"sherds" poems
--To C. M.
Fountains that frisk and sprinkle
The moss they overspill;
Pools that the breezes crinkle;
The wheel beside the mill,
With its wet, weedy frill;
Wind-shadows in the wheat;
A water-cart in the street;
The fringe of foam that girds
An islet's ferneries;
A green sky's minor thirds--
To live, I think of these!
Of ice and glass the ******
Pellucid, silver-shrill;
Peaches without a wrinkle;
Cherries and snow at will,
From china bowls that fill
The senses with a sweet
Incuriousness of heat;
A melon's dripping sherds;
Cream-clotted strawberries;
Dusk dairies set with curds--
To live, I think of these!
Vale-lily and periwinkle;
Wet stone-crop on the sill;
The look of leaves a-twinkle
With windlets clear and still;
The feel of a forest rill
That wimples fresh and fleet
About one's naked feet;
The muzzles of drinking herds;
Lush flags and bulrushes;
The chirp of rain-bound birds--
To live, I think of these!
Envoy
Dark aisles, new packs of cards,
Mermaidens' tails, cool swards,
Dawn dews and starlit seas,
White marbles, whiter words--
To live, I think of these!
3.9k
Unicorn sprinkles,
Daffodils jam,
A little star's twinkle
And some dragon ham.
Some emerald clovers,
A pint of fairy dust,
A handful of stover
And some canned gust.
Teardrops of a Selkie,
Well shaken, not stirred,
The horseshoe of a kelpie,
Late Iron Age sherds.
Some fizzy witchcraft,
One bottle or two,
And maybe a draught
Of love potion too.
Apr 11, 2017
Apr 11, 2017 at 5:03 PM UTC
Analytical Critique of Unconscious Thought
acting out without conscious thought
like those silly shorts that you just bought
the gaudy plaid in a stripped world
capacity bottom-up weighting rule
convergence conclusion you silly fool
uncalled for diatribes that you unfurled
magical spiral of unspoken words
formed by hand into painted sherds
genius clown keeps lips tightly curled
Gomer LePoet....
Apr 29, 2013
Apr 29, 2013 at 1:41 PM UTC
"Write fourteen lines on Growing Up, a sonnet,"
the teacher told us. "Don't forget, the rhymes
must make a pattern; I've told you several times.
The subject's easy. You've all got ideas on it."
Who does he think I am? Some second Milton?
Another Shakespeare? An Eliot? A Tennyson?
Compared to theirs, my mind's as dead as venison,
slightly less fresh than over-ripened Stilton.
"A poem's the equivalent in words
of something I once felt," the poet said.
Clues to another's feelings, like the sherds
of ancient pots, or jigsaws in the head.
A few curt words my feelings clearly tell,
one simple sentence: Growing Up is hell.
Aug 20, 2018
Aug 20, 2018 at 3:30 PM UTC
I believe certain pasts don't give choices on what you become . they mold you into what they want . taking your freedom away . sometimes a moment stuns us , hurt us and in birth us sometimes a moment hit you so hard it feels like tens and thousand's of cars just ripped you to sherds and teared you apart .I see the world as a symptom . a sign of the existence of something, especially of an undesirable situation . you must realized the prison of yo mind to escape it At Times Yo Mind Might Have Yo Back Against the wall in you sitting with a razor trynna decide in find ways in distractions of ways not to end it all if you need violence to find ideas to end it all then **** yo idea its worthless because you died when you knew you had a purpose the purpose is not dying its the fact I'm ******* trying ... I'm trynna find my way out anxiety and depression won't get out the sorrows in my head got me chained up , cut up I'm trynna run as fast as I can but this beast under my bead keeps getting inside my head telling me everybody wishing I was dead that the cuts not deep enough the cries not loud enough the screams not heard enough the **** not getting me high enough the pills not taking me out fast enough I take the gun load it up wink at the beast in whispered good luck
Jun 2, 2017
Jun 2, 2017 at 11:25 PM UTC
You can take away the sun
So it won't shine to give warmth
You can take away the moon
So it won't calm the seas
You can take away the very air I breathe
So I can't draw in breath to live
But Don't take away my poems
You can beat me until purple shows
You can slap me till my skin is raw
You can shoot me in the heart
and rip it to sherds like it was made of paper
But don't take away my poems
My poems are my children
Made from my own mind
Made from my own hands
And even if one might be different from the other
They are still mine
My painful memories
My compliants about life
My sorrows
My joys
You can take away my identity
You can take away my very name
You can even make it that I don't live no more
and waste away in a field where I can't be found
But Don't take away my poems
Dec 21, 2012
Dec 21, 2012 at 9:21 AM UTC
Hello Destruction . The action or process of causing so much damage to something that it no longer exists or cannot be repaired.
The dark thing that creeps in my dreams to despaired the goals that was purpose for my life .
Creeps in my head and read me lies , keeping me up all night ..
tossing and turning .. tossing and turning because of my gift I see the spiritual..
I see the destruction, hello destruction
give me your name?
How many are you ?
Why me why cause so much damage when I no longer exist..
why keep trying you already ripped me to Sherds you already took my innocence....
you took everything
but my faith, my purpose
and I know you’re mad because you can’t break what’s left of me
you can’t take some **** that’s not yours
you been here what thousands of years?
You should ******* know this
you know who I am
and you wanna take it
I’ll conquer I’ll ******* destroy you
goodbye destruction.
Jul 4, 2018
Jul 4, 2018 at 10:09 PM UTC