"shuttles" poems
is Corrie ten Boom´s Favorite Quote.
The Master Weaver’s Plan
My life is but a weaving
Between the Lord and me;
I may not choose the colors–
He knows what they should be.
For He can view the pattern
Upon the upper side
While I can see it only
On this, the underside.
Sometimes He weaves in sorrow,
Which seems so strange to me;
But I will trust His judgment
And work on faithfully.
‘Tis He who fills the shuttle,
And He knows what is best;
So I shall weave in earnest,
And leave to Him the rest.
Not ’til the loom is silent
And the shuttles cease to fly
Shall God unroll the canvas
And explain the reason why.
The dark threads are as needed
In the Weaver’s skillful hand
As the threads of gold and silver
In the pattern, He has planned.
by AUTHOR UNKNOWN
Based upon research, have discovered that more than one person has been credited with authorship of this poem. For now, have decided to list it as “author unknown” until there is further clarification. Corrie ten Boom.
These words said Corrie ten Boom, the author of many many books. I feel honored and humbled that I may show you this poem she constantly presented in her life as a token of love to God and let you know about her. As Corrie ten Boom said the true author of this poem is still unknown. I am only the one who gives through.
with love, Sylvia Frances Chan
Wednesday, 20 December 2017
Dec 20, 2017
Dec 20, 2017 at 10:16 PM UTC
"See! warp is stretched
For warriors' fall,
Lo! weft in loom
'Tis wet with blood;
Now fight foreboding,
'Neath friends' swift fingers,
Our grey woof waxeth
With war's alarms,
Our warp bloodred,
Our weft corseblue.
"This woof is y-woven
With entrails of men,
This warp is hardweighted
With heads of the slain,
Spears blood-besprinkled
For spindles we use,
Our loom ironbound,
And arrows our reels;
With swords for our shuttles
This war-woof we work;
So weave we, weird sisters,
Our warwinning woof.
"Now Warwinner walketh
To weave in her turn,
Now Swordswinger steppeth,
Now Swiftstroke, now Storm;
When they speed the shuttle
How spearheads shall flash!
Shields crash, and helmgnawer
On harness bite hard!
"Wind we, wind swiftly
Our warwinning woof
Woof erst for king youthful
Foredoomed as his own,
Forth now we will ride,
Then through the ranks rushing
Be busy where friends
Blows blithe give and take.
"Wind we, wind swiftly
Our warwinning woof,
After that let us steadfastly
Stand by the brave king;
Then men shall mark mournful
Their shields red with gore,
How Swordstroke and Spearthrust
Stood stout by the prince.
"Wind we, wind swiftly
Our warwinning woof.
When sword-bearing rovers
To banners rush on,
Mind, maidens, we spare not
One life in the fray!
We corse-choosing sisters
Have charge of the slain.
"Now new-coming nations
That island shall rule,
Who on outlying headlands
Abode ere the fight;
I say that King mighty
To death now is done,
Now low before spearpoint
That Earl bows his head.
"Soon over all Ersemen
Sharp sorrow shall fall,
That woe to those warriors
Shall wane nevermore;
Our woof now is woven.
Now battlefield waste,
O'er land and o'er water
War tidings shall leap.
"Now surely 'tis gruesome
To gaze all around.
When bloodred through heaven
Drives cloudrack o'er head;
Air soon shall be deep hued
With dying men's blood
When this our spaedom
Comes speedy to pass.
"So cheerily chant we
Charms for the young king,
Come maidens lift loudly
His warwinning lay;
Let him who now listens
Learn well with his ears
And gladden brave swordsmen
With bursts of war's song.
"Now mount we our horses,
Now bare we our brands,
Now haste we hard, maidens,
Hence far, far, away."
Apr 26, 2010
Apr 26, 2010 at 10:58 AM UTC
In the old part of town
There are still cobbled streets
And at one time
These streets were surrounded
By living working mills
Marking the towns heartbeat
Twenty-four hours a day
Seven days a week
The machines hammered the air
As the flying shuttles were cracked
From side to side of the weft
On more than a hundred looms
It sounded like a battlefield
And some would say it was
But that was long ago
And now the mills are dead
The buildings still stand
But inside they are broken
Housing many more
Modern endeavours
And in one of these old buildings
Within the same crusty bricks
There's another world that lives
In the dark hours at least
There's a night club that throbs
To the sound of bands playing
Different rhythms for the town
And the neon lights outside
Shine on the same old cobble stones
By Phil Roberts
May 7, 2017
May 7, 2017 at 11:02 AM UTC
My world changed.
Now. I. am.
Dis- inherit.
More like the unwanted
guest,
in
a party for yourself.
That un wanted
is always
you.
Banners can say your name.
One thousand times.
Screaming.
Out of skyscrapers, bungee jumping
from space shuttles.
Saltating, from your inner
lung meat.
Banners, with names, can only spittle lies.
Now unwanted I wanna leave,
get out,
only 3 more miserly months
of a kingdom of intellectual
gods and tzars.
screaming my party name,
but I.
I.
gone.
I am sitting
While I'm grieving
and admitting in my seat
clenching to be let out
breaking cracking/gnashing teeth
left alone. all wanted
left to brain rot
but forced to sponge
learning what i want in
learning my ashcans full
i am done
I will. remain. despondent.
I wont apply my neurons
motor-sensory illusion
for math demagogues
what the ****
crust me over
cut my brain-case
destroy all brain
function and matter
grey dissolve to black
and white every *******
shade inside
cephalic
meat bowel
Lifeboats float back up to the top, after
re-inflated, I breathe air once again. My
retinas detect the light coming from
packets of waves emitting from the shore.
I float back up from the cold sea to the rock.
Alive.
Mar 23, 2013
Mar 23, 2013 at 2:53 PM UTC
We spent a day in space
because the Hendersons did it last month,
and the Jeffreys the week before that.
It was all they talked about at dinner
and their eyes sparkled
in a way I hadn't seen before.
You can pack light.
It's only a day, after all.
Maria and the kids were nervous
but I told them not to worry,
just to concentrate on the in-flight movie.
The kid in the seat behind
kept kicking my chair,
which was annoying.
To be honest
it was just like a normal flight at first,
out the window gazing
at the other shuttles coming home,
pressed into your seat
by the g-force.
But then you break through the ionosphere
and you're weightless.
It's quite cool.
Jessica got some good pictures of Earth.
I was looking at the floating stewardess, mostly.
It's one of those things, though -
you can't really appreciate it when it's happening.
You have to look back on it.
I'm pretty sure the grandeur,
the magnificence of human ingenuity
and the joy of returning to Mother Earth's comforting embrace
Will hit me any day now.
Excuse me, my phone's ringing.
Feb 19, 2014
Feb 19, 2014 at 6:37 AM UTC
I once went to Auschwitz, dove in the shoes.
Saw bunch of mannequins in bomb shelters from the fifties.
the house wives listened to blues.
Saw Vietnam Memorial, passed out, ** Chi Min Got hot in d.c.
Cold War cold cuts were all the news, sewing old men toupees in our weaves.
Walked trenches through Germany in mustard gas rainclouds
Saw, **** between Trotsky and Lenin, before he was a mummy.
Listened to George Bush shake Barrack Obama's hand, we are free now.
Caught world war three on the midnight news tele.
In Shambala Destiny, Chocolate covered rose petals,
From the end of the space shuttles kettle.
Boil over tipping point, all your fighting is over.
The air hangs of hung weird folk.
We can hate everyone, but ourselves.
Each moment in history had some one to hate,
Statist tend to do that to opposing encroaching States.
WE get to own the slaves, the cows of neck tie collars,
Oligarchy of patriarchical, man meat, manipulative, demagogic, isolationist, miscreant, pro-government pseudo-capitalist, state CORPORATION dollars.
Join the army old men. You hold a gun like a limp ****
You gotta hold mine to my head, Cause money ain't doin' Viagra's trick.
I jump from a painting of war veteran spiritualism.
I give no glory to people fighting for my freedom.
I hate violence, no one will ever FIGHT for MY freedom.
I am Freedom.
No state can make me that way.
No gun in my hand will change evil men.
My words must be my gun.
No one will hold my weapon.
Evil is evil, you cannot change its face through plastic surgery, Prozac, religion, or painting any other name on true morals.
Mar 28, 2013
Mar 28, 2013 at 12:33 AM UTC
Today is the beautiful New Year day
Lo! The snow white clouds in the blue sky above
A gentle breeze, playing on every leaf
And every heart throbbing with love
There is so much beauty couched in this day
The valleys echo the feathered minstrels’ lay
The tall trees spread their mighty arms
And children, in their shade, joyously play
There is no vexation in the air
The pain of yesterday cast to the bin
The anxiety of tomorrow held at bay
The prospects of today overpowering the din
When I walk through the grassy meads
Wild blossoms kiss my feet
As I inhale the salubrious air
I feel the glee with which Nature, so richly replete
Every heart overflows with cheer
On every face, smile shuttles from lips to eyes
Before me is the promise of a new dawn
Fresh resolve rekindles every face
Sprawling before me is a magic realm
To its secret doorway, I hold the keys
Everything around has a shimmering glow
In the bounty of blessings, my heart rejoices
I tell my spirits to seek no rest
But walk fearless to dizzy heights
Holding the reins and quickening my pace
For I know I am heading towards the lights
There are great glories for the eyes to see
There is so much for the senses to perceive
From little cares, when the mind, set free
Sure, there’s reason to rejoice than grieve!
……………………………………………
I can always say my glass is only half full
But let me perceive things in the positive way
The day, I know, sure has also a grimy side
But let us not spoil this lovely New Year day
I wish all my friends on Hello poetry, a great New Year with bright sunshine, a clear sky above, a lot of beauty around and many, many happy occasions to enjoy and cherish!
Dec 31, 2016
Dec 31, 2016 at 11:09 PM UTC
squirrels scamper
along the ground
from tree to tree,
living shuttles
weaving the natural world
into the human one,
creating a paradisiacal pattern
of yard.
Feb 22, 2016
Feb 22, 2016 at 7:43 PM UTC
Randy was a roach
Of the american cockroach variety
He was a deep brown and had a sickly shine
To his wings and antennae
And he studied both of us
From a perch in our suitcase
In my girlfriend's East Harlem apartment
In the early hours of a sunday morning
**** it! Get it out of the suitcase!"
My girlfriend yelled
Flailing her arms
As Randy reclined on our valuables
His antennae twitching
As in most crisis
I hesitated
And Randy burrowed into the suitcase
Past the underwear, collard shirts, and sunscreen
I dug in a frenzy
Rending my girlfriend's meticulous packing plan
And scattering clothes about
All in the name of meaningless destruction
But I couldn't find Randy
"He's probably in the collar of one of your shirts, or in a pair of my shoes"
My girlfriend speculated
And I started shaking the clothes wildly about the room
Wanting more than anything to extinguish Randy's life
To sterilize our newfound stowaways presence
But I never found him
And Randy boarded the plane with us to ***** Cana
While our plane painted dizzying contrails over the ocean
We speculated about Randy's
Most likely devious activities
"I bet he's eating the granola bars under my bikinis"
"I bet there is more than one in there"
"Maybe he's dead?"
"I bet he's laying eggs"
We both pondered over the fact that Randy could be Rhonda
And that we would open the suitcase to a scattering of near microscopic progeny
And we clutched each other in the cold, recycled air of the cabin
When we got to the room
Past all the tin shacks and open air bars
Where the locals sat in plastic lawn chairs
Staring at the tourist shuttles
That carted pale skin behind tinted windows
To decadently decorated rooms where the towels were folded into swans
We opened the bag to see if Randy
Had surfaced, died, or multiplied
But Randy was no where to be seen , a phantom
We unpacked everything under the utmost scrutiny
Not trusting any of the items we had packed so lovingly and repacked
Shaking cover ups and tee shirts like the wind shakes the leaves in autumn
But he never presented himself
And we saw none of his foul brood
We even unzipped the lining
But Randy had simply vanished
Evaporating into the humid, tropical air
I like to think that Randy is somewhere on the island still
That he has impregnated or has been impregnated
That he spends his days under the intense sun
And cottony wisps of clouds
Sipping Presidente
Sitting under an umbrella made of dried palm fronds
Happy to be away from the honking horns and crowded subways
Just like we were
Jun 19, 2016
Jun 19, 2016 at 3:25 PM UTC
Hello, this is my missing Mistress
Always she is for catching buses
Only for me its a physical stress
Clearly, she and me, 'musing bugs.
She handles it all on her own ways
Blooming face lighting little smileys
Like moonlit shining water waves
Laughter lighten her burdened dailies
A master lonely in friendly choirs
Shuttles merely from workplace to home
A king for cooking and child cares
Scuttling honey bee, nectar to comb.
Fancies mesmerize her failing frame
Work energizes her smiling game
Jan 14, 2019
Jan 14, 2019 at 1:16 PM UTC
iv 5-2-18
wrest the black tang the cosmic vacuum of background static and an ungainly dream of walking down a mountain path with my father we descend the silent belly of campus seats filled with mounted bodies lolling the inside stench anna walks ahead of me her voice cuts the waking body of midnight shuttles a hydroponic plant and the sparse parking lot of a supermarket radiating cold.
the fright, the nervous flesh, the stuttered pace of cars, the empty lot, the empty hour, the empty admission of make-belief, collapsing into precession at the peak of worthlessness.
ii 22-1-18
An endless stream, the back of an apartment block, fingers twine across the powder red of brick and sunlight.
I try to catch a glimpse of myself in her eyes, but beyond recognition there is nothing.
I see my father behind a sliding door. He moves further into the kitchen to take pictures from a tripod.
Clothes litter the ground. Nothing fits.
iii 4-2-18
the cracked linen STOP the momentary arrogance STOP the surfacing violence STOP the weathering STOP
A YELL torpid stultifying CRASH cruel ******* trace of the same
and all i can do is shrink as green tea soaks the tablecloth.
i 31-1-17
The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human. The problem is you were born human.
Feb 4, 2018
Feb 4, 2018 at 12:38 PM UTC
He lived next door but one to us
and chased me down the entry.
We went to school and played our tricks.
We worked at weaving, wenched and fished.
Listened to the deadly yarn
the friendly sergeant spun.
Signed us up, lined up like bobbins,
waiting for our places in the sun.
Willie shared a *** with me
before the whistle blew.
We had a packet left
so shared our memories too.
We walked straight as shuttles
through that valley of the Somme.
Six hundred fell with Willie
neath the barrage from the ***
The slaughter carried on.
The East Lancs filled our ranks
from outside Accrington.
Will sharing **** catch on.
Jul 3, 2015
Jul 3, 2015 at 5:04 AM UTC
Woven into every thought
a golden thread in deep blue sea
the waft on which her poems are caught
will form a living tapestry
and into every single day,
this loom upon which wafts are wound,
in green she'll choose to make her way
on shuttles wrapped with seaweed found
the ordinary man, an ocean
barge which follows shipping lane
passing through without a notion
brilliant orange and not mundane
streams of light, not white nor yellow
radiant warmth throughout the room
through every season, this old fellow
present, steady, lights the loom.
Beauty makes a sudden turn
for what's to come, could never guess
when trouble takes the finest yarn
and twists it into tangled mess
with barren shuttle, words are lean
"and hardly can I say!", she'll moan
with eyes upon the battle scene
"this tapestry is not my own!"
and into blackness of the night
a the sunlit moon with silvery shroud
will ease across the sky tonight
illuminating every cloud
and even as the stars like lint
reveal their light in darkened hours
the quiet moments also glint
a single word, enormous powers.
as shuttles glide, a poem evolves
and words begin to take their place
in colors as the earth revolves
this tapestry is bathed in grace.
Nov 12, 2014
Nov 12, 2014 at 11:23 AM UTC
Modern man unpacks his woes
He'd have us call it progress
The way back to our cave is paved
Several million ante-deluvians
drowned under the same delusion
How high do you need the ziggurat?
Asks ****** at Babel
Time wasn't ripe back then for God
He disabled their default accord;
their demon intent to destroy His plan
Three thousand years it's taken to regroup
Time enough for His time to be right
For the time of the end of the curse
So please, can the clever caveman thoughts
next time you imagine shuttles in space
a reflection of how superior we are
He'd downgrade us again in a flash
if it wasn't just about the time
we get to blow ourselves up anyway
Wiseup weasels, remember the reason
our playpen was restored in seven days
from Lucifer's null and void revenge
We have seven milenniums to learn to love
To take up our parts in Father's plan
or blow away like the wind
Six of them are practically over
Six billion souls in six thousand years
Created on day six, the number of man
We're at point six point six point break
Day seven's about to dawn.
The number of perfection and rest
Tormented earth groans anticipation
Mushroom clouds and lawlessness
pose no threat to YaHWeH's timeline
Null and void is on His Just In Time list
Every eye will see Meshiach come
Every knee will bow for
The Ancient of Days
Sep 28, 2009
Sep 28, 2009 at 12:01 PM UTC
MEPHISTOPHELES. Make good use of your time! It hurries past,
But order and method make time last,
So, friend, take my advice to heart:
Hear lectures on logic for a start.
Logic will train your mind all right;
Like inquisitor's boots it will squeeze you tight,,
Your thoughts will learn to creep and crawl
And never lose their way at all,
Not get criss-crossed as now, or go
Will-o'-the-wisping to and fro!
We'll teach you that your process of thinking
Instead of being like eating and drinking,
Spontaneous, instantaneous, free,
Must proceed by one and two and three.
Our thought-machine, as I assume,
Is in fact like a master-weavers loom:
One ****** of his foot, and a thousand threads
Invisibly shift, and hither and thither
The shuttles dart - just one he treads
And a thousand strands all twine together.
In comes your philosopher and proves
It must happen by distinct logical moves:
The first is this, the second is that,
And the third and fourth then follow pat;
If you leave out one or leave out two,
Then neither three nor four can be true.
The students applaud, they all say 'just so!'-
But how to weavers they still don't know.
When scholars study a thing, they strive
To **** it first, if it's alive;
Then they have the parts and they've lost the whole,
For the link that's missing was the living soul.
Encheiresis naturae, says Chemistry now -
Moccking itself without knowing how.
Feb 13, 2014
Feb 13, 2014 at 3:45 PM UTC
Woven into every thought
a golden thread in deep blue sea
the waft on which her poems are caught
will form a living tapestry
and into every single day,
this loom upon which wafts are wound,
in green she'll choose to make her way
on shuttles wrapped with seaweed found
like specks of color on an ocean
barges pass in shipping lane
and this is where I get the notion
contrast thrives in worlds mundane
streams of light, not white nor yellow
radiant warmth throughout the room
through every season, this old fellow
present, steady, lights the loom.
Beauty makes a sudden turn
for what's to come, could never guess
when trouble takes the finest yarn
and twists it into tangled mess
with barren shuttle, words are lean
"and hardly can I say!", she'll moan
with eyes upon the battle scene
"this tapestry is not my own!"
and into blackness of the night
a the sunlit moon with silvery shroud
will ease across the sky tonight
illuminating every cloud
and even as the stars like lint
reveal their light in darkened hours
the quiet moments also glint
a single word, enormous powers.
as shuttles glide, a poem evolves
and words begin to take their place
in colors as the earth revolves
this tapestry is bathed in grace.
Dec 14, 2015
Dec 14, 2015 at 10:15 PM UTC
He says that if you walked long enough in one direction, you’ll only end up where you started.
He says that bullets and escape shuttles share the same address and veins are just smaller bridges. so he leaped off the edge of a knife and even though he felt like he never made the cut his wrists didn’t always feel so.
Good times are just cushions we try to rack up to fall back to when the bad times come. He’s been falling on the same cushion for so long it’s not different from the concrete.
The world is a dark room and he still hasn’t found the light switch.
On days like today, he tries with all the walk that ******* has left him.
On days like today, when the world is trying its hardest to prove to be black and white, he tries to be a gunshot in the spine of a rainbow.
When you die we’ll put two money stacks on your eyes cos heaven has to be far from this hell hole that we live in
But you know better than most that you know nothing about what comes after death.
So sail, sail on a canoe of timber and broken dreams on a river of your own blood. Cos maybe heaven is better believed than lived
Jul 7, 2015
Jul 7, 2015 at 5:56 AM UTC
He lived next door but one to us
and chased me down the entry.
We went to school and played our tricks.
We worked at weaving - wenched and fished.
Listened to the deadly yarn
the friendly seargeant spun.
Signed us up, lined us up like bobbins
waiting for our places in the sun.
Willie shared a fage with me
before the whistle blew.
We had a packet left
so shared our memories too.
We walked straight as shuttles
through that valley of the Somme.
Six hundred fell with Willie
'neath the barrage from the ***
The slaughter carried on.
The East Lancs filled our ranks
from outside Accrington.
Will sharing **** catch on?
Dec 9, 2015
Dec 9, 2015 at 1:58 PM UTC
The familiar door swings open at my touch,
Greeting me with the aromas I’ve come to love.
Surveying the room I find the old man in his corner,
Muttering under his breath about something in the paper.
His face creases to form an unpleasant look, one that's been there before.
The gruff hand reaches out to the liquid gold on his right, and he brings it to his thirst quenching Lips.
The lines fade, but only slightly.
I recede further into the cafe until an intruding fragrance invades my lungs,
Suffocating, I back up as the waitress blows by me,
And I see the trail of fumes chasing after her.
She shuttles over to the table with a young couple,
If they couldn't make it anymore obvious.
Their hands are laced together in a peculiar pattern,
And their eyes only see each others - typical.
Nervous laughter and smiles pass between them as a bottle would be passed about,
Red rushes to the cheeks when a compliment slips out on "accident."
I tear my eyes away, I can't handle young love today,
So I make my way to my table,
My old, coffee stained, uneven legged table in the corner.
From here I can see the business man sitting at the closest table to the door.
I know he's a business man not from his sharp suit and brief case,
but from the way he keeps checking his watch.
Checking it like he has someplace to be, someone to met, like the time can't possibly be right.
And before I can make another assumption of the man,
The store spits him out.
Leaving behind an empty chair, a paper unopened and steam fleeing from a cup.
Nov 16, 2012
Nov 16, 2012 at 11:00 AM UTC
He wandered along old Codshill Street,
Quite late on that Christmas Eve,
And scanned the used haberdashery
Society ladies would leave,
The hats they’d worn, but only the once,
The boots with barely a scuff,
The poplin prints they hadn’t worn since,
A single dance was enough.
He stood outside in his working boots
The ones he wore at the mill,
He hadn’t had time to change himself
He should have been working still.
But in his pocket he clutched the pound
He’d saved for many a day,
He’d squirrelled each shilling away for months
Out of his meagre pay.
And all he could see was Mirabelle,
Who lodged at his heart and eye,
She worked upstairs in the counting room
Above where the shuttles fly,
And he would glimpse her once in a while
Pottering to and fro,
Dressed in a worn and paltry frock
Where the stitching was letting go.
He’d wait outside, and follow her home
To see she was safe and sound,
The rogues that he’d meet in Codshill Street
Would keep their eyes on the ground.
While she was aware of his loving gaze
And sometimes gave him a smile,
Others were bold in their loving ways
And pressed their court for a while.
And so it was on this Christmas Eve
That a Squire had stood at her door,
With a string of pearls you wouldn’t believe
He’d bought in a jeweller’s store,
And she was flushed as she let him in,
So pleased to have such a gift,
For she was only a working girl
And his interest gave her a lift.
But there in the haberdashery
In a window, stood at the side,
Was standing a model, dressed entire
In a gown so fine, he’d cried.
He thought he could see his Mirabelle
In place of the mannequin,
In the gown of grey crushed velvet, so
In a moment then, went in.
‘You know that the gown is second-hand,’
The girl explained to his stare,
‘Here are a couple of tiny stains,
And there is a little tear.
But this, that once cost a hundred pounds
Is a bargain now for a cause,
If you can give me a single pound
This lovely gown can be yours.’
She placed the gown in a long flat box,
And tied a ribbon around,
Then he flew out to his Mirabelle
In hopes she still could be found.
He saw the pearls were around her neck
When she had opened the door,
But once she pulled out the gown, she checked,
And dropped the pearls on the floor.
Her kiss was sweet on that Christmas Eve,
Though he had showed her the stains,
The tears she shed on that gorgeous thread
He said, were like summer rains,
She had no time for the wealthy Squire,
She’d waited for him all along,
Her greatest gift was a second-hand gown
With the love that the gown came from.
David Lewis Paget
Dec 24, 2015
Dec 24, 2015 at 4:19 AM UTC
I am never more human
than when I’m riding next to someone
who makes me shudder.
I am human as I sit and I wonder about their life
the way their hair curls to the left instead of the right,
if it was on purpose or done with curlers, or if everything in life is just accidental.
She probably didn’t care which way her hair curled. Neither do I. But I do care
about the way her ankles look with them crossed, about the way her eyes are angled
out the window, about the way her jaw clenches when we hit a bump. It probably clenches
the same way when her boyfriend is ******* her.
I sit on the bus, shuddering and wondering about the bus riders’ lives. They’re probably the same
as mine, as yours, as the guy’s who is behind me, digging his knees
into the green leather of my seat, which is cracking at the edges. I see a piece
of yellow foam pushing out the edge, and I cannot resist the urge to play with it.
The person who sat here before me probably did, too. We cannot help but play with things,
always hoping we’re never the one to finally break it.
We are all the same, we all live to love, or love to live,
or maybe we don’t,
but we take comfort in knowing that we will all die one day
whether its on purpose or by accident, though it is always accidental.
But maybe we really are different, after all,
we’ve come a long way, from discovering fire to discovering better ways to put it out,
concocting new chemicals to cure every ailment,
fabricated or organic, physical or mental,
and I cannot get out of my mind that
our minds revolve around the world which revolves around the stars,
the ones in the theaters and the ones in the skies, the ones on the covers of magazines
like People and Science Weekly—inside they’re half advertisements—
how else do we advance in the world without cash?
Their covers are full of sequins and *** tips and shuttles with surveillance
cameras snapping photos as they watch our every move
from behind the cover of the planets who grin with the knowledge they will never reveal,
because they, too, are plotting against us.
Tonight we are under the cover of the blankets and I am watching her just as we are watched by
the planets that spin and the stars that shine and the moon that just wants to see the light of day
because she only knows the dark of night,
and the eclipse of her *******
eclipses the eclipse of the moon,
and the cross around her neck is blinding me with reflected light and reflected values
and I can’t look away but I can’t look at it
because I want to deny it but I want to accept it and
I marvel at how one taste of her
can show me what it is like to be saved.
May 25, 2014
May 25, 2014 at 1:28 PM UTC
It is only a matter of time before they realize,
this world has been destroyed by land development and population size.
And they will look for cratered pastures.
Because the moon is so beautiful this time of night,
and a mansion would look so elegant in that light.
So they will fly their luxury shuttles
to the dream homes in bubbles.
And leave us in this dump they left behind.
But what they don't know, is when they make their depart,
the music here on Earth will start.
So fly to your Moon Mansion and leave us to rot.
We know a beautiful life cannot be bought.
Nov 11, 2011
Nov 11, 2011 at 3:54 PM UTC
By the sea, I saunter and think of her,
The tides slip into wild coves—
Like my own desires under moon.
I search the skies, emptiest horizons,
As the gawking gulls circle in windy
Tempests of confusions.
Shy stars appear as the sun is destroyed
And the sea sprays like a bursting fire—
Plastering rocky crags.
The long night that always, was coming,
Has theived its way from white hope,
A shroud for a sea journey.
A lone osprey shuttles a fish to its nest,
His heart— soaring on high—
While mine submerges at edge of sea.
Jun 21, 2015
Jun 21, 2015 at 1:30 PM UTC
By the sea, I saunter and think of her,
The tides slip into wild coves—
Like my own desires under moon.
I search the skies, emptiest horizons,
As the gawking gulls circle in windy
Tempests of confusions.
Shy stars appear as the sun is destroyed
And the sea sprays like a bursting fire—
Plastering rocky crags.
The long night that always, was coming,
Has theived its way from white hope,
A shroud for a sea journey.
A lone osprey shuttles a fish to its nest,
His heart— soaring on high—
While mine submerges at edge of sea.
Feb 14, 2015
Feb 14, 2015 at 5:50 PM UTC