"scimitar" poems - Hello Poetry

# *Hanging like a scimitar suspended in the sky, the moon beside a gleaming star is pleasing to the eye. How desolate, this satellite in airless ebon space and yet, from here ‘tis beautiful filagree & lace.* #

0

Mar 12, 2018

Mar 12, 2018 at 8:16 AM UTC

Cne

Filigree & Lace

# *Hanging like a scimitar suspended in the sky, the moon beside a gleaming star is pleasing to the eye. How desolate, this satellite in airless ebon space and yet, from here ‘tis beautiful filagree & lace.* #

11

Spring comes little, a little. All April it rains. The new leaves stick in their fists; new ferns still fiddleheads. But one day the swifts are back. Face to the sun like a child You shout, 'The swifts are back!' Sure enough, bolt nocks bow to carry one sky-scyther Two hundred miles an hour across fullblown windfields. Swereee swereee. Another. And another. It's the cut air falling in shrieks on our chimneys and roofs. The next day, a fleet of high crosses cruises in ether. These are the air pilgrims, pilots of air rivers. But a shift of wing, and they're earth-skimmers, daggers Skilful in guiding the throw of themselves away from themselves. Quick flutter, a scimitar upsweep, out of danger of touch, for Earth is forbidden to them, water's forbidden to them, All air and fire, little owlish ascetics, they outfly storms, They rush to the pillars of altitude, the thermal fountains. Here is a legend of swifts, a parable — When the Great Raven bent over earth to create the birds, The swifts were ungrateful. They were small muddy things Like shoes, with long legs and short wings, So they took themselves off to the mountains to sulk. And they stayed there. 'Well,' said the Raven, after years of this, 'I will give you the sky. You can have the whole sky On condition that you give up rest.' 'Yes, yes,' screamed the swifts, 'We abhor rest. We detest the filth of growth, the sweat of sleep, Soft nests in the wet fields, slimehold of worms. Let us be free, be air!' So the Raven took their legs and bound them into their bodies. He bent their wings like boomerangs, honed them like knives. He streamlined their feathers and stripped them of velvet. Then he released them, Never to Return Inscribed on their feet and wings. And so We have swifts, though in reality, not parables but Bolts in the world's need: swift Swifts, not in punishment, not in ecstasy, simply Sleepers over oceans in the mill of the world's breathing. The grace to say they live in another firmament. A way to say the miracle will not occur, And watch the miracle.

0

Apr 22, 2014

Apr 22, 2014 at 1:59 PM UTC

st64

Swifts (by Anne Stevenson)

Spring comes little, a little. All April it rains. The new leaves stick in their fists; new ferns still fiddleheads. But one day the swifts are back. Face to the sun like a child You shout, 'The swifts are back!' Sure enough, bolt nocks bow to carry one sky-scyther Two hundred miles an hour across fullblown windfields. Swereee swereee. Another. And another. It's the cut air falling in shrieks on our chimneys and roofs. The next day, a fleet of high crosses cruises in ether. These are the air pilgrims, pilots of air rivers. But a shift of wing, and they're earth-skimmers, daggers Skilful in guiding the throw of themselves away from themselves. Quick flutter, a scimitar upsweep, out of danger of touch, for Earth is forbidden to them, water's forbidden to them, All air and fire, little owlish ascetics, they outfly storms, They rush to the pillars of altitude, the thermal fountains. Here is a legend of swifts, a parable — When the Great Raven bent over earth to create the birds, The swifts were ungrateful. They were small muddy things Like shoes, with long legs and short wings, So they took themselves off to the mountains to sulk. And they stayed there. 'Well,' said the Raven, after years of this, 'I will give you the sky. You can have the whole sky On condition that you give up rest.' 'Yes, yes,' screamed the swifts, 'We abhor rest. We detest the filth of growth, the sweat of sleep, Soft nests in the wet fields, slimehold of worms. Let us be free, be air!' So the Raven took their legs and bound them into their bodies. He bent their wings like boomerangs, honed them like knives. He streamlined their feathers and stripped them of velvet. Then he released them, Never to Return Inscribed on their feet and wings. And so We have swifts, though in reality, not parables but Bolts in the world's need: swift Swifts, not in punishment, not in ecstasy, simply Sleepers over oceans in the mill of the world's breathing. The grace to say they live in another firmament. A way to say the miracle will not occur, And watch the miracle.

40

384 No Rack can torture me— My Soul—at Liberty— Behind this mortal Bone There knits a bolder One— You cannot ***** with saw— Nor pierce with Scimitar— Two Bodies—therefore be— Bind One—The Other fly— The Eagle of his Nest No easier divest— And gain the Sky Than mayest Thou— Except Thyself may be Thine Enemy— Captivity is Consciousness— So’s Liberty.

0

3k

Emily Dickinson

No Rack can torture me

384 No Rack can torture me— My Soul—at Liberty— Behind this mortal Bone There knits a bolder One— You cannot ***** with saw— Nor pierce with Scimitar— Two Bodies—therefore be— Bind One—The Other fly— The Eagle of his Nest No easier divest— And gain the Sky Than mayest Thou— Except Thyself may be Thine Enemy— Captivity is Consciousness— So’s Liberty.

17

The moon, a sweeping scimitar, dipped in the stormy straits, The dawn, a crimson cataract, burst through the eastern gates, The cliffs were robed in scarlet, the sands were cinnabar, Where first two men spread wings for flight and dared the hawk afar. There stands the cunning workman, the crafty past all praise, The man who chained the Minotaur, the man who built the Maze. His young son is beside him and the boy's face is a light, A light of dawn and wonder and of valor infinite. Their great vans beat the cloven air, like eagles they mount up, Motes in the wine of morning, specks in a crystal cup, And lest his wings should melt apace old Daedalus flies low, But Icarus beats up, beats up, he goes where lightnings go. He cares no more for warnings, he rushes through the sky, Braving the crags of ether, daring the gods on high, Black 'gainst the crimson sunset, golden o'er cloudy snows, With all Adventure in his heart the first winged man arose. Dropping gold, dropping gold, where the mists of morning rolled, On he kept his way undaunted, though his breaths were stabs of cold, Through the mystery of dawning that no mortal may behold. Now he shouts, now he sings in the rapture of his wings, And his great heart burns intenser with the strength of his desire, As he circles like a swallow, wheeling, flaming, gyre on gyre. Gazing straight at the sun, half his pilgrimage is done, And he staggers for a moment, hurries on, reels backward, swerves In a rain of scattered feathers as he falls in broken curves. Icarus, Icarus, though the end is piteous, Yet forever, yea, forever we shall see thee rising thus, See the first supernal glory, not the ruin hideous. You were Man, you who ran farther than our eyes can scan, Man absurd, gigantic, eager for impossible Romance, Overthrowing all Hell's legions with one warped and broken lance. On the highest steeps of Space he will have his dwelling-place, In those far, terrific regions where the cold comes down like Death Gleams the red glint of his pinions, smokes the vapor of his breath. Floating downward, very clear, still the echoes reach the ear Of a little tune he whistles and a little song he sings, Mounting, mounting still, triumphant, on his torn and broken wings!

0

2.4k

Stephen Vincent Benet

Winged Man

The moon, a sweeping scimitar, dipped in the stormy straits, The dawn, a crimson cataract, burst through the eastern gates, The cliffs were robed in scarlet, the sands were cinnabar, Where first two men spread wings for flight and dared the hawk afar. There stands the cunning workman, the crafty past all praise, The man who chained the Minotaur, the man who built the Maze. His young son is beside him and the boy's face is a light, A light of dawn and wonder and of valor infinite. Their great vans beat the cloven air, like eagles they mount up, Motes in the wine of morning, specks in a crystal cup, And lest his wings should melt apace old Daedalus flies low, But Icarus beats up, beats up, he goes where lightnings go. He cares no more for warnings, he rushes through the sky, Braving the crags of ether, daring the gods on high, Black 'gainst the crimson sunset, golden o'er cloudy snows, With all Adventure in his heart the first winged man arose. Dropping gold, dropping gold, where the mists of morning rolled, On he kept his way undaunted, though his breaths were stabs of cold, Through the mystery of dawning that no mortal may behold. Now he shouts, now he sings in the rapture of his wings, And his great heart burns intenser with the strength of his desire, As he circles like a swallow, wheeling, flaming, gyre on gyre. Gazing straight at the sun, half his pilgrimage is done, And he staggers for a moment, hurries on, reels backward, swerves In a rain of scattered feathers as he falls in broken curves. Icarus, Icarus, though the end is piteous, Yet forever, yea, forever we shall see thee rising thus, See the first supernal glory, not the ruin hideous. You were Man, you who ran farther than our eyes can scan, Man absurd, gigantic, eager for impossible Romance, Overthrowing all Hell's legions with one warped and broken lance. On the highest steeps of Space he will have his dwelling-place, In those far, terrific regions where the cold comes down like Death Gleams the red glint of his pinions, smokes the vapor of his breath. Floating downward, very clear, still the echoes reach the ear Of a little tune he whistles and a little song he sings, Mounting, mounting still, triumphant, on his torn and broken wings!

37

She's an enchanting little Israelite, A world of hidden dimples!--Dusky-eyed, A starry-glancing daughter of the Bride, With hair escaped from some Arabian Night, Her lip is red, her cheek is golden-white, Her nose a scimitar; and, set aside The bamboo hat she ***** with so much pride, Her dress a dream of daintiness and delight. And when she passes with the dreadful boys And romping girls, the cockneys loud and crude, My thought, to the Minories tied yet moved to range The Land o' the Sun, commingles with the noise Of magian drums and scents of sandalwood A touch Sidonian--modern--taking--strange!

0

2.2k

William Ernest Henley

Orientale

She's an enchanting little Israelite, A world of hidden dimples!--Dusky-eyed, A starry-glancing daughter of the Bride, With hair escaped from some Arabian Night, Her lip is red, her cheek is golden-white, Her nose a scimitar; and, set aside The bamboo hat she ***** with so much pride, Her dress a dream of daintiness and delight. And when she passes with the dreadful boys And romping girls, the cockneys loud and crude, My thought, to the Minories tied yet moved to range The Land o' the Sun, commingles with the noise Of magian drums and scents of sandalwood A touch Sidonian--modern--taking--strange!

14

I buckle to my slender side The pistol and the scimitar, And in my maiden flower and pride Am come to share the tasks of war. And yonder stands my fiery steed, That paws the ground and neighs to go, My charger of the Arab breed,-- I took him from the routed foe. My mirror is the mountain spring, At which I dress my ruffled hair; My dimmed and dusty arms I bring, And wash away the blood-stain there. Why should I guard from wind and sun This cheek, whose ****** rose is fled? It was for one--oh, only one-- I kept its bloom, and he is dead. But they who slew him--unaware Of coward murderers lurking nigh-- And left him to the fowls of air, Are yet alive--and they must die. They slew him--and my ****** years Are vowed to Greece and vengeance now, And many an Othman dame, in tears, Shall rue the Grecian maiden's vow. I touched the lute in better days, I led in dance the joyous band; Ah! they may move to mirthful lays Whose hands can touch a lover's hand. The march of hosts that haste to meet Seems gayer than the dance to me; The lute's sweet tones are not so sweet As the fierce shout of victory.

0

1.4k

William Cullen Bryant

Song Of The Greek Amazon

I buckle to my slender side The pistol and the scimitar, And in my maiden flower and pride Am come to share the tasks of war. And yonder stands my fiery steed, That paws the ground and neighs to go, My charger of the Arab breed,-- I took him from the routed foe. My mirror is the mountain spring, At which I dress my ruffled hair; My dimmed and dusty arms I bring, And wash away the blood-stain there. Why should I guard from wind and sun This cheek, whose ****** rose is fled? It was for one--oh, only one-- I kept its bloom, and he is dead. But they who slew him--unaware Of coward murderers lurking nigh-- And left him to the fowls of air, Are yet alive--and they must die. They slew him--and my ****** years Are vowed to Greece and vengeance now, And many an Othman dame, in tears, Shall rue the Grecian maiden's vow. I touched the lute in better days, I led in dance the joyous band; Ah! they may move to mirthful lays Whose hands can touch a lover's hand. The march of hosts that haste to meet Seems gayer than the dance to me; The lute's sweet tones are not so sweet As the fierce shout of victory.

32

Scarecrow shuffles through cyclopean tunnels ceaselessly searching for someone to reap His scythe a sharp scimitar slices through the air like a serpents tongue scenting for the death pheromone Slowly someone stumbles in a drunken stupor a listing ship heading to its berth Black Cat crosses your path unnoticed in the ***** fog Marked now it is certain Scarecrow will surely come for you poor drunkard shall not see the morning.

0

Jun 13, 2012

Jun 13, 2012 at 5:35 PM UTC

saul-makabim

Black Cat

Scarecrow shuffles through cyclopean tunnels ceaselessly searching for someone to reap His scythe a sharp scimitar slices through the air like a serpents tongue scenting for the death pheromone Slowly someone stumbles in a drunken stupor a listing ship heading to its berth Black Cat crosses your path unnoticed in the ***** fog Marked now it is certain Scarecrow will surely come for you poor drunkard shall not see the morning.

18

Do not love me yet, for I am still a teenager A scimitar about the heart, too sharp to touch too soon Before I'm touched, I need to grow more full in golden light; I need to smile upon my life & rule some path of the night I need to know what roads & fields lie in my domain & dull my brand new ecstasies with sophomoric pain I need the love of some clueless boy as smart & wicked as me, that we might ***** in ignorance & fear of what might be & then when I'm all grown up, & know what I can hold, Then, perhaps, we could try love, if you're not too old

0

Mar 9, 2015

Mar 9, 2015 at 9:58 AM UTC

emily-ryen

Forty Five . Please

Do not love me yet, for I am still a teenager A scimitar about the heart, too sharp to touch too soon Before I'm touched, I need to grow more full in golden light; I need to smile upon my life & rule some path of the night I need to know what roads & fields lie in my domain & dull my brand new ecstasies with sophomoric pain I need the love of some clueless boy as smart & wicked as me, that we might ***** in ignorance & fear of what might be & then when I'm all grown up, & know what I can hold, Then, perhaps, we could try love, if you're not too old

20

you know, that if you squint your eyes, and look at an object that emits light? the light travels from the source, just above your eye, impregnating your cranium with a brain? funny... isn't it? all it takes is keeping one eye closed, and squinting your other open eye... and when looking at an object that's the source of light, be it a street light, or the scimitar moon, the rays of light, passing your camel's eye-lashes end up projected into your forehead, rather than directly into your eye... squinting your eye while watching the moon, you see it, a beam of light never really entering your pupil of the eye, but travelling straight up "echo chamber" of your mind... i think that people discovered they had brains, but sitting and squinting at the moon with only one eye... look here, a minotaur cyclops... feeling he over-did-it with his camel lashes, thinking himself: a venitian blinds' salesman... i'm starting to see the use of psychedelics as a bit pointless... steve jobs was just lucky... the source of refraction of light doesn't enter the eye directly, it always travels just above the eye into the forehead region... i never tried it with the sun directly, then again, i'm wondering that sort of element exists on the moon, that allows the moon, a dull grey surface to act like a mirror, and be able to provide the suggestion of: pythagoras on the moon... apollo 13, go! find me the element that acts as a mirror, for light to bend! to bounce off the moon, and enter the sphere of night, i'll give you cooprdinates: in the range of red, yellow, orange, and white... as sometimes in seeing the moon guised... what element allows the moon to bounce off light? so the night might become illuminated? please forget mars... answer me this simple quetion... i want to know, what on the moon, acts as a mirror, that allows solar beams of photons to bounce off it, and illuminate the night sky? can we start thinking about capturing this question, storing it, and asking whether it can be used to propel an object outside of its natural orbit? leave but one eye open, and squinting, and look at a source of light, the light never travels directly into the pupil of your eye... it always travels just above the eye, onto your forehead, to suggest: the illumination of the mind.

0

Aug 15, 2017

Aug 15, 2017 at 8:33 PM UTC

removed.polaroid-scrabble

squint eye of a minotaur cyclops

you know, that if you squint your eyes, and look at an object that emits light? the light travels from the source, just above your eye, impregnating your cranium with a brain? funny... isn't it? all it takes is keeping one eye closed, and squinting your other open eye... and when looking at an object that's the source of light, be it a street light, or the scimitar moon, the rays of light, passing your camel's eye-lashes end up projected into your forehead, rather than directly into your eye... squinting your eye while watching the moon, you see it, a beam of light never really entering your pupil of the eye, but travelling straight up "echo chamber" of your mind... i think that people discovered they had brains, but sitting and squinting at the moon with only one eye... look here, a minotaur cyclops... feeling he over-did-it with his camel lashes, thinking himself: a venitian blinds' salesman... i'm starting to see the use of psychedelics as a bit pointless... steve jobs was just lucky... the source of refraction of light doesn't enter the eye directly, it always travels just above the eye into the forehead region... i never tried it with the sun directly, then again, i'm wondering that sort of element exists on the moon, that allows the moon, a dull grey surface to act like a mirror, and be able to provide the suggestion of: pythagoras on the moon... apollo 13, go! find me the element that acts as a mirror, for light to bend! to bounce off the moon, and enter the sphere of night, i'll give you cooprdinates: in the range of red, yellow, orange, and white... as sometimes in seeing the moon guised... what element allows the moon to bounce off light? so the night might become illuminated? please forget mars... answer me this simple quetion... i want to know, what on the moon, acts as a mirror, that allows solar beams of photons to bounce off it, and illuminate the night sky? can we start thinking about capturing this question, storing it, and asking whether it can be used to propel an object outside of its natural orbit? leave but one eye open, and squinting, and look at a source of light, the light never travels directly into the pupil of your eye... it always travels just above the eye, onto your forehead, to suggest: the illumination of the mind.

74

NEEDLE! Through the middle of a razor-edge! Face in face out face sin face spout! I cannot see through the masochism of honesty, corrupt the faucet and leak and drain into a towel of wet PAIN! Holes rid themselves of fantastic-type dust! (And on the cusp of agony's grateful constitution hereby is a sitar scimitar). Unwilling to grow old into throats of bold and I am here today so what does it matter? Cough n' clap n' clasp n' rappin' sapping my soul's voidy tounguester. Have I become throats? Or abomination ropes? Tungsten blow-hole deep neath the depths of water-disgust! Rapture came along with whipping writhing throngs of toothpaste convolution tongs pulling out the wrongs and wrong doings of King Kong's rightful songs. Randomize architecture so that a building can grow from blue dirt into the sky and spread at the top and cover the entire planet of the human-beings where there'll be forever-shade shading shaded, faded, blue. Tuesday is a monkey banana bonanza bizarre bizarre scarring n' scaring little toothpick carrying caring creatures faring their merry way past curds and whey fields. Acclimate to constipate and betroth-berate irritate-type tube tape. Youthful castor plaster made from youngster disaster number: one.

0

Feb 24, 2014

Feb 24, 2014 at 7:34 PM UTC

gabriel-peter-green

Undo Thought Through

NEEDLE! Through the middle of a razor-edge! Face in face out face sin face spout! I cannot see through the masochism of honesty, corrupt the faucet and leak and drain into a towel of wet PAIN! Holes rid themselves of fantastic-type dust! (And on the cusp of agony's grateful constitution hereby is a sitar scimitar). Unwilling to grow old into throats of bold and I am here today so what does it matter? Cough n' clap n' clasp n' rappin' sapping my soul's voidy tounguester. Have I become throats? Or abomination ropes? Tungsten blow-hole deep neath the depths of water-disgust! Rapture came along with whipping writhing throngs of toothpaste convolution tongs pulling out the wrongs and wrong doings of King Kong's rightful songs. Randomize architecture so that a building can grow from blue dirt into the sky and spread at the top and cover the entire planet of the human-beings where there'll be forever-shade shading shaded, faded, blue. Tuesday is a monkey banana bonanza bizarre bizarre scarring n' scaring little toothpick carrying caring creatures faring their merry way past curds and whey fields. Acclimate to constipate and betroth-berate irritate-type tube tape. Youthful castor plaster made from youngster disaster number: one.

1

The beach curves and the sea, a scimitar in the sun cleaves through the shingle a sandy path along the shore. I am awestruck by the goddess of good luck who favoured my happening into this day full of wonder and wandering.

0

Jun 11, 2015

Jun 11, 2015 at 5:57 AM UTC

john-edward-smallshaw

The spit

The beach curves and the sea, a scimitar in the sun cleaves through the shingle a sandy path along the shore. I am awestruck by the goddess of good luck who favoured my happening into this day full of wonder and wandering.

2

Many days without a muse, whatever shall I do? Too long away from heart and sans a point of view The sunrise has been glorious as the sunset strikes me numb. Not mourning our final screams into censorship And strike a chord that gives a voice to verses now in me. I close my eyes and see much more than sight can ever see. Colors swirl behind my lids and rainbows, vividly. Butterflies, a ship of clouds glides by Howling in the wilderness breaking through the sky Hanging like a scimitar suspended in the sky, As mind is far more visual into an endless four walls still sight. Whispering blues, the height within A troublesome mind, trampling songs from afar Struggling to breathe, I lie waiting not to. Thoughts are embedded tightly in a jar To endless voices mock me; crush, break me But I refuse to listen a strength rises Something I wouldn't have believed And now I was ready to fight those dementia. I knew I wasn't alone. If I could love the limping ugly afraid part of me That I drag through the mud and thorns If I could let the transparent clawing, screaming silhouette speak Instead of kicking it into the utmost peak If I could put my deepest human essence onto paper for everyone to see Then. Then, let these new visions be free.

0

May 2, 2018

May 2, 2018 at 1:14 PM UTC

Kael

The New Visions

Many days without a muse, whatever shall I do? Too long away from heart and sans a point of view The sunrise has been glorious as the sunset strikes me numb. Not mourning our final screams into censorship And strike a chord that gives a voice to verses now in me. I close my eyes and see much more than sight can ever see. Colors swirl behind my lids and rainbows, vividly. Butterflies, a ship of clouds glides by Howling in the wilderness breaking through the sky Hanging like a scimitar suspended in the sky, As mind is far more visual into an endless four walls still sight. Whispering blues, the height within A troublesome mind, trampling songs from afar Struggling to breathe, I lie waiting not to. Thoughts are embedded tightly in a jar To endless voices mock me; crush, break me But I refuse to listen a strength rises Something I wouldn't have believed And now I was ready to fight those dementia. I knew I wasn't alone. If I could love the limping ugly afraid part of me That I drag through the mud and thorns If I could let the transparent clawing, screaming silhouette speak Instead of kicking it into the utmost peak If I could put my deepest human essence onto paper for everyone to see Then. Then, let these new visions be free.

27

is not the howl of a canine, or the gesticulation of a hand alone, which if left unspoken to, ceases to make meaning. what we said is what shapes our mouth, and what we mean curdles the body of who hears it: hurting which is another word for weakness, and bravery which is a transmutation of lout, this rigmarole is far nothing but a ***** if you wish to call it that, or perhaps a gladiolus, a scimitar, a punched daguerreotype, a subliminal stereo, a ludicrous cacophony. and if there is much conspiracy to say that the rind of words is tensely, the appropriation of sound, then it shall be that the song I sing, is for the world to own, unmindful of its hapless victim. and because trees are brindled, thatched to the Earth, reaching for the desolate sky, it is the distance in between where our words are, trying to make ends meet.

0

Jan 26, 2016

Jan 26, 2016 at 9:21 PM UTC

windsor-i-guadalupe-jr

Meaning Of Words

is not the howl of a canine, or the gesticulation of a hand alone, which if left unspoken to, ceases to make meaning. what we said is what shapes our mouth, and what we mean curdles the body of who hears it: hurting which is another word for weakness, and bravery which is a transmutation of lout, this rigmarole is far nothing but a ***** if you wish to call it that, or perhaps a gladiolus, a scimitar, a punched daguerreotype, a subliminal stereo, a ludicrous cacophony. and if there is much conspiracy to say that the rind of words is tensely, the appropriation of sound, then it shall be that the song I sing, is for the world to own, unmindful of its hapless victim. and because trees are brindled, thatched to the Earth, reaching for the desolate sky, it is the distance in between where our words are, trying to make ends meet.

23

If I were a bird I could fly up high In the sky, A concept of course quite absurd But a winsome idea had it occurred For the soaring Prospect overawing Terra-bound type outscoring Gravity-denying thrill of flying Above all the ant-like crowds, To say I'd miss this chance would be lying; Flashing like a scimitar Through the clouds, In the manner of the swallow, Nary aught but jets to follow. But there is a slight quibble I don’t think I could even nibble Or own a beak about to dribble For that tasty avian treat At which I squirm I may be permanently grounded Leave my feathered friends dumbfounded Yet I‘m not simply iffy or relatively sniffy, I wouldn't ,couldn't, eat a ****** worm. (7th April)

0

Apr 7, 2014

Apr 7, 2014 at 10:44 PM UTC

frank-ernest-gibbard

Bird Brained

If I were a bird I could fly up high In the sky, A concept of course quite absurd But a winsome idea had it occurred For the soaring Prospect overawing Terra-bound type outscoring Gravity-denying thrill of flying Above all the ant-like crowds, To say I'd miss this chance would be lying; Flashing like a scimitar Through the clouds, In the manner of the swallow, Nary aught but jets to follow. But there is a slight quibble I don’t think I could even nibble Or own a beak about to dribble For that tasty avian treat At which I squirm I may be permanently grounded Leave my feathered friends dumbfounded Yet I‘m not simply iffy or relatively sniffy, I wouldn't ,couldn't, eat a ****** worm. (7th April)

25

Tears from heaven, Chilled and rounded, Fall on petals fair. Flower lonely, Wrapped in leaves, Begs the rain to desist. But the clouds roll and boil, Stretch and grow, And tears fall soundlessly Down. Flower lonely Remembers sunlight, And its warm, gentle rays. Pitter, Patter, And wind begins to blow. Tears become liquid daggers, To pierce petals fair. Flower lonely, Shivers in the cold, The tears, now so angry they fall. Sunlight frantically calls out, Seeking flower lonely, But clouds push out further, To block sunlight out. But as the tear-daggers pierce, So can the sun, And with a scimitar of light, Rips clouds apart. As tears fade, And warmth returns, Flower lonely Spreads its leaves out, Content again In the sun.

0

Nov 23, 2012

Nov 23, 2012 at 2:26 PM UTC

essie

Flower Lonely

Tears from heaven, Chilled and rounded, Fall on petals fair. Flower lonely, Wrapped in leaves, Begs the rain to desist. But the clouds roll and boil, Stretch and grow, And tears fall soundlessly Down. Flower lonely Remembers sunlight, And its warm, gentle rays. Pitter, Patter, And wind begins to blow. Tears become liquid daggers, To pierce petals fair. Flower lonely, Shivers in the cold, The tears, now so angry they fall. Sunlight frantically calls out, Seeking flower lonely, But clouds push out further, To block sunlight out. But as the tear-daggers pierce, So can the sun, And with a scimitar of light, Rips clouds apart. As tears fade, And warmth returns, Flower lonely Spreads its leaves out, Content again In the sun.

34

When I talk with you My heart clenches with the force of a thousand fists as I see the words tumble out of your mouth each one lined with a dozen tiny sharpened daggers like they have teeth that snarl at me as much as you do. When I talk with you I feel the waves of relief crash over me and I'm suspended in a vast peaceful blue with nothing but a distant song that I can't understand, but I let the blue swallow me and I let my mind wander with ignorant bliss When I surface the water somethings changed but I can't place it whenever I walk near trees, I don't hear the birds song anymore whenever I dive near waterfalls the crash of water against rock doesn't seem to loud anymore whenever I go to pick up shells by the sea shore the ***** scuttle away into their sand holes leaving me alone and confused with the waste of the world washed up on the beach. whenever I wander into parks mother's eye me and shield their children's eyes whenever I go to clubs tall toothpicks with faces and blonde hair look at me with contempt and when I wander around with a heavy feeling like I'm carrying a lead backpack I start to wonder if it's me that's driving everything away Is it how I look? Did I do wrong? And it's not until someone tells me that I realise There's blood trickling down my back and an 8 inch scimitar lodged into my spine.

0

Jun 16, 2014

Jun 16, 2014 at 5:13 AM UTC

fruitarian

You and your scimitar

When I talk with you My heart clenches with the force of a thousand fists as I see the words tumble out of your mouth each one lined with a dozen tiny sharpened daggers like they have teeth that snarl at me as much as you do. When I talk with you I feel the waves of relief crash over me and I'm suspended in a vast peaceful blue with nothing but a distant song that I can't understand, but I let the blue swallow me and I let my mind wander with ignorant bliss When I surface the water somethings changed but I can't place it whenever I walk near trees, I don't hear the birds song anymore whenever I dive near waterfalls the crash of water against rock doesn't seem to loud anymore whenever I go to pick up shells by the sea shore the ***** scuttle away into their sand holes leaving me alone and confused with the waste of the world washed up on the beach. whenever I wander into parks mother's eye me and shield their children's eyes whenever I go to clubs tall toothpicks with faces and blonde hair look at me with contempt and when I wander around with a heavy feeling like I'm carrying a lead backpack I start to wonder if it's me that's driving everything away Is it how I look? Did I do wrong? And it's not until someone tells me that I realise There's blood trickling down my back and an 8 inch scimitar lodged into my spine.

30

I: I stopped for breath; It was earthy, the soil Was putrid to the touch: Death oozed out of the cracks Of the river, bubbling unnaturally. Life was naught where I roamed. Squeezing the last drops out of the bottle, My cracked lips groaned, the silence strangled my memory Only the weak were erased that day. Four years ago I think She ruled herself with a spring in her step Before the sludge, the acid sludge Wiped her dreams away And ushered in the sun of winter To never see summer again. II: Speckled with dust I carried onward; The terrain flashed with familiarity As I stepped into the darkness of her home If you can even call it that anymore; Her smile is a deep crimson, the blood of the many Line her barren wasteland. Sometimes I face the winds Instead of hiding; but they bring those hollow, pale spirits Ever closer. They only stop To torment; their whispers perfectly pierce And destroy the hope I once had. III: They tell me sweet nothings and extend their hands of absence; I cower in the darkness to stop their screams. The scimitar of radiant light cuts through the night As I prepare to face the wasteland again. Swallows, sloes and willows; gone are the days where They lined the earth and made it smell whole again. Now we lay motionless in dreams long lost Lonesome as I was, the ghosts haunt where I once were. IIII: The path in front of me winds endlessly; Shattered and incomplete, it beckons me To wherever it decides to take me. For I am naught in the wasteland; I will wait for her to come back But the sands of time are not on my side.

0

Jul 27, 2019

Jul 27, 2019 at 7:00 AM UTC

JRowley39

Lament

I: I stopped for breath; It was earthy, the soil Was putrid to the touch: Death oozed out of the cracks Of the river, bubbling unnaturally. Life was naught where I roamed. Squeezing the last drops out of the bottle, My cracked lips groaned, the silence strangled my memory Only the weak were erased that day. Four years ago I think She ruled herself with a spring in her step Before the sludge, the acid sludge Wiped her dreams away And ushered in the sun of winter To never see summer again. II: Speckled with dust I carried onward; The terrain flashed with familiarity As I stepped into the darkness of her home If you can even call it that anymore; Her smile is a deep crimson, the blood of the many Line her barren wasteland. Sometimes I face the winds Instead of hiding; but they bring those hollow, pale spirits Ever closer. They only stop To torment; their whispers perfectly pierce And destroy the hope I once had. III: They tell me sweet nothings and extend their hands of absence; I cower in the darkness to stop their screams. The scimitar of radiant light cuts through the night As I prepare to face the wasteland again. Swallows, sloes and willows; gone are the days where They lined the earth and made it smell whole again. Now we lay motionless in dreams long lost Lonesome as I was, the ghosts haunt where I once were. IIII: The path in front of me winds endlessly; Shattered and incomplete, it beckons me To wherever it decides to take me. For I am naught in the wasteland; I will wait for her to come back But the sands of time are not on my side.

43

My love has been soundly tested. It is not wanting. It is tempered in the fires of despair and lonliness; Hammered and fashioned on the anvil of desire; Polished mirror-like by reciprocity. I display my love on high, Where it glimmers Under sun and scimitar moon. Love is my defense held against all detractors, For I too am loved, I have been tested and found not wanting. I am worthy. I am Love.

0

Nov 22, 2023

Nov 22, 2023 at 8:53 AM UTC

francie-lynch

I Am Love

My love has been soundly tested. It is not wanting. It is tempered in the fires of despair and lonliness; Hammered and fashioned on the anvil of desire; Polished mirror-like by reciprocity. I display my love on high, Where it glimmers Under sun and scimitar moon. Love is my defense held against all detractors, For I too am loved, I have been tested and found not wanting. I am worthy. I am Love.

13

protean nucleic processes polemic yield explosive diversification punctuated diversification Stephen Jay Gould paleontological hypothesis spawning sudden flora and fauna competed against diametrically opposed diatribe pairing diehard religionists versus doubting Thomists which creationist advocates threatened non-believers with damnation and eternal punishment brethren of god thru tongue did wield pompous empiricists fire and brimstone sermons excruciating punishment of soul claimants who refute intelligent design theorists will meet scimitar and invincible shield!

0

Feb 5, 2018

Feb 5, 2018 at 4:56 PM UTC

matthew-scott-harris2p

SCREED AGAINST SACREMENT

protean nucleic processes polemic yield explosive diversification punctuated diversification Stephen Jay Gould paleontological hypothesis spawning sudden flora and fauna competed against diametrically opposed diatribe pairing diehard religionists versus doubting Thomists which creationist advocates threatened non-believers with damnation and eternal punishment brethren of god thru tongue did wield pompous empiricists fire and brimstone sermons excruciating punishment of soul claimants who refute intelligent design theorists will meet scimitar and invincible shield!

20

Lisping along in the bravado nights of banquet halls bursting with chandeliers red carpets and butterfly maidens serving delicacies of ordered neatness tested in kitchens of manicured chefs waiting in breathless expectation of acceptance from a guest list of the countrys best men and women the chief gobbler looked at the lovely wife of the chief guest and gently slurped his birds nest soup as the waitresses on wings flitted by watching in delight as his ******** showed clearly at the thoughts raging in his bald head. He wanted this woman? and they all approved willingly that someone must lose his head to the heavyweights lust and for the upkeep of the national pride before he picked up his chopsticks and gold embossed napkin he flicked it twice and the chief gobbler was whisked behind a red bleeding curtain and his wife was taken on a candlewick bedspread of green and gold draped with the crescent moon and scimitar. ask no more questions on where we are or lose your tongue forever! Author Notes Despotic and dangerous. © Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 2 months ago

0

Jun 30, 2014

Jun 30, 2014 at 3:25 AM UTC

marshall-gass

Continents on Fire #2

Lisping along in the bravado nights of banquet halls bursting with chandeliers red carpets and butterfly maidens serving delicacies of ordered neatness tested in kitchens of manicured chefs waiting in breathless expectation of acceptance from a guest list of the countrys best men and women the chief gobbler looked at the lovely wife of the chief guest and gently slurped his birds nest soup as the waitresses on wings flitted by watching in delight as his ******** showed clearly at the thoughts raging in his bald head. He wanted this woman? and they all approved willingly that someone must lose his head to the heavyweights lust and for the upkeep of the national pride before he picked up his chopsticks and gold embossed napkin he flicked it twice and the chief gobbler was whisked behind a red bleeding curtain and his wife was taken on a candlewick bedspread of green and gold draped with the crescent moon and scimitar. ask no more questions on where we are or lose your tongue forever! Author Notes Despotic and dangerous. © Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 2 months ago

36

"The world is WIDE and I travel it! The world has a secret and I SEEK it!”, Said I, as I sailed off one day To follow tales of distant shores, With untrammeled frontiers, ****** and pure! Yielding to the demand of my disquieted soul, “Voyage!” she cried, and I set upon my goal: To stretch forth the extremities of my Ambition -- to penetrate The veil of all unknowing; To heed to the heady lure Of discovery, Carried by the west wind, blowing! The path I run will cost me years, and I must try to go the distance. But this is a longing for life undiluted, Quaffed deep and savored As a Barolo vintage, Noble and intense. Maps of her forbidding hinterlands were Vouchsafed by Mariner Kings of ancient days. I consulted the coded charts for clues, and Configured the gilded astrolabe. Obsession ruled my motives as I Poured over sea-faring strategies. The sagacious scrolls became a cypher, Whispering exotic rumors Of pleasures and possessions, Steeped in rich antiquities. My fertile mind was seized By these boundless visions, As the time came for our enterprise. I shouted to my stalwart company, “The road forward will not be forgiving, But the rewards gained will outrageous fortune comprise!” Our quest divided the latitudes as a Scimitar separates flesh from bone. My ship slashed the longitudes as we Sought passage far from home. My desire encircled her sensuous shape, For she is a mistress, supple and warm. This journey provided the means of escape, for From the Tome of Glory these pages were torn! Hence, joyously exulting, I made clear my claim, “Wisdom is a treasure divine! Adventure is the blood inflamed!” My mad dream was unleashed and I will always remember the day. I was free to sail my heart’s tidal-course, Venturing forth, far and away!

0

Aug 6, 2017

Aug 6, 2017 at 12:43 PM UTC

michael-briefs

The Quest of Obsession

"The world is WIDE and I travel it! The world has a secret and I SEEK it!”, Said I, as I sailed off one day To follow tales of distant shores, With untrammeled frontiers, ****** and pure! Yielding to the demand of my disquieted soul, “Voyage!” she cried, and I set upon my goal: To stretch forth the extremities of my Ambition -- to penetrate The veil of all unknowing; To heed to the heady lure Of discovery, Carried by the west wind, blowing! The path I run will cost me years, and I must try to go the distance. But this is a longing for life undiluted, Quaffed deep and savored As a Barolo vintage, Noble and intense. Maps of her forbidding hinterlands were Vouchsafed by Mariner Kings of ancient days. I consulted the coded charts for clues, and Configured the gilded astrolabe. Obsession ruled my motives as I Poured over sea-faring strategies. The sagacious scrolls became a cypher, Whispering exotic rumors Of pleasures and possessions, Steeped in rich antiquities. My fertile mind was seized By these boundless visions, As the time came for our enterprise. I shouted to my stalwart company, “The road forward will not be forgiving, But the rewards gained will outrageous fortune comprise!” Our quest divided the latitudes as a Scimitar separates flesh from bone. My ship slashed the longitudes as we Sought passage far from home. My desire encircled her sensuous shape, For she is a mistress, supple and warm. This journey provided the means of escape, for From the Tome of Glory these pages were torn! Hence, joyously exulting, I made clear my claim, “Wisdom is a treasure divine! Adventure is the blood inflamed!” My mad dream was unleashed and I will always remember the day. I was free to sail my heart’s tidal-course, Venturing forth, far and away!

51

In the town of Višegrad, Where he was born and raised, From cradle to grave, He took no respite, In the disdainful looks From the villagers and common folk. It was they who spoke, In hushed whispers and behind closed doors, That he was not of their ilk, Half of some other blood, Born from a land of scimitar and silk. The janissary’s ******* son, Conceived one night in the shepherd’s pasture, Was one with dark ram’s hair, And eyes akin to muddied alabaster. One who delighted in the towering minarets, Looming over the stone and brick in the Old City, He hated the stench of pipes and cigarettes, And thought Persian crimson quite pretty. The calls of Qur’anic prayer in midday, He thought of at morning mass, Amid the cross, the hymns and prayers to saints, Staring intently at the stained glass. He brewed his coffee in kettles brass, And supped it atop the kapiyah at night, Dreaming fondly of a likewise dark-eyed lass, Whose face made him blush at the sight. He often wished to travel to Eastern lands, And of these he wrote in poems short, Those where he could find repose in shaded sands, And in no Serb or Greek tongue find retort.

0

Jul 20, 2016

Jul 20, 2016 at 7:19 AM UTC

AllesWenden

The Janissary’s ******* Son

In the town of Višegrad, Where he was born and raised, From cradle to grave, He took no respite, In the disdainful looks From the villagers and common folk. It was they who spoke, In hushed whispers and behind closed doors, That he was not of their ilk, Half of some other blood, Born from a land of scimitar and silk. The janissary’s ******* son, Conceived one night in the shepherd’s pasture, Was one with dark ram’s hair, And eyes akin to muddied alabaster. One who delighted in the towering minarets, Looming over the stone and brick in the Old City, He hated the stench of pipes and cigarettes, And thought Persian crimson quite pretty. The calls of Qur’anic prayer in midday, He thought of at morning mass, Amid the cross, the hymns and prayers to saints, Staring intently at the stained glass. He brewed his coffee in kettles brass, And supped it atop the kapiyah at night, Dreaming fondly of a likewise dark-eyed lass, Whose face made him blush at the sight. He often wished to travel to Eastern lands, And of these he wrote in poems short, Those where he could find repose in shaded sands, And in no Serb or Greek tongue find retort.

31