"singly" poems
the moon is hiding in
her hair.
The
lily
of heaven
full of all dreams,
draws down.
cover her briefness in singing
close her with the intricate faint birds
by daisies and twilights
Deepen her,
Recite
upon her
flesh
the rain’s
pearls singly-whispering.
57.7k
At length their long kiss severed, with sweet smart:
And as the last slow sudden drops are shed
From sparkling eaves when all the storm has fled,
So singly flagged the pulses of each heart.
Their bosoms sundered, with the opening start
Of married flowers to either side outspread
From the knit stem; yet still their mouths, burnt red,
Fawned on each other where they lay apart.
Sleep sank them lower than the tide of dreams,
And their dreams watched them sink, and slid away.
Slowly their souls swam up again, through gleams
Of watered light and dull drowned waifs of day;
Till from some wonder of new woods and streams
He woke, and wondered more: for there she lay.
30k
“I’m your wave – I told her –
Lay your head right here,
Softly on my shoulder.
Let your thoughts roam free.”
“You’re my air – she told me –
You’re my life and sun.
Singly we are nothing.
Allied we are one.”
“I’m your fire – I uttered –
Burning bright and mild.”
“That be true“ – she muttered,
Slender, sound and wild.
When we are together,
Nothing holds us down
The unwashed may blather,
Let them laugh and frown.
Floating through the cosmos
On a marble blue,
With the odds against us,
We make dreams come true.
24-4-2017
Apr 24, 2017
Apr 24, 2017 at 6:18 AM UTC
I
On the Coast of Coromandel
Where the early pumpkins blow,
In the middle of the woods
Lived the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.
Two old chairs, and half a candle,--
One old jug without a handle,--
These were all his worldly goods:
In the middle of the woods,
These were all the worldly goods,
Of the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo,
Of the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.
II
Once, among the Bong-trees walking
Where the early pumpkins blow,
To a little heap of stones
Came the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.
There he heard a Lady talking,
To some milk-white Hens of Dorking,--
''Tis the lady Jingly Jones!
'On that little heap of stones
'Sits the Lady Jingly Jones!'
Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo,
Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.
III
'Lady Jingly! Lady Jingly!
'Sitting where the pumpkins blow,
'Will you come and be my wife?'
Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.
'I am tired of living singly,--
'On this coast so wild and shingly,--
'I'm a-weary of my life:
'If you'll come and be my wife,
'Quite serene would be my life!'--
Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo,
Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.
IV
'On this Coast of Coromandel,
'Shrimps and watercresses grow,
'Prawns are plentiful and cheap,'
Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.
'You shall have my chairs and candle,
'And my jug without a handle!--
'Gaze upon the rolling deep
('Fish is plentiful and cheap)
'As the sea, my love is deep!'
Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo,
Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.
V
Lady Jingly answered sadly,
And her tears began to flow,--
'Your proposal comes too late,
'Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo!
'I would be your wife most gladly!'
(Here she twirled her fingers madly,)
'But in England I've a mate!
'Yes! you've asked me far too late,
'For in England I've a mate,
'Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo!
'Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo!'
VI
'Mr. Jones--(his name is Handel,--
'Handel Jones, Esquire, & Co.)
'Dorking fowls delights to send,
'Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo!
'Keep, oh! keep your chairs and candle,
'And your jug without a handle,--
'I can merely be your friend!
'--Should my Jones more Dorkings send,
'I will give you three, my friend!
'Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo!
'Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo!'
VII
'Though you've such a tiny body,
'And your head so large doth grow,--
'Though your hat may blow away,
'Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo!
'Though you're such a Hoddy Doddy--
'Yet a wish that I could modi-
'fy the words I needs must say!
'Will you please to go away?
'That is all I have to say--
'Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo!
'Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo!'.
VIII
Down the slippery slopes of Myrtle,
Where the early pumpkins blow,
To the calm and silent sea
Fled the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.
There, beyond the Bay of Gurtle,
Lay a large and lively Turtle,--
'You're the Cove,' he said, 'for me
'On your back beyond the sea,
'Turtle, you shall carry me!'
Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo,
Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.
IX
Through the silent-roaring ocean
Did the Turtle swiftly go;
Holding fast upon his shell
Rode the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.
With a sad primaeval motion
Towards the sunset isles of Boshen
Still the Turtle bore him well.
Holding fast upon his shell,
'Lady Jingly Jones, farewell!'
Sang the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo,
Sang the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.
X
From the Coast of Coromandel,
Did that Lady never go;
On that heap of stones she mourns
For the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.
On that Coast of Coromandel,
In his jug without a handle
Still she weeps, and daily moans;
On that little hep of stones
To her Dorking Hens she moans,
For the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo,
For the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.
4.2k
On winter nights beside the nursery fire
We read the fairy tale, while glowing coals
Builded its pictures. There before our eyes
We saw the vaulted hall of traceried stone
Uprear itself, the distant ceiling hung
With pendent stalactites like frozen vines;
And all along the walls at intervals,
Curled upwards into pillars, roses climbed,
And ramped and were confined, and clustered leaves
Divided where there peered a laughing face.
The foliage seemed to rustle in the wind,
A silent murmur, carved in still, gray stone.
High pointed windows pierced the southern wall
Whence proud escutcheons flung prismatic fires
To stain the tessellated marble floor
With pools of red, and quivering green, and blue;
And in the shade beyond the further door,
Its sober squares of black and white were hid
Beneath a restless, shuffling, wide-eyed mob
Of lackeys and retainers come to view
The Christening.
A sudden blare of trumpets, and the throng
About the entrance parted as the guests
Filed singly in with rare and precious gifts.
Our eager fancies noted all they brought,
The glorious, unattainable delights!
But always there was one unbidden guest
Who cursed the child and left it bitterness.
The fire falls asunder, all is changed,
I am no more a child, and what I see
Is not a fairy tale, but life, my life.
The gifts are there, the many pleasant things:
Health, wealth, long-settled friendships, with a name
Which honors all who bear it, and the power
Of making words obedient. This is much;
But overshadowing all is still the curse,
That never shall I be fulfilled by love!
Along the parching highroad of the world
No other soul shall bear mine company.
Always shall I be teased with semblances,
With cruel impostures, which I trust awhile
Then dash to pieces, as a careless boy
Flings a kaleidoscope, which shattering
Strews all the ground about with coloured shards.
So I behold my visions on the ground
No longer radiant, an ignoble heap
Of broken, dusty glass. And so, unlit,
Even by hope or faith, my dragging steps
Force me forever through the passing days.
3.8k
Cumin queuing
Exchanged by the fiery springs
It flew away blowing
When the chill was as willed as the obtrusive sky
Made of cranes running
Up and down until it is down below the hips.
How one would crave the distinguished dish severely
Whose aroma is everything you have heard singly
The pearl-like freckles beneath its wings
Tastes like heaven-human savagely beating alive
Increasing one's height and appetite.
Oily hands that grip your heart,
Slippery slides of the familiar coconut.
Oct 13, 2018
Oct 13, 2018 at 11:11 PM UTC
In early, or late spring
the daffodils appear, to enchant us
stems are firm, while
holding clusters of bloom.
they enhance our views...our spirits,
arraying our horizons, with fresh hope
fresh perspectives
never giving space to doom.
daffodils
are offered, not singly,
but in bunches,
just like the way a mother gives herself,
never just a piece,
she reaches out with her hand
when in fact, she has offered her whole body
always...with open arms.
Most times, she wears lively colors
of white, yellow, gold, and green,
whatever the season,
whatever circumstances she may face
her smile, her warmth,
are the most colorful parts of her being
There is a lilt in her eyes,
in her actions...in her songs...in her words
in her dance...as she does her chores
such a miracle, all these graces, she offers
On a sunny and windy day
a mother is like
those dancing daffodils
on the hills and wayside
staying strong enough, while
swaying...to the winds of life
not to fall down...or be blown away,
she may be silenced by frustration and worries
but never surrenders to ensuing hardships
just choosing to be quiet...seeming dormant.
She is both a bulb...and an all-season root crop,
stuffed with needed energy
quiet underneath when the cold season comes
but never dead...never fallen
always gathering, saving strength,
for when a storm in life comes
not one to mope...but one to ease
...like a healing balm.
A mother is a rare kind of a daffodil
one that gleams with bright lights, and bold colors
all year round...through all kinds of weather.
Sally
Copyright May 8, 2016
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
May 7, 2016
May 7, 2016 at 8:27 PM UTC
Never STOP yourself to WONDER how BEAUTIFUL you're ,,
Jealousy will cease you to RUN after more SUPERIOR than you..
Your beauty will not stop you, but your PRIDE on your beauty will LOCK your MOVE ..
OPEN your HEART every time you open your EYES..
Make your soul LIVELY and
as PLAYFUL as butterfly
Who spends their whole LIFE , flying across AESTIVATIONS ,,
Of singly coloured PETALS....
Holding the band of RAINBOW on their BACK...
If they stop , to CHERISH their beauty
It'll disturb the law..
UNAWARE of their BREATHTAKING beauty they're happy & BUSY..
So, if you're arrived for a JOURNEY
Never make SONGS of your MISERIES
Make your PAIN , a mole of CHEEK
Not an EXCUSE to hide your FACE
Never let your SHORTCOMINGS be the reason to RUN away from LIFE...
They call crawling caterpillars UGLY
But wishes to get KISSED from butterflies
They're nagging , criticizing judgemental
Can only PRAISE the Beauty...
Nobody is INTERESTED in anyone's journey
So BUSY to see transformation
But Ready to Compare & to make PERCEPTION ......
Jun 18, 2021
Jun 18, 2021 at 8:24 AM UTC
Here you stand blowing raspberries
at my phonemic skills.
Please close your lips. Just listen.
Learn of bilabial trills.
You may call me an animal
for my alveolar clicks,
for in America its only real use
is for catcalling chicks.
And not many understand
a velar implosive stop,
that the words are the gurgle
of a doughnut shop cop.
And yes, my pharyngeal fricative
sounds like something's amiss.
But its not always contempt,
like some puppet show hiss.
So, if you just could excuse
my pulmonic ingressive,
I promise, If it feels like it hurts,
I will be singly expressive.
I guess all I can say
is that when you hear what I say,
remember, it more than just words
that I try to convey.
Jun 14, 2016
Jun 14, 2016 at 8:46 AM UTC
When I was young, we dwelt in a vale
By a misty fen that rang all night,
And thus it was the maidens pale
I knew so well, whose garments trail
Across the reeds to a window light.
The fen had every kind of bloom,
And for every kind there was a face,
And a voice that has sounded in my room
Across the sill from the outer gloom.
Each came singly unto her place,
But all came every night with the mist;
And often they brought so much to say
Of things of moment to which, they wist,
One so lonely was fain to list,
That the stars were almost faded away
Before the last went, heavy with dew,
Back to the place from which she came—
Where the bird was before it flew,
Where the flower was before it grew,
Where bird and flower were one and the same.
And thus it is I know so well
Why the flower has odor, the bird has song.
You have only to ask me, and I can tell.
No, not vainly there did I dwell,
Nor vainly listen all the night long.
1.7k
*You've been hurt before by both action and words spoken
by promises unmet your fragile heart's broken
but I'll find my way through those tiny spaces and cracks
to enter and lock myself inside your heart
and hope that no outside key ever works
just so that the world can't tear us apart
I long to forever walk with you side by side
to scratch your back in case it itches
and radiate my warmth in the cold
I want my kids to be yours and when the time reaches
be inspired by our triumph when we're old
I wish to be right by your side as the dawn appears
past the sad and through the happy years
I fancy being the very first image in your eye
Hope that won't forever be a pie in the sky
I envisage you as my lifetime partner in my quest
across the Oceans of eternity, and I feel blessed
I want to be the bandage that helps in your healing
the one who won't abuse your intense feelings
I want us to hold hands as we walk the same road
that way we can go far, sharing our load
instead of singly dragging along our burdens
I want to be your favourite flower in the gardens
To appreciate your milestones and pat your back
I'll be your campus when you're lost and stuck,light in the dark
You've been tossed and shattered, your Heart is clattered
but I'll pick up the broken pieces albeit they're scattered
I'll be a harmonic melody to help you believe again
the compensation for your wasted years
the tissue to dry your tears and remedy for your pain
You carry a wounded soul and a broken Heart
but I'm willing to be part of an inspiring story
one where you find real glory in another fresh start*
Feb 6, 2016
Feb 6, 2016 at 4:55 PM UTC
A mind curious by step, ******* in streams of vitality
Grasping its journey..... Spirited by step
Oh, curiousity, spirit - placed before caution....
Stuck between one or the other, unmixed?
Only a singly misstep and its curiousty's mistake without prior consideration- you tumbled.
Rolled down, the wind knocked out of you!
Heaving, anxiety of dying......
Now......
Every single curious idea was lost in faultful recklessness
Aug 4, 2016
Aug 4, 2016 at 1:10 AM UTC
The world is full of fools’ theory
Listening to them I feel weary.
Such egoistic heads tell not to worry
And at our back talk oscillatory
Bad about us, creating a crematory
Where they bury their own glory.
They have a bad attitude of sanatory
Coward, showy, deceitful, predatory.
The world is full of fools’ theory
Listening to them I feel weary.
I too had such a mad hoary
Who was ready with an itinerary,
Where all bad & deceit come corollary
As she had a base habit of obfuscatory.
She knew less concepts contemporary
And thought herself vital primary.
The world is full of fools’ theory
Listening to them I feel weary.
Would always ask if I hunky-dory?
We knew those emotions were vapory –
Happy, then sad, angry then nugatory!
Her emotions changed as witch’s allegory,
Hate, spurn, prune are her favourite mandatory:
Now singly fights with colleagues hortatory;
Alas! Does not know her faults & category.
Listening to them I feel weary.
Would always ask if hunky-dory?
At first I tried to be a promontory
So that I can save her crematory;
Blind with pride, less corroboratory,
She spurned me having derogatory.
Now also I pity her as she is a hoary
But wish she improves her oratory.
Apr 19, 2018
Apr 19, 2018 at 8:52 PM UTC
My senses once again fail me
In this wooded place
My eyesight left long ago,
Leaving me to fall on my face
My sense of smell quickly left the building,
Though the flora produced such sweet scents
My hearing went soon after,
Allowing me to sit, and lament
My sense of taste followed suit,
I tried to eat some blackberry's but flavor they lacked
Not long after that,
My sense of feeling came and went,
The rain was feeling oh so soothing
Now I am senseless,
But that's what I get for singly
Coming to this place.
Dec 4, 2012
Dec 4, 2012 at 3:40 PM UTC
This heart will now crave,
For the love which nobody gave,
I'm feelin' like a dead man in a grave.
I carry singly my lonely zeal,
Now this heart won't soon heal,
Except heartbreak nothing's real.
This heart has suffered a wound,
Feels like its clock has unwound,
A baby deep inside wails around.
Jan 7, 2016
Jan 7, 2016 at 2:19 AM UTC
When showers of fresh blessing soak my life,
Reviving savors of forgotten love,
Unveiling myriad ceaseless wonders 'round
In which like unseen air I daily move;
When I then stretch my narrow mind behind
Where every sovereign stage did stage the next
And grace displaced self's strangling undertow
To surge me toward eternally fixed shores;
When stories all around reveal the web
Of other lives weaved in a master plan,
Composed of strands which singly sing with life,
Yet strengthen all the others where they touch;
And when my straining gaze lights on the Light
Of Life, the depthless Fountain-head, and Sea
Where skeptic souls all thirst to drown,
Its pulse the how and why for all that is;
When Joy—behind, before—assaults my view,
My song, once numbed by fear, again rings true:
Leap up, dead one! This hour demands my all—
The world resounds; I can't resist the call!
Sep 30, 2011
Sep 30, 2011 at 12:24 PM UTC
It’s not singly your jubilantly playful smile
Or eyes that instill faith,
Faith that miracles exist in us
And absolutely not independently
The miraculousness that ever so gently
And tenderly
Sleeps on top of a face to which
No being can compare to, it makes such
Euphoric feelings kiss the world
And my heart, now zapped
By a current of life and flare
This miraculousness fabricates an image of
Your benevolent wind, light and sublime
Rolling softly over the waves and hands
Of the ocean, flowy and ecstatic
And the cause of my enamored state
Is not isolated by
The effervescently sanguine blush
Of your adorable cheeks,
Which regularly has exploded
A nervous, yet amazed smile
Upon myself
No,
Although with the fullest probity
I may spew that these angelic virtues
Have spirited me to a place
Where Zeal is my name
And time with you
Has become my heroine,
It’s your energy, your aura
Your vivacious fire
That so happily bombards me
With laughter and excitement
It’s your poison, your wonderful stain
That’s colored my life
And shocked my heart
It’s you;
You are a poem
Jul 7, 2010
Jul 7, 2010 at 6:50 PM UTC
oh the world
(smoothly electric)
which turns 'pon
a thread divisible
assumes such shapes magic
(hurling singly rotund)
to smash by impulsed fabric
with savagery so sublime
fists should
(uncurling)
turn from bruises
into wine
Oct 16, 2013
Oct 16, 2013 at 3:49 AM UTC
~~~
*it as if I am blinded
by the perfection
of the moment
all sensors singly loaded,
yet interacting,
in a buckshot of common cause
my eyes suffused
by sun scattering rays uncovering a day's birth placenta gleaming
amidst the glaring shadows of the refuse of nature's yesterday's
discarded leavings
my eyes reversed,
unsuffused
as it they were a gift,
waiting all this time,
forgoing-opening until
just this moment
my ears suffused
by soft sounds and
swirling ripples of calm waters,
the wind teasing, saying,
move like me, but just so, barely,
the real sounds of the quietude heard
as if for the first time
my tongue tastes you,
wrested from my mind's eye, you are given,
in the everything, skin creme of lapping waves, in the everywhere,
uncovered from within the sun's own departing shadow
my smell
is the smell of life,
nostrils flaring expanding with no limit
to take it all in,
completing, unifying,
a puzzle that never was,
that is now forever solved
my hands fuse
the tingling of life given from wet dewy grass,
shiny and reflecting,
the roughness of the bark,
a natural protective coating,
combining soft caresses and confirming
the necessity of both
perfectly still
I sit amidst
the perfect stillness,
all movement unnecessary,
all my senses reach out and return as one,
bringing me presents of knowledge,
more than suffused, I too,
am trite but true,
dearest god, can it be true,
rebirthed, renewed
this ordinary day
is now extraordinary
solitary figure staring gaze steady,
a perfection ******
impatient for the
suffusion fix
of this day, and the morrow*
~~~
**August 6, 2015
Shelter Island**
Aug 8, 2015
Aug 8, 2015 at 10:58 AM UTC
The Flautist, fluently flaunted her flute- Music flew faultlessly through the airwaves, flying fluidly above the noise of the blustering city
THE flautist created a calm fragrance, whose flavor of creativity fell-well onto your soul creating a soul stirring calmness across the city.
She played her flute clean into the night vehemently, over the feverish chaos –
And the people in the park and in the city could hear clearly as they walked in rhythmic tunes/ She flaunted her music like sweet low hanging fruit, Her music dangled beautiful and singly. She alone, Solo-ed notes of delightful serenity-
The flautist moved the masses to a state of bliss; Like free kisses flying in the wind landing on ears conquering and engaging spirits, conquering pandemonium with her flute, she blew her flute... SHE BLEW HER FLUTE, and we marched and listened obediently. She blew her flute and we marched magnificently to her concert.
Sep 21, 2015
Sep 21, 2015 at 1:06 AM UTC
I hate the way you stare at me with ever changing eyes,
I loath the way you push and pull ignoring all my cries,
I envy all you have, you take, you feel and mostly love,
I distress the kind of game you play when all you do is shove,
I hope you find that someone close and hope you’re happy too,
But mostly I hope they do exactly what to me you do,
You play a sick and twisted messed up version in your mind,
Tying all the pieces up for all of us to find,
The scorned unhappy miscreants that hollowed out your soul,
We fought and played with every singly breath were told to hold,
And so we slowly fade away I am sure that’s what you want,
Ignore us and we’ll go away the missing do not taunt,
And so we crawl with all distorted limbs and bleeding eyes,
To haunt the one creator who, and still, ignores our cries.
Jan 16, 2010
Jan 16, 2010 at 2:43 PM UTC
*It ***** that I miss you,
it hurts that I never ever had a chance to kiss you
wait a minute, can't believe it...
I haven't forgotten your number,not even a digit
it angers realising I'm no longer the comics on your thread
the best Facebook posts and tweets you read
I doubt I'm in your heart when you evicted me from your head
it ***** that I'm no longer that call you lust for at daybreak
the ears that listened to your endless lamentations
the ocean where you channelled your tears when you had a headache
miss being the lad you confide in your outrageous contemplation
I'd go back if you could return to the lady you used to be
sacrificing much of this present cause you mean lots to me
I miss the jolly girl who had big dreams and hated reality
that you changed is a travesty with utmost fatality
you were that lass who understood and explored my despair
the only mortal who'd see the invisible stair
up my utopian architectural castles hanging in the air
whatever happened so much so that you hardly even care
you're far albeit I tried to keep us as close as it once was
but the more I kept knocking the tighter you locked the doors
it hurts that I didn't manage to let you know what lies in my heart
can't imagine anyone else loving me without ripping me apart
it's sad that you'll never get to know the comfort you brought
and the courage with which I rowed when we were in the same boat
you locked me out and walked singly into the dawn
say for the lack of a better word you termed us apart "alone"
yet now you pride in company of your own
with a bevy of beauties who kicked me off my throne
if I'd known that we'd drift before the epilogue
I would have said goodbye to your charm at our prologue
it hurts that you don't know that it hurts missing you
it hurts but there's nothing much I can do
I can't return to the past that is clearly lost
neither can I cast out your spell fingers crossed...
for I'm still crazily in love with the one I can't have
drowning in these tumultuous thoughts barely alive
hanging on a thread and hoping I survive*
May 24, 2016
May 24, 2016 at 2:23 PM UTC
Singly among the sand castles
No one noticed until he was there
Above him or in his path
We had built him like children
Build sand castles
We carved and patted him from moist earth
He was soft, yet rigid as he lay there
His gaze was skyward and uncertain..
We left him there to see what people do
And walked a distance to the dunes
We watched him among people
For he was one now.
They came. Families, elderly couples
And children too and stopped
To admire and express delight
At this sand man's sculptured form.
We felt happiness at the pleasure be brought
He made them stop a moment to feel their surroundings
And recognize his contented solitude.
Teenage boys came to jeer and leer.
One of them looked around as if in secrecy
And plunged a driftwood stick at the sandman's groin
Then quickly ran away laughing at his tale.
The stick protruded boldly
Our sand man's hands were at his sides
He felt no ruler of the sands
Only a gentle soul made of mockery.
A girl and her brother approached
After we had removed the offence.
The young boy was waving his 'mighty sword'
(Some stick which had washed ashore)
At first, with his sister in charge
They stopped to admire
But then she walked away,
Turned her back to venture on.
"Hello", he said to the sandman
As if to acknowledge someone there.
Then with his 'mighty sword' he pierced
Into the sandman's groin and
Ripped up to his chest
Then swung his 'sword' and
Cut the sand man's throat...
Why? Why! we cried in mind
As the young boy ran away
Murderer! we yelled in our hearts
IWe hurt for man
We sat stunned at this violence
This desecration of a soul.
We couldn't just leave him there
Blameless, yet aware
So we buried the sand man and prayed
Dust to dust, sand to sand
Sand he may have been
But soul he was for us.
May 31, 2018
May 31, 2018 at 9:17 AM UTC
The giant’s ruminations could once demand
Salvation, the order of the universe in hand.
Now, all His awe and glory’s come to naught
And man cries madly, distraught.
In black and white, His word and song is made,
And in this darkened night will never fade.
Who are you to say we must submit?
Who are we to give our spirit and quit?
Great Lords, and Pope, alike, have written what men think,
So who am I to tell you when to sup and drink?
Millions upon millions, the critics ponder fate by wit,
But hasn’t it all been said, hasn’t it been writ?
I tell you no certainty, give you only proof,
You must read those great volumes to which so many are aloof.
I sing praises like as David, a song that Solomon would want,
Of everlasting truth, without a philosophic taunt.
Salvation is not my message, repentance not my ploy;
I wish to give you knowledge: teach your mind it’s not a toy!
There is no great illusion of the means of life on Earth,
There is no puzzling mystery in death and life and birth.
Whether God is at your side, or rejected wholly through,
The only one to chose your fate is overwhelmingly, singly, you.
Gloriously glorified, stained no more with sin,
To live a life of Glory, is glory given Him.
Whether purpose given, or purpose thrown aside,
Whether admit he’s risen, or deny he did abide;
Travel the less-trampled track—the path less trodden down,
For the destination matter less when the road is filled with crowns.
May 22, 2013
May 22, 2013 at 4:18 PM UTC
we swam naked in the sea
for hours
and hours
and later
in the dunes my lips
tricked a sweet pearl
from the singly balanced cradle
deep within those oyster spilt hips
“you taste of samphire”
I gasped
“listen
could you keep a secret
while the ocean foam stings
your throat?”
Mar 24, 2015
Mar 24, 2015 at 3:59 AM UTC