"shan" poems
precious innocent soul
skipping rocks
on cobblestone roads
vulnerable untarnished pure
no residue of earthly soil
return me to that naiveté
unburdened by layers
of fake masks
and perfect capped teeth
in narcissistic societies
but I shan’t grasp
at ethereal edges
of nebulousness
and ephemeral
innocence
i shall endure
what I abhor
a master’s soul
cannot be forged
in paradise
wisdom’s essence
‘tis not pristine white
hints of ivory
tinge the effervescence
of the sage’s breath
©2016janetaylor
May 4, 2016
May 4, 2016 at 11:53 AM UTC
And in this courtroom
So filled with Four Nations
The Sun held her head up high,
Lighting the way for their tales and psalms:
I am the King of Spades.
Righteous ambition is my goal.
The bravery of the Spades is made known to others
Only through such matters.
Perseverance is our path to Victory
Endurance, our greatest desire.
We, the Spades, partner with Father Time
To belong as a mighty people
Forever more.
I am the Queen of Diamonds
The splendor and enjoyment of Life's beauty is my passion.
A Diamond's journey is a one of glorious awe
That no one can compare.
Loveliness surrounds this pretty people
And the Artist shall forever be pleased by them.
Our perception of artistry leaves most in awe
And this fact is forever the passion we strive for.
I am the Queen of Clovers
Survival is the sole lifestyle of the Clovers
In this wretched and unforgiving world
The Clovers must stay strong
Holding the clubs of the ancients,
We prevail
Onward shall we extend our power
The Clovers will remain
Forever the mightiest.
I am the King of Hearts.
The rapid spread of emotional ties
Is what us Hearts long for.
Threads of fate surround our people
Binding them to one another.
Love, lust, infatuation
Oh, these are the things that steady our nation!
So filled with Faith, Hope and Love
Our Hearts shan't fail us
As passion will never cease
To flow in our veins
—ah, yes!
This is the way of the Hearts.
And in this courtroom
So filled with Four Nations
The Sun laid down her head
Whilst the Moon finally awoke and,
Smiled his light onto them below.
Jul 11, 2015
Jul 11, 2015 at 6:42 PM UTC
rain or shine
i shan’t not decline
the desire to ride
nor indoors abide
Mar 21, 2015
Mar 21, 2015 at 10:03 PM UTC
*towering gently overflowing with heightened awareness
subtle hints of blade’s keen glittering chiseled edges
untamed rugged surface powerfully averts gale’s acrid tempest
vigor pulsating that doth persuade the cloud’s reflections
if i shall not again embrace a meager glimpse; a demure echo
of thine towering mounts my soul shall ever suffer
my spirit soars with e'er one glance of thine majestic presence
replete with reminiscence seasons stir and beg thine tender mercies
to house the changing leaves at dusk of autumn’s auburn portraits
and give birth to crystal snow cascading peripherally in winter
which melding into spring then begs thy bluffs to cover
in soft amethyst of columbine blossoming first light of summer
‘tis not paramount to scale high aloft thine peaks in escalation
for small sheer glances stamp forever with imperial impressions
and ‘tho i’ve traveled ‘round and savored nature’s varied essence
none can compare thine evergreens laced in aspens nuance
my breath is gone and shan’t return ‘til in thy shadow casting
i stand and look upon thine hallowed face the rocky mountains
©2016 janetaylor
May 3, 2016
May 3, 2016 at 4:42 PM UTC
so I brought my writer wife
(prominently pregnant)
to the hospital
and on her bed, she screamed:
*"weren't" "hasn't" "couldn't" "shan't"
"aint" "hadn't" "you're" "isn't"
"aren't" "didn't" "wasn't"
"who's?" "what's?" "he's" "she's"*
The doctors were confounded
and they turned to me and they said:
"What the hell is she doing?"
And I replied with double speed
and a violent sense of urgency:
*"Don't you know?
She's having contractions -
she's a writer"*
Oct 1, 2014
Oct 1, 2014 at 1:51 AM UTC
Ah, the season of gifting.
Antagonist of year-long thrifting.
Tradition sadistic,
Materialistic,
Four quarters in pockets worth sifting.
This year I hereby proclaim
I shan’t be consumed by the game.
Cycle of curse
Purpose perverse
The namesake, an oversight became.
Christ’s birth did in fact begin,
Holiday distracted by sin.
Misguided it be
To forget idly
The sacrifice He made for all men.
We naively regard generosity
As holiday’s behavioral piosity.
But if dollars and cents
Are the tools of offense
Over shadow favor luminosity.
Water in Africa is *****
American child in poverty.
Politics aside,
Convenient homicide,
To enable the ills of society.
In the global economy we flaunt
Wealth by comparison, bitter taunt.
First world problems abound
Pass the turkey around
Central heating and air, what a jaunt!
What if this season we decide
To extend two palms open wide?
Sacrificing ourselves
Rather than stocking our shelves
Dying whispers echo true: “we tried.”
Don’t spend your money on me this year.
Not iPhones, not tickets, not Blu-ray or beer.
Instead know you can
Distribute more than
A snort, a lie, and a tear.
(optional conclusion to assist interpretation of last line)
Snort of derision,
Lies of provision,
Tears, even true,
Hardly subdue
Anguish deprived of tradition’s revision.
Dec 26, 2012
Dec 26, 2012 at 5:25 PM UTC
In nineteen hundred forty-nine
China was won by Mao Tse-tung
Chiang Kai-shek's army ran away
They were waiting there in Thailand yesterday
Supported by the CIA
Pushing junk down Thailand way
First they stole from the Meo Tribes
Up in the hills they started taking bribes
Then they sent their soldiers up to Shan
Collecting ***** to send to The Man
Pushing junk in Bangkok yesterday
Supported by the CIA
Brought their jam on mule trains down
To Chiang Rai that's a railroad town
Sold it next to the police chief brain
He took it to town on the choochoo train
Trafficking dope to Bangkok all day
Supported by the CIA
The policeman's name was Mr. Phao
He peddled dope grand scale and how
Chief of border customs paid
By Central Intelligence's U.S. A.I.D.
The whole operation, Newspapers say
Supported by the CIA
He got so sloppy & peddled so loose
He busted himself & cooked his own goose
Took the reward for an ***** load
Seizing his own haul which same he resold
Big time pusher for a decade turned grey
Working for the CIA
Touby Lyfong he worked for the French
A big fat man liked to dine & *****
Prince of the Meos he grew black mud
Till ***** flowed through the land like a flood
Communists came and chased the French away
So Touby took a job with the CIA
The whole operation fell in to chaos
Till U.S. Intelligence came into Laos
I'll tell you no lie I'm a true American
Our big pusher there was Phoumi Nosovan
All them Princes in a power play
But Phoumi was the man for the CIA
And his best friend General Vang Pao
Ran the Meo army like a sacred cow
Helicopter smugglers filled Long Cheng's bars
In Xieng Quang province on the Plain of Jars
It started in secret they were fighting yesterday
Clandestine secret army of the CIA
All through the Sixties the Dope flew free
Thru Tan Son Nhut Saigon to Marshal Ky
Air America followed through
Transporting confiture for President Thieu
All these Dealers were decades and yesterday
The Indochinese mob of the U.S. CIA
Operation Haylift Offisir Wm. Colby
Saw Marshal Ky fly ***** Mr. Mustard told me
Indochina desk he was Chief of ***** Tricks
"Hitchhiking" with dope pushers was how he got his fix
Subsidizing traffickers to drive the Reds away
Till Colby was the head of the CIA
January 1972
10.1k
(This poem doesn't belong to me. The rightful owner is the author Darren Shan who wrote the Demonata and the Cirque du Freak book series. This poem is from his first book of the Demonata book series: Lord Loss.)
Lord loss sows all the sorrows of the world, lord loss seeds the grief starched trees
In the center of the web lowly lord loss bows his head
Mangled hands, naked eyes
Fanged snakes his soul line
Curled inside like texture sin
****** curdle sheets for skin
In the center of the web vile lord loss torments the dead
Over strands of red, lord loss crawls
Dispensing pain, despising all
Shuns friends, nurtures foes
Ravages hope, breeds woe
Drinks moons, devours suns
Twirls his thumbs till the reaper comes
In the center of the web Lush Lord Loss is all that is left.
Jan 30, 2014
Jan 30, 2014 at 12:19 PM UTC
Daisy, Daisy, how lovely
to be a banal child.
Safe from harm and hurt and death,
your roots do hold you wild.
Your life doth last some while
as you carry on
nourished by your parent ground;
shan't your woes be gone?
But oh, how lovely it would be
to be the blessed Rose;
what charm, what awe, what livelihood
one of that kind knows.
Daisy, Daisy, how lovely
to live a mundane while.
Your beauty lies in lengthy life,
your commonplace beguiles.
Feb 3, 2016
Feb 3, 2016 at 8:43 PM UTC
She assumes I don't care
And all that she does
Ends up in cruel despair.
She puts up a show
And buys me a bow
Until she feels empty, sad and low.
In a box that I chose
That smells of orchids so special
Lies the bow, like a rose.
For all that she ponders yet knows not
The times that we've spat and fought
Will remain as memories that shan't rot.
For on a pedestal she stands
In my heart, deep and within
'Cause I'm an angel in her hands.
Mar 25, 2014
Mar 25, 2014 at 1:40 PM UTC
I really just want to cry,
Just let it all out.
I don't know why
I feel this filled with doubt.
I'm kind of done
And I no longer see the fun
In prolonging this pain.
There's nothing I could do..
I just can't keep sane.
And
As I look around,
I see smiles,
Hear laughs
which makes me wonder...
How these people can live without breaking a sweat.
It's pretty inspiring they can stay
This strong ...
I used to be strong,
But then I grew weak
And ended up doing the wrong
That shan't be speaked.
Since then I have started to pray
Every single day for his help
To get me through this horrid phase.
But...I guess I don't pray hard enough
Or
Have a big enough faith.
So...
The reality,I assume,is
I'm forever lost in this place.
Nov 21, 2013
Nov 21, 2013 at 1:38 AM UTC
This flame grows higher
As the days march on,
It shan't ever tire
For it rages much too strong.
In my heart, yes, in my heart
The immortal heat yearns,
Bring thy kiss and start
A sensational sweet burn.
Apr 19, 2019
Apr 19, 2019 at 11:25 PM UTC
215
What is—”Paradise”—
Who live there—
Are they “Farmers”—
Do they ***
Do they know that this is “Amherst”—
And that I—am coming—too—
Do they wear “new shoes”—in “Eden”—
Is it always pleasant—there—
Won’t they scold us—when we’re homesick—
Or tell God—how cross we are—
You are sure there’s such a person
As “a Father”—in the sky—
So if I get lost—there—ever—
Or do what the Nurse calls “die”—
I shan’t walk the “Jasper”—barefoot—
Ransomed folks—won’t laugh at me—
Maybe—”Eden” a’n't so lonesome
As New England used to be!
6.2k
The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.
Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.
Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.
I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.
I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.
--Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.
5.5k
Genial poets, pink-faced
earnest wits—
you have given the world
some choice morsels,
gobbets of language presented
as one presents T-bone steak
and Cherries Jubilee.
Goodbye, goodbye,
I don’t care
if I never taste your fine food again,
neutral fellows, seers of every side.
Tolerance, what crimes
are committed in your name.
And you, good women, bakers of nicest bread,
blood donors. Your crumbs
choke me, I would not want
a drop of your blood in me, it is pumped
by weak hearts, perfect pulses that never
falter: irresponsive
to nightmare reality.
It is my brothers, my sisters,
whose blood spurts out and stops
forever
because you choose to believe it is not your business.
Goodbye, goodbye,
your poems
shut their little mouths,
your loaves grow moldy,
a gulf has split
the ground between us,
and you won’t wave, you’re looking
another way.
We shan’t meet again—
unless you leap it, leaving
behind you the cherished
worms of your dispassion,
your pallid ironies,
your jovial, murderous,
wry-humored balanced judgment,
leap over, un-
balanced? ... then
how our fanatic tears
would flow and mingle
for joy ...
5.3k
I don't pull the strings of fate
but I could cut them
there is a bottle of pills upstairs
as sharp as scissors
and ready to bite away at destiny
I shan't! I wouldn't!
But my innards ache
for a world I cannot and can never have!
So why wouldn't I take control of fate?
I don't weave the tapestries
but I can unwind them
Nov 2, 2013
Nov 2, 2013 at 8:42 PM UTC
Pecan-Pelican, feathery nuts
Pelican-Pecan, shells and guts
Could fly away, most likely shan't
For a pelican can but a pecan can't
Nov 10, 2013
Nov 10, 2013 at 5:37 PM UTC
Unrhymed, unrhythmical, the chatter goes:
Yet no one hears his own remarks as prose.
Beneath each topic tunelessly discussed
The ground-bass is reciprocal mistrust.
The names in fashion shuttling to and fro
Yield, when deciphered, messages of woe.
You cannot read me like an open book.
I'm more myself than you will ever look.
Will no one listen to my little song?
Perhaps I shan't be with you very long.
A howl for recognition, shrill with fear,
Shakes the jam-packed apartment, but each ear
Is listening to its hearing, so none hear.
5k
I cannot,
Absolutely cannot,
Add a single moment to my life by worrying!
In fact...if I were to worry my mind to the point of stress I could perhaps subtract myself.
I could,
Absolutely could,
Subtract myself from this life by worrying!
Therefore, I musn't worry my mind.
Even if in the next moment I were subtracted life it shan't be from worrying.
Tis' better to go quietly than with a whimper.
Jul 28, 2015
Jul 28, 2015 at 7:36 PM UTC
I want to shrivel like a raisin
Curl up into a ball
From your rounded little basin (of friends)
Of all the torturers, you're the most cruel
I wish to stand up to you
But my knees are to bruised
For begging for forgiveness
And my lunch money too
But I can't and I shan't
And I never shall
As I'm the weak little girl
Bullied by all
Feb 7, 2015
Feb 7, 2015 at 6:27 PM UTC
*This is a poem I wrote looking out my window this same evening in autumn I think I was just feeling a little lonely..
Life, it passes by outside the cold chained window
As I stare out into the light, out of my lonely dark corner
My eyes burn a little, I don’t mind though, I’m used to the pain life brings me
It has grown to a dull itch rather then a perching pain
It has been made null and done in by the pain my heart brings me
For the love of my life, the one who lied about his feelings,
He, he has ripped it out of my chest, painfully and slowly
Taking his time and plotting each and every single step he shall take
To make me suffer more then I should
I see a copal, and how cute they look together
But then I look into her hims’ eyes and see, I see what I saw in my hims’ eyes
I shan't worn her for tiz her own petty fault as was my own when my "incident" happened
I’m not mad at him, I’m sure he couldn’t help it, it’s just one of those unfortunate inconveniences
I hope it was anyway, even so I’m not mad, it was my own fault
So as happy life goes on outside my cold chained window
I watch and wait to see all the unsuspecting victims who will end up like me
But they’re different, they think they’ll have someone to blame*
Sep 29, 2013
Sep 29, 2013 at 4:08 PM UTC
Because
I don't want
ever again to be
a businessman
stuck at a desk,
selling ****
to morons.
I'd rather be
Han Shan,
cold and hungry,
uncertain,
but joyous,
writing poems
to the void
on cave walls,
laughing at vanity,
chuckling
at attachment,
wandering the woods
like a happy ghost
riantly doing real work,
struggling
up one mountain,
down the next.
No path; no plan,
but never lost.
- mce
Apr 6, 2015
Apr 6, 2015 at 11:15 AM UTC
It takes a village to stop a bullet, johnny. but you go 'head and stand in front of as many bullets as you want; hell, i might even write a poem about you doing just that. but i shan't pay you. and that is my price.
there, under the rug, like darkness in haste... there between, we perplex... at a civilized pace
[ as we continue to mean nothing ]
until our horrors are in HD
then we make a move on Paradise...
like drunken kangaroos wearing cursed hats
that can never be removed....
storming the gates.
Aug 31, 2013
Aug 31, 2013 at 4:25 PM UTC
Indian Legends.
The Legend of Triambakeshwar
The supreme Lords, Brahma and Vishnu
On that auspicious day were fighting for the highest milestone
For honour
Claiming Wisdom
Voicing out their mighty combat impale
At that very moment, a resplendant pillar
Emerged, took form before them
Standing tall into the skies and stooping low spearing the Earth.
Brahma and Vishnu saw the pillar
As an examiner of infinite Wisdom
They both decided to find either end of the pillar
to prove their supreme position.
Brahma took form of a swan
to find the topmost portion of the pillar
Vishnu turns into a Boar, being the land's wild driller
to discover the bottom part of this pillar.
Brahma returns and lies to Vishnu
"I Have Found My Goal, 'O Vishnu"
Lord Vishnu surrenders with a humble heart
A fruitless effortless failure.
This pillar is no ordinary pillar
The Legend holds it as the sacred Linga
The Lord of Lords, the destroyer of Evil
The three-eyed one, the blue-throated one
Neelakanta,Shiva,Mrida,Rudra
Dayakara,Hara,Maheshwara
The Lord with 1008 titles of honour
Ageless, timeless, formless,
Limitless.
Shiva cursed Brahma that day dusk
**"Your foul deceit smells above this land, Brahmadev
Punishment is a part of crime.
You shall never be worshipped under the stone-carved.
Temples shan't have place for you"**
Brahma, enraged, growled upon the Lord
**"Your greatness shall be pushed into this Earth
Into the same pillar, the Linga!
At the foot of Sahyradri, your abode lies
from now,
till forever comes."**
Dear Fearless Devotee, know this that you must
On the dark midnight of this hand-chosen day
Maha Shivratri
The Holy Linga takes form as the Lingodbhav Moorti
At the blessed land of Triambakeshwara.
From underneath the Earth,
Like a descendant from the skies
The ruler of the seven worlds
Bhu, Bhuvas, Svar, Mahas, Janas, Tapas, Satya
The invincible source of destruction
Of the Seven Hells, Paatala
*Atala, Vitala, Sutala, Rasaataala, Talatala, Mahaatala,
The Patala.*
Feb 27, 2014
Feb 27, 2014 at 7:21 AM UTC
Osiris take me away from here
Life is sad and full of fear,
Osiris take my hand
Away from this place of tears and sand,
I'm bored with the nile,
It's like choking on bile
There's nothing to do
Except to pray to you
Osiris take me away from here
Life is slow and rather queer,
I think i'd prefer the land of dead
Instead of this place i dread,
Osiris it isn't fair
Your wife is beautiful and has dark hair
If you shan't take me away,
Give me an my own Isis to love today
Apr 21, 2014
Apr 21, 2014 at 8:56 AM UTC