censure: here, then, my cadenza, dedicated solely soulfully for you, as the sabbath sun rises over the East River, saying, laughing unto me, “still here, though long time no see,” for though I cannot look upon her, my sun, my sun, my son, yet she, as well, is everywhere-inside of me, warmly illuminating my muddled mind*

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Mar 23, 2019

Mar 23, 2019 at 7:57 AM UTC

still here (long time no see)

~for the one who will know it was written for her~ muddy verb and adjective, muddling and muddled have you ever seen a pas de deux/deluxe, one dancer, proscriptive, and her partner, prescriptive? the stage, of course, exactly the width of your head, from ear to shining ear this couple o’muses dance en concert, though their very natures are anti-logarithmic, the value of their exponential activity is a descriptive nomenclature I am overly abstruse this Saturday morn, mushing mathematics and ballet, verbal word games as is my wont wanted, everyone sleeping while I rise at 6am, doing ablutions, seeking absolution, pulling weeds from our respective gardens, answering old friends I have yet to meet, to whom I answer, “still here, though long time no see,” which is of course hysterical funny, inherently contradictory, as the brain grasps well my Red and Dead Sea brain cells, a splitting motif muddling and muddled, proscribed from getting on transport, to deliver to you the proper healing prescriptive, as if I had in my possess to diagnosis and correctly assess even though one of my many passport names, a requirement, to visit, this inter-netting ether, that both combines and separates, permits me safe passage, over the historical lineage of borderlines of land and sea, to deliver this message, to you woman *I am here, waiting patiently, though long time no see like ever, absentia, dementia, both self-censure: here, then, my cadenza, dedicated solely soulfully for you, as the sabbath sun rises over the East River, saying, laughing unto me, “still here, though long time no see,” for though I cannot look upon her, my sun, my sun, my son, yet she, as well, is everywhere-inside of me, warmly illuminating my muddled mind*

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Deep on the convent-roof the snows Are sparkling to the moon: My breath to heaven like vapour goes; May my soul follow soon! The shadows of the convent-towers Slant down the snowy sward, Still creeping with the creeping hours That lead me to my Lord: Make Thou my spirit pure and clear As are the frosty skies, Or this first snowdrop of the year That in my ***** lies. As these white robes are soil'd and dark, To yonder shining ground; As this pale taper's earthly spark, To yonder argent round; So shows my soul before the Lamb, My spirit before Thee; So in mine earthly house I am, To that I hope to be. Break up the heavens, O Lord! and far, Thro' all yon starlight keen, Draw me, thy bride, a glittering star, In raiment white and clean. He lifts me to the golden doors; The flashes come and go; All heaven bursts her starry floors, And strows her lights below, And deepens on and up! the gates Roll back, and far within For me the Heavenly Bridegroom waits, To make me pure of sin. The sabbaths of Eternity, One sabbath deep and wide-- A light upon the shining sea-- The Bridegroom with his bride!

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4k

Alfred Lord Tennyson

Deep on the convent-roof the snows Are sparkling to the moon: My breath to heaven like vapour goes; May my soul follow soon! The shadows of the convent-towers Slant down the snowy sward, Still creeping with the creeping hours That lead me to my Lord: Make Thou my spirit pure and clear As are the frosty skies, Or this first snowdrop of the year That in my ***** lies. As these white robes are soil'd and dark, To yonder shining ground; As this pale taper's earthly spark, To yonder argent round; So shows my soul before the Lamb, My spirit before Thee; So in mine earthly house I am, To that I hope to be. Break up the heavens, O Lord! and far, Thro' all yon starlight keen, Draw me, thy bride, a glittering star, In raiment white and clean. He lifts me to the golden doors; The flashes come and go; All heaven bursts her starry floors, And strows her lights below, And deepens on and up! the gates Roll back, and far within For me the Heavenly Bridegroom waits, To make me pure of sin. The sabbaths of Eternity, One sabbath deep and wide-- A light upon the shining sea-- The Bridegroom with his bride!

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/ although i'd love to go back to the cinema of, bell, book & candle from the 1950s in early technicolour... can i? don't think so... trapped the rekindled narrative of myth... i wish i could, do the supra-capitalist, drunk at 5 in the afternoon, and still pulling the strings... early nostalgia of what was late nostalgia of what was 19th century german concerning ancient greece... i chose 17th century france... because? because... why could it ever be england as primo optio?! am i either that daft, or as much stiff for waiting for eddie zee theerd?! well? well done, you guessed my thinking: write a fictive narrative, it'll last longer, like a photograph. immigrant song, led zeppelin - probably the only grand theatre plus, of thor: rangarok; i still don't know where those M16s came from... and? given they used a led zeppelin's song? i honestly, don't want to know. i was honestly going to favour a black sabbath oeuvre, using only solitude by the witches' congregation ask, aspect, or subsequent, marketing ponce scheme.

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Jul 24, 2018

Jul 24, 2018 at 12:50 AM UTC

removed.polaroid-scrabble

/ although i'd love to go back to the cinema of, bell, book & candle from the 1950s in early technicolour... can i? don't think so... trapped the rekindled narrative of myth... i wish i could, do the supra-capitalist, drunk at 5 in the afternoon, and still pulling the strings... early nostalgia of what was late nostalgia of what was 19th century german concerning ancient greece... i chose 17th century france... because? because... why could it ever be england as primo optio?! am i either that daft, or as much stiff for waiting for eddie zee theerd?! well? well done, you guessed my thinking: write a fictive narrative, it'll last longer, like a photograph. immigrant song, led zeppelin - probably the only grand theatre plus, of thor: rangarok; i still don't know where those M16s came from... and? given they used a led zeppelin's song? i honestly, don't want to know. i was honestly going to favour a black sabbath oeuvre, using only solitude by the witches' congregation ask, aspect, or subsequent, marketing ponce scheme.

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Original: *Monday's child is fair of face Tuesday's child is full of grace Wednesday's child is full of woe Thursday's child has far to go, Friday's child is loving and giving, Saturday's child works hard for a living, And the child that is born on the Sabbath day Is bonny and blithe, and good and gay.* Our version: Monday’s child will be a superhero – ABIGAIL Tuesday’s child never gets a zero – JULIA Wednesday’s child loves to smile – ASHLEY Thursday’s child is kinda wild – Friday’s child is so nice and likes to play – Saturday’s child is true and won’t betray – And the child born on Sunday, so happy, – Is an angel with a great personality. –

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Aug 3, 2018

Aug 3, 2018 at 4:57 PM UTC

ashley-somebody

Original: *Monday's child is fair of face Tuesday's child is full of grace Wednesday's child is full of woe Thursday's child has far to go, Friday's child is loving and giving, Saturday's child works hard for a living, And the child that is born on the Sabbath day Is bonny and blithe, and good and gay.* Our version: Monday’s child will be a superhero – ABIGAIL Tuesday’s child never gets a zero – JULIA Wednesday’s child loves to smile – ASHLEY Thursday’s child is kinda wild – Friday’s child is so nice and likes to play – Saturday’s child is true and won’t betray – And the child born on Sunday, so happy, – Is an angel with a great personality. –

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Now as I was young and easy under the apple boughs About the lilting house and happy as the grass was green, The night above the ****** starry, Time let me hail and climb Golden in the heydays of his eyes, And honoured among wagons I was prince of the apple towns And once below a time I lordly had the trees and leaves Trail with daisies and barley Down the rivers of the windfall light. And as I was green and carefree, famous among the barns About the happy yard and singing as the farm was home, In the sun that is young once only, Time let me play and be Golden in the mercy of his means, And green and golden I was huntsman and herdsman, the calves Sang to my horn, the foxes on the hills barked clear and cold, And the sabbath rang slowly In the pebbles of the holy streams. All the sun long it was running, it was lovely, the hay Fields high as the house, the tunes from the chimneys, it was air And playing, lovely and watery And fire green as grass. And nightly under the simple stars As I rode to sleep the owls were bearing the farm away, All the moon long I heard, blessed among stables, the nightjars Flying with the ricks, and the horses Flashing into the dark. And then to awake, and the farm, like a wanderer white With the dew, come back, the **** on his shoulder: it was all Shining, it was Adam and maiden, The sky gathered again And the sun grew round that very day. So it must have been after the birth of the simple light In the first, spinning place, the spellbound horses walking warm Out of the whinnying green stable On to the fields of praise. And honoured among foxes and pheasants by the gay house Under the new made clouds and happy as the heart was long, In the sun born over and over, I ran my heedless ways, My wishes raced through the house high hay And nothing I cared, at my sky blue trades, that time allows In all his tuneful turning so few and such morning songs Before the children green and golden Follow him out of grace. Nothing I cared, in the lamb white days, that time would take me Up to the swallow thronged loft by the shadow of my hand, In the moon that is always rising, Nor that riding to sleep I should hear him fly with the high fields And wake to the farm forever fled from the childless land. Oh as I was young and easy in the mercy of his means, Time held me green and dying Though I sang in my chains like the sea.

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3.3k

Now as I was young and easy under the apple boughs About the lilting house and happy as the grass was green, The night above the ****** starry, Time let me hail and climb Golden in the heydays of his eyes, And honoured among wagons I was prince of the apple towns And once below a time I lordly had the trees and leaves Trail with daisies and barley Down the rivers of the windfall light. And as I was green and carefree, famous among the barns About the happy yard and singing as the farm was home, In the sun that is young once only, Time let me play and be Golden in the mercy of his means, And green and golden I was huntsman and herdsman, the calves Sang to my horn, the foxes on the hills barked clear and cold, And the sabbath rang slowly In the pebbles of the holy streams. All the sun long it was running, it was lovely, the hay Fields high as the house, the tunes from the chimneys, it was air And playing, lovely and watery And fire green as grass. And nightly under the simple stars As I rode to sleep the owls were bearing the farm away, All the moon long I heard, blessed among stables, the nightjars Flying with the ricks, and the horses Flashing into the dark. And then to awake, and the farm, like a wanderer white With the dew, come back, the **** on his shoulder: it was all Shining, it was Adam and maiden, The sky gathered again And the sun grew round that very day. So it must have been after the birth of the simple light In the first, spinning place, the spellbound horses walking warm Out of the whinnying green stable On to the fields of praise. And honoured among foxes and pheasants by the gay house Under the new made clouds and happy as the heart was long, In the sun born over and over, I ran my heedless ways, My wishes raced through the house high hay And nothing I cared, at my sky blue trades, that time allows In all his tuneful turning so few and such morning songs Before the children green and golden Follow him out of grace. Nothing I cared, in the lamb white days, that time would take me Up to the swallow thronged loft by the shadow of my hand, In the moon that is always rising, Nor that riding to sleep I should hear him fly with the high fields And wake to the farm forever fled from the childless land. Oh as I was young and easy in the mercy of his means, Time held me green and dying Though I sang in my chains like the sea.

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I skip, across a streaming, upon random~laid flat and comfortable flat flagstone stepping stones, from poet to poet, color to color, poem to poem, Auden to Whitman, Schuyler to myself, a dingaling notion, an errant word, the here to there, all randoms, yet, oval chain linked all, a question posed, an answer unknown, a reference to an old Italian myth, and there, and here, a body, comes to rest, & also, comes to rest… <> led not by the nose, but the single fingered tip that guides across a landscape patterned painting, lost but never a loser, each implants, each imbibes, and the H&H^ alternatively rumbles, pounds, vibrato burns erratically, and the difference between a life in love, and a life in poetry, is not a line dividing, but a path combining, and the only sign upon the road, is never a reddened "stop!" always just a soft lavender, so tender, inquiring, requiring, deep thoughts and reckless abandonment, the only guide inspired when ecstatic adrift in a season, a sea, any one of nature's designed unlimited schemata's of vista creations, is this, simply stated: What? <> postscript 6:27 Sabbath Sep 27 nyc after a sunrise glorious, where the windows eastern facing make an irresistible irrational pattern of golden yellow reflecting, mirrors, and after reading much, and so I too, reflect, vista, vista, what do you see, I see…What? after reading a poem by James Schuyler, entitled (yes, we are) "What"^^

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Sep 27, 2025

Sep 27, 2025 at 7:47 AM UTC

adrift, but not drifting...

I skip, across a streaming, upon random~laid flat and comfortable flat flagstone stepping stones, from poet to poet, color to color, poem to poem, Auden to Whitman, Schuyler to myself, a dingaling notion, an errant word, the here to there, all randoms, yet, oval chain linked all, a question posed, an answer unknown, a reference to an old Italian myth, and there, and here, a body, comes to rest, & also, comes to rest… <> led not by the nose, but the single fingered tip that guides across a landscape patterned painting, lost but never a loser, each implants, each imbibes, and the H&H^ alternatively rumbles, pounds, vibrato burns erratically, and the difference between a life in love, and a life in poetry, is not a line dividing, but a path combining, and the only sign upon the road, is never a reddened "stop!" always just a soft lavender, so tender, inquiring, requiring, deep thoughts and reckless abandonment, the only guide inspired when ecstatic adrift in a season, a sea, any one of nature's designed unlimited schemata's of vista creations, is this, simply stated: What? <> postscript 6:27 Sabbath Sep 27 nyc after a sunrise glorious, where the windows eastern facing make an irresistible irrational pattern of golden yellow reflecting, mirrors, and after reading much, and so I too, reflect, vista, vista, what do you see, I see…What? after reading a poem by James Schuyler, entitled (yes, we are) "What"^^

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Ah, broken is the golden bowl! the spirit flown forever! Let the bell toll!—a saintly soul floats on the Stygian river. And, Guy de Vere, hast thou no tear?—weep now or never more! See! on yon drear and rigid bier low lies thy love, Lenore! Come! let the burial rite be read—the funeral song be sung!— An anthem for the queenliest dead that ever died so young— A dirge for her, the doubly dead in that she died so young. “Wretches! ye loved her for her wealth and hated her for her pride, And when she fell in feeble health, ye blessed her—that she died! How shall the ritual, then, be read?—the requiem how be sung By you—by yours, the evil eye,—by yours, the slanderous tongue That did to death the innocence that died, and died so young?” Peccavimus; but rave not thus! and let a Sabbath song Go up to God so solemnly the dead may feel no wrong! The sweet Lenore hath “gone before,” with Hope, that flew beside, Leaving thee wild for the dear child that should have been thy bride— For her, the fair and debonnaire, that now so lowly lies, The life upon her yellow hair but not within her eyes— The life still there, upon her hair—the death upon her eyes. “Avaunt! to-night my heart is light. No dirge will I upraise, But waft the angel on her flight with a paean of old days! Let no bell toll!—lest her sweet soul, amid its hallowed mirth, Should catch the note, as it doth float up from the ****** Earth. To friends above, from fiends below, the indignant ghost is riven— From Hell unto a high estate far up within the Heaven— From grief and groan to a golden throne beside the King of Heaven.”

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3.1k

Edgar Allan Poe

Ah, broken is the golden bowl! the spirit flown forever! Let the bell toll!—a saintly soul floats on the Stygian river. And, Guy de Vere, hast thou no tear?—weep now or never more! See! on yon drear and rigid bier low lies thy love, Lenore! Come! let the burial rite be read—the funeral song be sung!— An anthem for the queenliest dead that ever died so young— A dirge for her, the doubly dead in that she died so young. “Wretches! ye loved her for her wealth and hated her for her pride, And when she fell in feeble health, ye blessed her—that she died! How shall the ritual, then, be read?—the requiem how be sung By you—by yours, the evil eye,—by yours, the slanderous tongue That did to death the innocence that died, and died so young?” Peccavimus; but rave not thus! and let a Sabbath song Go up to God so solemnly the dead may feel no wrong! The sweet Lenore hath “gone before,” with Hope, that flew beside, Leaving thee wild for the dear child that should have been thy bride— For her, the fair and debonnaire, that now so lowly lies, The life upon her yellow hair but not within her eyes— The life still there, upon her hair—the death upon her eyes. “Avaunt! to-night my heart is light. No dirge will I upraise, But waft the angel on her flight with a paean of old days! Let no bell toll!—lest her sweet soul, amid its hallowed mirth, Should catch the note, as it doth float up from the ****** Earth. To friends above, from fiends below, the indignant ghost is riven— From Hell unto a high estate far up within the Heaven— From grief and groan to a golden throne beside the King of Heaven.”

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You quote from Leviticus Call me an abomination As you eat cheeseburgers And claim a Christian nation. You don’t ****** daughters Who have had unmarried love Yet, demonizing gay people Fits you like an expensive glove. You vilify your children daily And quote the bible to boot, While you work on the Sabbath In your fine mixed-fabric suit. You talk so glibly about us Out of both sides of your mouth. You are embarrassing examples Of the sickness of the Old South. You just ain’t right. Your head’s on wrong. Your hypocritical ravings Are the cause of this song. You’re a liar and a nut And you’re halfway crazy. We'd make laws against you But we’re too **** lazy. You wave your hands and pray In public so you are well seen. You copy your Christianity From the latest People magazine. Your idea of pious philosophy Is way off the Christian track. If I ever shake hands with you I’ll count the fingers I get back. You just ain’t right. Your head’s on wrong. Your hypocritical ravings Are the cause of this song. You’re a liar and a nut And you’re halfway crazy. We'd make laws against you But we’re too **** lazy.

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Jul 26, 2015

Jul 26, 2015 at 8:18 PM UTC

You quote from Leviticus Call me an abomination As you eat cheeseburgers And claim a Christian nation. You don’t ****** daughters Who have had unmarried love Yet, demonizing gay people Fits you like an expensive glove. You vilify your children daily And quote the bible to boot, While you work on the Sabbath In your fine mixed-fabric suit. You talk so glibly about us Out of both sides of your mouth. You are embarrassing examples Of the sickness of the Old South. You just ain’t right. Your head’s on wrong. Your hypocritical ravings Are the cause of this song. You’re a liar and a nut And you’re halfway crazy. We'd make laws against you But we’re too **** lazy. You wave your hands and pray In public so you are well seen. You copy your Christianity From the latest People magazine. Your idea of pious philosophy Is way off the Christian track. If I ever shake hands with you I’ll count the fingers I get back. You just ain’t right. Your head’s on wrong. Your hypocritical ravings Are the cause of this song. You’re a liar and a nut And you’re halfway crazy. We'd make laws against you But we’re too **** lazy.

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