"sagely" poems
As night hath stars, more rare than ships
In ocean, faint from pole to pole,
So all the wonder of her lips
Hints her innavigable soul.
Such lights she gives as guide my bark;
But I am swallowed in the swell
Of her heart's ocean, sagely dark,
That holds my heaven and holds my hell.
In her I live, a mote minute
Dancing a moment in the sun:
In her I die, a sterile shoot
Of nightshade in oblivion.
In her my elf dissolves, a grain
Of salt cast careless in the sea;
My passion purifies my pain
To peace past personality.
Love of my life, God grant the years
Confirm the chrism - rose to rood!
Anointing loves, asperging tears
In sanctifying solitude!
Man is so infinitely small
In all these stars, determinate.
Maker and moulder of them all,
Man is so infinitely great!
14.3k
inky black skies
pricked by pinholes of light
above our heads with your hand in mine
as our feet dance - exalted and anxious
upon the tired concrete ground
where we've danced before
the knowing gaze
of the sagely moon upon us
does not compare to the brightness
that gives life to your eyes
and births your smile
we escape inside
from the uncertainty of night
with your hand never leaving mine
and the frantic dance continues
until we are strewn together
cloaked by covers
hearts pressed together
in a duet of frenzied marcato beats
that steadily decrescendos as our breath slows
and our limbs weave and entwine
like a dreamcatcher
bodies intertwined
protected from the ghouls of night
with your hand in mine
we sleep safely
Jan 2, 2012
Jan 2, 2012 at 8:27 PM UTC
.
*Lead me not into temptation of thee,
taunt me not with memory of thy desire,
tease me not with thy seduction of lust,
for thou hast cast a *** spell I admire.
Come hither, bring the grail of thy body,
take me as thy man and mark me,
cast thy symbol 'cross my naked skin,
submit to thy urge and smile at me darkly.
Cut deep, wield thy passion with honour,
thy tongue my ardour to bring alive,
thou employ wicked witchy womens ways
and I see Need deep within thine eyes.
Come hither, bring the paragon of thy want,
give nymph chance to thy beating soul,
shatter me softly with thy perfumes,
take thy fill of love and sagely lose control.*
© Pagan Paul (11/11/17)
Nov 12, 2017
Nov 12, 2017 at 10:08 AM UTC
We love to chase the wind through streaks of blinding bliss,
Tagging the glorious ideals of love, peace, friendship, even
The meaning of life, to weeping willows and pensive pebbles.
We admire the monochrome sky in all its barren blue or pregnant purple;
Hues of burple and plue are dismissed as being tedious, or just confused.
Fear not, photoshop will rectify this pigmented aberration.
We giggle at clouds that resemble kitchen utensils or mystical creatures;
“Hey look a teddy bear in a spacesuit with a flowerpot on his head wielding the Sword of Gryffindor!”
We declare sagely, with the acumen of a legendary bird watcher.
We resurrect grass angels by launching into horizontal jumping-jacks, and,
Just as a disclaimer, no flower was harmed in the process. Not that it matters,
As long as we did not soil our Lacoste and Burberry.
We spin a mixtape out of the torrential downpour, our tracks pitting
The pitter of regularity against the patter of inconstancy, synchronizing
The symphony of splashes to an undercurrent of nostalgia.
We kiss against the bark of an elm, and if a tree is not available in the vicinity,
We throw ourselves down a nearby hill, tumbling into a ball of moist romance,
Panting, as we bask in the studio lighting of the approving sun.
Every still is captured by a Lomo,
Every scene arrested in sepia motion,
Every moment ravished by the chichi Bohemian in us.
Nov 2, 2010
Nov 2, 2010 at 4:03 PM UTC
What are these bands around your wrists
These frayed stories that barely cling?
And what are these enchantments held
That cradle your touch between each ring?
And what is this ancient writing here
That’s inked from shops of yester-year?
Is there a relic about you yet
That makes your brackish past run clear?
What is that place your eye seeks out
When your steady gaze is aether-bound?
And what steep truths have you traversed
To gather poise as you have found?
What shadows passing now have stayed
And fears upon tanned shoulder weighed?
Can mysteries be unraveled here
That in your piercing focus played?
Oh wandering mystery mountain man,
Oh sweet conundrum of my dreams,
Oh distant altruistic love,
Oh ponderer of whispering streams,
Wherefore do the stars yet speak
So I can hear their secret calls,
But ever in their praises keep
Your hidden name in cosmic halls?
Yes, to my ears they murmur deep
The stain-ed truths of earth and sky
But never leaks that hopeful peep;
Verisimilitude is shy.
Forever my enigma: you.
The heavens sagely made it so.
For I have solved the their secrets through,
But so much in you left to know.
Sep 10, 2012
Sep 10, 2012 at 6:56 PM UTC
Zen monks sit quietly on
stern pillows of effervescent soul.
I do not,
My patchwork pillow is filled with
styrofoam-- artificial.
Hasidic Rabbis rub their tired pious books
adding more wear marks from years worrying
which appear like a foreign tongue on the cover.
My book is full of yellowed, empty pages
sitting, dust-ridden on a abandoned shelf.
The head of the Shiite rests against solid stone
The penitent countenance like a mirror of Mecca.
My forehead bears only the reddened mark of my forearm
from the vibrant narcolepsy of life.
The Atheist sits in the coffee house
lecturing the disinterested Baristas
about the tomfoolery of religion.
I sit alone,
nodding sagely,
sipping wine that tastes
flat against my tongue.
What does a depth of spiritual belief offer?
There is an unwritten, unquantifiable,
essence that belief gives the human.
A depth of meaning, like
a shot of penicillin to a case of chlamydia.
Apr 28, 2014
Apr 28, 2014 at 2:29 PM UTC
Got no Amber or her sagely advice!
She's off to an improvement course
for aspiring plantsmen.
The weekends don't have
to be set in stone,
theres importance in independent thinking,
its not to be feared.
Buy some feed for the pigeons
decide between euphorbia or
euphoria
the difference is emphatic
and see what comes.
Jul 19, 2013
Jul 19, 2013 at 4:15 PM UTC
Lawrence Hall
[email protected]
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com
Socrates on the Courthouse Lawn in Liberty, Texas
“Strong minds discuss ideas,
average minds discuss events,
weak minds discuss people.”
-attributed to Socrates, but no one knows
Imagine if you will old Socrates
On an old wooden bench on the courthouse lawn
Playing checkers with all the other old men
On an old picnic table throughout the day
He lifts his old straw hat in the leafy shade
With his old bandana he wipes his old bald head
And sagely asks the old questions of us
And through his dialectic dismantles old cant
And that must be why, as the ages pass
They’ve made for him a monument here in the grass
(While passing through Liberty, Texas I saw on the courthouse lawn a marble slab engraved only with “Socrates”.)
Liberty County Courthouse - TexasCourtHouses.com
Liberty, Texas, Bed & Breakfast Hotels (usatoday.com)
Socrates (Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy)
Mar 14, 2021
Mar 14, 2021 at 9:25 AM UTC
Dust gathers everywhere.
Only a swab on the windscreen is clear
on my dust-laden car.
Too tight to wear,
the ring
vibrates vigorously on the washing machine.
The cycle is ending. Intensity waxing.
A song of the solitary koel
serenades a reverie.
I open the screen from inside.
You, the windows from the outside.
Glances exchanged from either side.
It is the time of the late flower.
A drop, even a drop of hot water,
the skin craves for a touch.
In partings, a beginning.
In still winds, all the leaves silent.
Peace comes visiting, a migratory bird
and sits sagely by the bare stalks,
in a hurry to reach
far off lands beyond the seas.
You only get a moment: a moment
when the world freezes.
May 7, 2013
May 7, 2013 at 1:16 PM UTC
This title, this challenge,
Has rested uncomfortably in IPad memory,
Storage unit for Poems Needing Composition,
Unwritten, unanswered, needy for resolution.
Today is a good day to answer.
You are the pause between my breaths,
A ledge to rest on, a stepping stone,
Without you, there is no next one.
You are audience faithful,
Scribbles, wordplay, jokes horrible,
Official Storer/Inspiration Sorcerer of my unending script.
You are shy critic, unwavering,
Deft, with feminine oversight,
Knowledgable proven, when silence, best.
You overfill my AM coffee cup,
The mug that advises sagely,
Be calm in you heart.
You overfill my PM cup nightly,
Knowing that even tho, can't sing or dance,
I need to, can do, can't do w/o you.
So lest, mistaken grievous,
You think, highly erroneous,
This poem is NOT about me babe,
This poem is entitled,
You,
How Much, Owed,
You.
Lest the answer be poetically muddled,
On this day, perfect weather, perfect clarity,
Unashamedly Everything.
Sept. 15th 2012
In bed, 8:22 am
NYC
---------------
Addendum June 29th 2012
This old soul loves you more. He cannot believe his good fortune,
This June, this one more perfect afternoon, my heart importunes,
Love my poetry like I love thee, and we will have the most
Perfect Union
Jun 29, 2013
Jun 29, 2013 at 5:56 PM UTC
It's a slippery slope,
I hope you know.
Said the Solipsist
To The Fly.
Who was itself
A somewhat suspicious
Deliciously conspicuous,
Most likely maleficent,
Manifestation of a mind.
A specimen meant just to define,
A shade that shall not live,
A shadow that shall not fly.
Designed to be a metaphor,
To make its point and then to die.
Invested only to be digested
By imagination and an eye.
Where within it lingers lonely,
Solely stoic for a while,
For a time.
A casualty of entropy
Out of place,
Left behind.
Or maybe out in front,
Depending on your point of view,
However long thought takes to stew.
The Fly nodded sagely,
Behaved as if it knew.
Nonchalant with confidence,
The epitome of cool.
Giving all the right impressions
These digressions were understood.
As it landed ever closer
To sit upon the madman's shoulder
To show this silly, pseudo ******
How little he really knew.
That being said,
If all that is lives only in your head.
Could I trouble you for some of that stew?
Nov 30, 2023
Nov 30, 2023 at 9:29 AM UTC
The Quickening
by Michael R. Burch
for Beth
I never meant to love you
when I held you in my arms
promising you sagely
wise, noncommittal charms.
And I never meant to need you
when I touched your tender lips
with kisses that intrigued my own –
such kisses I had never known,
nor a heartbeat in my fingertips!
Keywords/Tags: love, quickening, lips, tender, kisses, intrigued, intriguing, heart, heartbeat, pulse, desire
Apr 11, 2020
Apr 11, 2020 at 5:46 AM UTC
GOD **** THIS CZECH SHAPESHIFTING
lost in Praha
lost in Kafka
losing myself
careful making deals
with old Nick
I said 'Beatle' not 'beetle'
***
WHEN FRANZ MET DÓNALL
'When Dónall Dempsey woke up one morning from unsettling dreams, he found himself changed in his bed into a monstrous version of a certain F. Kafka.
Someone must have been telling lies about Dónall Dempsey, he knew he had done nothing wrong but, one morning, he was arrested to find out he had been turned into this F. Kafka.
Where had his Dónall Dempsey-ness gone and why - Kafka? He knew of but had never actually read any - Kafka He had knowledge of the tropes...what Kafka could be reduced to in terms of general knowledge that could possibly clinch a pub quiz victory so that people would nod sagely and say "I knew...you being a poet and all...that you would know the answer to that."
I found that what had happened to me...whatever had happened to me...was more extensive that I had thought so that even my initial "D" become the 11th letter of the alphabet instead of the usual fourth. I was now merely a "K."
I realised I would have to go to Prague to bring some semblance of sense to this transformation. And when I did so...hiding myself among the many tourists...I discovered that Kafka had become me and that we had somehow traded places.
So that now there was a Dónall Dempsey cafe and postcards bearing my features and other such touristy attractions that would be sure to be a sure fire attraction to the traveller with a literary bent of mind.
I visited the grave...his grave...and sure enough...it was my name that was chiseled into the stone.
Meanwhile Kafka was enjoying my life and strolling around Guildford as if it was his own. He appeared to be enjoying being Dónall Dempsey.
"Ha ha..!" I thought. "Give it time...give it time!" And Franz would surely find that being Dónall Dempsey wasn't such a good thing.
And myself being a literary tourist attraction? I ****** well hated it I wanted to crawl away and die or be trampled to a pulp by a frightened child who had discovered a cockroach in her cornflakes.
Dec 7, 2020
Dec 7, 2020 at 8:01 AM UTC
I want to dig my nails – no longer ravaged by my teeth
Into my life.
I want to see the zest spray onto my chequered shirt
And hope there is something sweeter inside.
I could go out tonight
And drink until the gag of beer seizes my throat
And causes me to cling sagely to the bathroom tiles.
Until I feel the Earth’s axis shudder
And those plates of rock rumble together in an endless Blitzkrieg
In the centre of the world.
These pseudo suicidal thoughts permeate,
Like an artist painting his meticulous masterpiece
Next to a vat of scarlet paint or lighter fluid.
I could go out tonight
And take a pill until the pound of my heart
Causes my eyes to open
And see past the blackness of my life.
I can dance double-time in an endless ocean of strangers
In the centre of the world.
Oh, I could take a scalpel
To every freckle on my skin,
Before I realise we all burn in the sun.
Sep 29, 2012
Sep 29, 2012 at 5:50 AM UTC
he's a sentimental boy
who keeps fur in a jar from his childhood dog
sagely mumbles something about cloning
when i **** my head to the side and point.
he has lost most things
to the wind and rain
guards his memories
and the scrap of paper i scribbled on
and dropped in his car
before i left with his lips on my tongue
and the sound of his "i hate you" drumming
on a 12-hour train ride back to sydney.
and i've always heard about boys with mischievous smiles
but i never expected a lost boy to find me
with his jack-o-lantern eyes
one laughing
one bored
surveying everyone with eyelids still imprinted
with the image of paradise
the comparison drawn whether he wants it or not
do i fall too short of the beauty he's seen?
Sep 8, 2013
Sep 8, 2013 at 1:49 AM UTC
It is as if I am alone in a sand desert
In my chair, of course,
(See the poor photo, the head inadvertent)
Bay watching the sunset perform,
Except for the gusting 25 mph wind,
Easy-pretend it is July Fourth.
The sun sparkles my customized
Fireworks.
This time I have the desert deserted,
The bay is empty, the few pleasure boats
Obeying my cease and desist request.
Just me, the water sun sparklers,
The wind, and of course, you,
Besides me, as I have countless imagined.
Our crooked dock
Finger points back at me,
Sagely saying, enough poetry for one day.
But the dock is always crooked jealous,
Unless I include him in my sunset poems
So now he is smiling, albeit crookedly.
Some of you have,
Spent a few minuets of your day
Writing/riding along with me on my
Fire engine hose of words dousing.
Water welled up at 3:56 when I
Asked for a miracle of my own,
After waking and reading your poems for hours.
Here I am scratchin out one last at bat,
After being
Mesmerized by your goodworks,
Wondering why, again, I try.
So now let us write a breakup stanza.
I'm breaking up with you,
Until earlier-than-dawn tomorrow,
Though I was but one of many of your
Lovers took and taken,
Now discarded, I won't take no
For answer.
My shirt shivers, my forelock whips,
The clouds have banked my sun,
The wind is stiff, brooking no weakness,
I am total alone, how to make you believe,
That letting go, is difficult, almost impossible.
Until when, when we kiss again,
The back of your neck is my map,
My tongue the bridge between us.
Sep 7, 2013
Sep 7, 2013 at 8:14 PM UTC
I sit with my feet dangling into a circle
whose edge I rest on
as if it were a window sill.
From here the earth looks ancient.
It’s pull mothered by the curvature
of spacetime.
The spring blossoms curving
when they fall.
Our fate floating out there: intangible–
outside this circle where my toes abide
Our fate floating in us: tangible–
The place in which my torso resides
The debate seems fresh unlike the sagely soil. My limbs alive –life giving life– emerging like the pistil from a bellflower
unconcerned with philosophy.
Mar 30, 2020
Mar 30, 2020 at 4:07 PM UTC
WHY _I HAD_ TO _PONDER_
_Wandering exploring to discovery transportation, heading deep into the future_ .
Awesome GOD, amazing world, beautiful nature. _No hesitation, feels good to-be found on this sagely planet_ .
Wonder why I had to ponder
sages are disdained .
_While wickedness sustained and ordained amongst the crowd_ . Few are the real found in this mysterious wane full of misery . _War in peace's stead._
Tribulation in place of jubilation. _What growth is found without love? True love is taken un-granted. And deceit granted._
Much more to life than envy jealousy begots evil.
_But the power of love conquered poverty._
#c9_fm
Feb 9, 2021
Feb 9, 2021 at 4:40 AM UTC
A long time ago in Sleepy Eye Minnesota at Christensen Farms Feed Mill, a boisterous young pig named Ralph was waiting for his brother, Milo. Ralph hadn’t seen Milo in almost three hours, because Milo made a SLANDER against Ralph. So, Milo had went off in the big truck SAGELY with Farmer Tim, so he could avoid Ralph’s BRUTALITY. Ralph thought that was PRESUMPTUOUS and he was TRUCULENT. Ralph will soon live VICARIOUSLY through Milo’s stories once he returns. Once Milo returns Ralph corners Milo. Milo backs away from his angry brother's bared teeth, then he slips. now he’s hanging off the cliff holding on with only his front hooves,with Ralph's hooves pressing down on his. Ralph lets go, and says with great EARNESTNESS; “have a nice fall!”
May 21, 2019
May 21, 2019 at 11:03 AM UTC
There are inexplicable mercies hidden in your ingenious words, that irresistible touch and those impeccably authentic thoughts. I am humbled and infused with pleasure to be a vessel of your love.
There is a containment of euphoria nestled deep within your heart that only angelic hands can breach. Because you are a Saint, a prophecy sent from whichever heavens you praise to fulfill the desires of my soul, our souls.
Our souls, for your love is limitless and is found in every heart, in every vein, and in every mind as an infectious delicious and delightful disease. Rare in severity, true in antiquity, your love knows not time nor its conditional confines.
Vessels of your love, we are intrigued by your astounding beauty. Sagely brown eyes, a charmingly chiseled chin, and calloused hands only a man could bear. Adonis himself envies your dangerous allure.
Whichever God has sent you, their purpose was clear; to savor the souls of many and reclaim all hearts lost to love. Without you, my world would fall to internal damnation. You are a savior, a saint, a prophetic being sent as an answer to our payers for our remorseful redemption.
Dec 31, 2013
Dec 31, 2013 at 8:19 PM UTC
In Africa is found the broken little bits
of bone that tell the truth of it:
We are, all us, African flown
with little racial bits to call our own.
Though we struggle to point our finger
the little racial bits do linger
in the those digits curled tight
pointing back to us as if to light
the way back to the truth we have lost
behind us, left, to the side, tossed.
We are, all of us, of one breed;
black inside the womb, white as the seed.
Oh we struggle, caught and trapped,
by our own hand our backside slapped,
as we pretend to believe the lie
that divides us, you from I.
So ‘white’ I stand before you ‘black’
as any African man but take a step back
for you dear son of slaves and slaver’s sons
are not untouched by this and are undone
to realize, that before me, looking me up and down,
stands another white man with a touch of brown.
Go ahead, divide us into a lie
that mere color determines if we live or die
There are no ‘young black boys’
just boys waiting to fuss and bother
the world as young men or a liar’s toys.
The choice made, or not, by so simple a thing as a father.
And when another digger finds our bones in the sands
will he nod and sagely lecture that he understands
the fossilized distinction he so cleverly employs
to distinguish young white from young black boys?
Javon Johnson - "cuz he's black" (NPS 2013) http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u9Wf8y_5Yn4
Aug 29, 2013
Aug 29, 2013 at 10:18 AM UTC
Some time had passed already
since we’d come down from the trees.
We still walked with an awkward gait
Sore backs and aching knees.
Lar still might be alive, old mother,
if he hadn’t pawed my mate.
When I saw him mount her
in the brush
All I felt was rage and hate.
The jawbone of an *** was near
I took it in my hands.
I brought it down upon his skull
I killed with these two hands.
I wouldn’t let the Jackals have
the body of my friend.
I covered up his corpse with stones.
this is where it ends.
As a tribe we are too small, too few.
to let the blood lust linger.
We must keep moving further north
until we are out of danger.
Old mother nodded sagely.
Lars clansman did the same.
I promised I would share the catch
with the children of his name.
Some book may talk of Abel-
that at Cain’s hand he died.
but it was the tribe of Lucy
that first committed Hominidicide
Dec 26, 2011
Dec 26, 2011 at 8:33 PM UTC
She loved an earth that held her firm, relentlessly present, a strong & constant landscape whose only inclination was to bear her
She loved a wind from across the world that touched her skin in some unspoken, selfless way that made her know she had any body at all
She loved a wildfire in its blazing and consumptive chaos, sagely conscious that she was burning from within its hungry & narcotic flames
And they loved her in their ways, steadily, sadly; distinct but alike in unequivocally knowing she was opaque, arcane, unfathomable:
In need of a measureless ocean that awed her from each vantage point, that could do nothing but swallow her whole with an all-powerful calm
Dec 19, 2013
Dec 19, 2013 at 2:32 AM UTC
What do you think of me?
Really?
When you see me standing in front of you,
Is there an underlying feeling
Of knowing?
Do you know about the the butterflies
That fester in me
when I talk to you?
Or about you?
And I do,
talk about you.
Do you know that when I'm near you,
I lose myself
In the atmosphere?
Can you hear my heart
Beating right out of my chest?
I do my best to hide it.
But I can never tell.
Do you think I'm funny?
Like a clown,
Can I make you laugh?
Can I make you cry,
And feel the pain that wells up inside me
Before I pour my heart out
Onto this page?
Do I seem sagely enough to you?
Or wise?
That is what I'm trying for,
Approval.
Because,
When you stare at me
With those bright,
Bright eyes,
Let me feed from your energy and light,
I am (not quite) invincible.
But I am fearless.
That is close enough.
But that's not to say I'm not scared.
You terrify me.
If only you were aware
That when I write,
I write to you.
In hopes that each and every morning,
You'll ask for something new to hear.
That when you hear it,
Your mind soars to whole new worlds.
And you feel inspiration
Coarse through your veins
Like a hurricane, trapped.
Looking for a way out
Through your own fingertips.
Sprouting like grass in the spring time.
The way it does for me
when I hear the ringing of your voice.
You, leave my knees weak.
And I, am almost unable to speak in return.
But I do.
Because I want you to yearn for my lines.
Pine for my love.
Before you learn that you've always had it.
I want you to know that,
Although I seem shy right now
(If anything at all),
I want you.
Someday,
I will capture your attention
And keep you enthralled.
I will never take you for granted.
And when the time comes
When my time in your limelight is through,
I will bow out gracefully.
And never
Ever
Forget you.
Apr 14, 2012
Apr 14, 2012 at 6:25 PM UTC
"He was a young man,
taken before his time."
The TV said.
The old man grumbled that
every boy is taken before their time, whatever their age.
He meant himself.
He was sorry for himself.
I was not sorry for him so
"Girls too, women," I offered, and at his hurt glance
bristled
because he did not understand why
I would need to mention that.
He simply said it again,
every boy is taken--
and I could not convince him.
Nothing remained but this:
I nodded in agreement.
What else could I do?
There are some thing you cannot say
for fear of being offensive.
But now, in private, I can tell him,
Where he will not hear me,
that
he should not have been so hasty.
That
no matter what your age,
it might still be exactly your time
or
even
after your time.
"You are not owed a life,"
I should have said,
nodding sagely.
At his reddening face
His thickening growl
I would have said it again.
"You are not owed a life."
Apr 14, 2013
Apr 14, 2013 at 11:09 AM UTC