"sledges" poems
I.
Hear the sledges with the bells—
Silver bells!
What a world of merriment their melody foretells!
How they ****** ****** ******
In their icy air of night!
While the stars, that oversprinkle
All the heavens, seem to twinkle
With a crystalline delight;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells
From the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells—
From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.
II.
Hear the mellow wedding bells,
Golden bells!
What a world of happiness their harmony foretells!
Through the balmy air of night
How they ring out their delight!
From the molten golden-notes,
And all in tune,
What a liquid ditty floats
To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats
On the moon!
Oh, from out the sounding cells,
What a gush of euphony voluminously wells!
How it swells!
How it dwells
On the future! how it tells
Of the rapture that impels
To the swinging and the ringing
Of the bells, bells, bells,
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells—
To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells!
III.
Hear the loud alarum bells—
Brazen bells!
What a tale of terror now their turbulency tells!
In the startled ear of night
How they scream out their affright!
Too much horrified to speak,
They can only shriek, shriek,
Out of tune,
In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire,
In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire
Leaping higher, higher, higher,
With a desperate desire,
And a resolute endeavor
Now—now to sit or never,
By the side of the pale-faced moon.
Oh, the bells, bells, bells!
What a tale their terror tells
Of Despair!
How they clang, and clash, and roar!
What a horror they outpour
On the ***** of the palpitating air!
Yet the ear it fully knows,
By the twanging,
And the clanging,
How the danger ebbs and flows;
Yet the ear distinctly tells,
In the jangling,
And the wrangling,
How the danger sinks and swells,
By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells—
Of the bells—
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells—
In the clamor and the clangor of the bells!
IV.
Hear the tolling of the bells—
Iron bells!
What a world of solemn thought their monody compels!
In the silence of the night,
How we shiver with affright
At the melancholy menace of their tone!
For every sound that floats
From the rust within their throats
Is a groan.
And the people—ah, the people—
They that dwell up in the steeple.
All alone,
And who toiling, toiling, toiling,
In that muffled monotone,
Feel a glory in so rolling
On the human heart a stone—
They are neither man nor woman—
They are neither brute nor human—
They are Ghouls:
And their king it is who tolls;
And he rolls, rolls, rolls,
Rolls
A paean from the bells!
And his merry ***** swells
With the paean of the bells!
And he dances, and he yells;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the paean of the bells—
Of the bells:
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the throbbing of the bells—
Of the bells, bells, bells—
To the sobbing of the bells;
Keeping time, time, time,
As he knells, knells, knells,
In a happy Runic rhyme,
To the rolling of the bells—
Of the bells, bells, bells—
To the tolling of the bells,
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells—
To the moaning and the groaning of the bells.
10.5k
Howls in the night
cross the threshold of savagery
Coordinated hate
of a hundred jackboots
stomping faces in the streets
Storefronts smashed
Crushed glass crunching
under the feet of unbridled violence
Doors bashed in
Swinging sledges smash
Women and children dragged
kicking and screaming from their homes
Beaten unconscious
then beaten while unconscious
Clothes rended
flesh roughly groped
******* mashed
by laughing barbarians
with teeth made of knives
Innocence of a generation *****
in a single evening
Ransacking hands
strangle the wealth of a culture
One thousand synagogues in flames
light cast magnified in the carpet of crystals
sparkle of hellish brilliance
Ninety one lives snuffed
they were the lucky ones
Avoided the camps
where greater horrors were wrought
in the forges of torment
from the pounding of flesh
beneath hatred like hammers
Jun 18, 2012
Jun 18, 2012 at 8:27 AM UTC
Traversing edges,
gliding o’er sledges
undulating ridges,
crossing broken bridges:
One could sense-
the Zephyr’s nudge;
glacier’s gelid grudge-
Frigid frail feet, fail to budge,
the mirage of hope, forever will trudge
traces of existence, begin to smudge.
Mar 13, 2015
Mar 13, 2015 at 5:35 AM UTC
when snow falls in alaska its so nice to see
falling to the ground so peaceful and so free
huskies with there sledges running through the snow
such a lovely scene that gives your heart a glow
trees they look so white standing oh so tall
branches catching snow as it begins to fall
cabins in the woods with roof tops oh so white
looking very pretty lighting up the night
such a lovely place a picture of delight
when the snow falls in alaska it such a lovely site.
Mar 23, 2010
Mar 23, 2010 at 3:46 PM UTC
In memoriam Asher and Franklin
Farmers flocked to Blossburg's mines
willing their abandoned plows
to perpetual dust and rain.
Burrowing into the Tioga hills
with Keagle picks and sledges,
they filled their trams with rough cut coal.
Black diamonds - carved for waiting boilers
of New England mills and trains
and Pennsylvania's winter stoves.
Brothers, Frank and Asher swung their picks
in tunnels deep beneath the hills
and brushed away the clouds of soot.
Their coughs at first seemed harmless
enough as from nagging colds or flus -
but deepened as their lungs turned black.
Pain and choking drove them to their beds
where no medic's art could aid them.
Then the coroner came to seal their eyes.
A stonecutter's chisel marks their brevity
on an marble graveyard obelisk
that pays no homage to their sacrifice.
September, 2007
Aug 22, 2013
Aug 22, 2013 at 3:57 PM UTC
when snow falls in alaska its so nice to see
falling to the ground so peaceful and so free
huskies with there sledges running through the snow
such a lovely scene that gives your heart a glow
trees they look so white standing oh so tall
branches catching snow as it begins to fall
cabins in the woods with roof tops oh so white
looking very pretty lighting up the night
such a lovely place a picture of delight
when the snow falls in alaska it such a lovely site.
Nov 25, 2013
Nov 25, 2013 at 1:53 PM UTC
when the snow falls in alaska its so nice to see
falling to the ground so peaceful and so free
huskies with there sledges running through the snow
such a lovely scene that gives your heart a glow.
trees they look so white standing oh so tall
branches catching snow as it begins to fall
cabins in the woods with roof tops oh so white
looking very pretty lighting up the night .
such a lovely place a picture of delight
when the snow falls in alaska it such a lovely site.
Jan 11, 2015
Jan 11, 2015 at 12:15 PM UTC
when critique is about, the unsuspecting walk like peacocks, showing off the wooden dutch slacks of fear prior to criticism, forging a proof of god so debased that it would require the holocaust to have taken place.
- yes, this call is immediate, what's the severity?
- immediacy in all circumstances.
- sounds terrible.
- yep, blood in my **** too.
- ooh, dialectical diarrhoea?
- skidding at one hundred miles per hour with a popsicle swerve on the slurp.
- trafalgar sq. fountains?
- lions roaring in alabaster to the breaking of bony hinges.
- triage.
- can i see him face to face.
- no, you need to speak to him first via the triage telephone system.
- so he's the now receptionist and knows the daybreak slots with chemical compounds.
- no, thingy thingy, dum dum **** a toe, crackle fun pull a twig: we're
the receptionists, he prioritises the eventuality of a cancer advert.
- three quid down the drain?
- yes, we, the receptionists of the world will stand against the robotic onslaught!
- ****** on winter sledges.
- exactly.
- not exactly, you, receptionist, you jane, me tarzan, you book face to face, now.
- you tarzan, you straighten bananas.
- you jane, you book, appointment.
- you tarzan, you straighten bananas.
- you jane, you book, appointment, now.
- me jane, me receptionist, me on the conveyor belt of corn crop patched harvestable.
- me i.q.
- me one hundred and fifteen.
- face to face to farce.
- farce to bloke to pole.
- pole leaning on a pole.
- englishman eating a napkin.
- blackjack and ingredients for the pride of britain: vindaloo child.
- sloshed on a cricketeer's return.
- puns and cardamon cardigans of colour without scent.
- pushy apple sours coloured acid green without the mojo juice.
- spank that gimp ***** into a piglet.
- leathered up, boots on parole.
(who the hell is talking now?)
- i need to see the doctor face to face, i need my sick note to live on:
on brink of day in ultraviolet twilights, and drink.
- are you a banker?
- i'm a sick man, a beggar.
- we only provide sickness to the rich and famous.
- so what do i get?
- premature death.
- oh, can i have a bank account with that?
- oh sure, as long as you can accept debt.
- 5% like standard a.e.r.?
- no, 2000%
- so my debt interest will be crazy dizzy above my savings interest rate?
- yes.
- do you sell *** positive syringes?
- we're accommodating.
- thank you very much.
- thank you.
- goodbye morrow and marrow tight.
- bones ashore.
- **** all ahoy.
Sep 12, 2015
Sep 12, 2015 at 8:58 PM UTC
Mountain slopes clad in snow,
plains and paths covered in snow,
sloping roofs layered with snow,
tall pine trees sprayed with snow,
and fallen pine cones enveloped in snow.
There’s a calm but eerie stillness
and all over - an innocent and pure whiteness
stretching as far as the eyes can see.
The street, the sidewalk, the children’s park -
all covered by a white carpet.
In the diffuse sunlight
the whiteness does completely reflect.
Little kids leave tiny footprints
on the carpet of snow.
They indulge in snowball fights
from the top of the slide and below.
Red, blue, yellow, orange and green
Snowsuits, mittens and caps
are everywhere seen.
Older children go sledging
on the steep white slopes
on colorful sledges dotting the snowy terrain.
The air is fresh, crisp and cold
Whiteness, whiteness everywhere; behold!
In the midst of all the fun and mirth
Let’s thank Heaven for whitewashing the Earth.
Gita Ashok
9/10/2010, 3 pm
Oct 9, 2010
Oct 9, 2010 at 1:53 AM UTC
The unfaithful wife
(Just 7 years of life)
feels the faithful knife
see-saw
through flesh,
true flash,
red light burns,
Blood screams
On a field of white snow.
And children with sledges look the other way.
Bleed her red light out,
This unfaithful wife.
Tears stream
From big brown eyes.
Scream and scream,
This pain
Tearing, deep into being.
Peeled back skin,
serrated separation.
Legs wrapped,
Around a tortured mother.
Quiet sobs,
Looking for soft love lost
In the name of lust.
Bound now,
To this blade.
A cold cut through soft beauty,
A ghost steel, wedged in
Still tied to raw skin,
Reslicing with every step.
This day,
I am found now,
Now I stay.
This way,
I am bound now.
Ice cream,
Numbs that burning pain, a bit.
A smile to a child's face.
Back to play,
This unfaithful wife,
Too young,
to know her luck.
back outside now,
White snow,
and white veils,
in the blue sky,
back outside,
back playing brides
in dresses stained in red.
And still with a smile.
Mar 24, 2014
Mar 24, 2014 at 11:22 PM UTC
the heron
of your arrival
lands squarely
its talons set
on fields of
awakened grass
as the slender bell
of the morning
shouts into clear void.
its unequivocal voice
shatters the windows
of this home's numb silence
where mouths play back and forth,
the jocose allusion
of a blank audience
where the laughter sledges
an amalgam
of fire ferrying proudly
over a flight of moon-stream
that stretches its white bones
in a quotidian gyration,
fanning out these
words almost as if infinite.
Sep 14, 2015
Sep 14, 2015 at 10:19 PM UTC
No more shall we tread the dusty lanes of youth
or lie amidst the meadows dancing flowers,
marvelling at nature’s simple truths,
recumbent ‘neath the cherry’s florid bowers.
To drink the crystal waters of the stream
or watch the red throats in their watery home
and gaze at Dragon flies adream
or dig for pig nuts in the sandy loam.
Deep in the bracken oft we lay
to watch the towering citadels float by,
then up again and off once more we’d go
beneath that vast dominion of the sky.
Though sixty years and more have quickly flown
yet still the memories come flooding back,
bright memories that live in me alone
of friends like Sara, Joe and Toothless Jack.
What fun we’d have in far off distant days
at harvest when the corn was cut and bound,
we’d help the farmer build it into stooks,
like little houses on the stubbly ground.
In winter when the north wind brought us snow
our sledges from the coal house we’d all bring,
and joyfully, with faces all aglow
heedless of the bitter wind we’d sing!
A candle in a jam jar for a light
hung from a stick and held on high,
would cast long shadows in the wintry night
that followed us wherever we passed by.
Gleefully we’d breach the wind blown drifts
and make our tunnels in the spotless snow,
hoping that the blizzard never lifts,
as through the fields and byways we would go.
But now all things are changed for good or ill,
The wind comes from the south and brings us rain
I think this nothing but a bitter pill,
and would make the howling North Wind King again!
Jun 11, 2014
Jun 11, 2014 at 7:24 AM UTC
Lost in gutter talk,
The history books
Suggest it was his two brothers
Who took him to the fair
At Longford Park
Boasting of dead fireflies
Instead of fish in little bags,
And follicles of lights
In the ghost house
Almost invisible from
The roller coasters
Descending from the sky
Like space rockets
Replacing sledges.
Crossing the meadows
Blanked in snow
With echoing laughter
The reports stated
Then missing *****
At coconuts stall
Then footballs
Before proclaiming
It was fixed
And gave up wandering
Over to the roller coaster
Leaving Billy stood there
Protesting it wasn’t
******* cheap gobsuckers
Hiding his tears
Turning a perfect illustration
Into a pastoral scene
Of fireworks
Kissing the moon
Tying themselves up
In his mouth
As a attendant said
‘Six shots for two quid, son’
Accompanying over each shot
‘Lower, lower, lower’
Crossing shots over the tins
Like pennies in keyholes
Wrestling with uneven prayers
Chiselling his nerves
Over sweatshop erected fingertips
‘Lower, lower, lower’
Knifing through
His childhood
One shot after
The other
With each target
He shot through.
Dec 4, 2016
Dec 4, 2016 at 1:53 PM UTC
Its pencilled etchings on the breeze
its gentle pastel tints and tones
its magic crystals falling
celestial celebrations in the sky
the wistful hoof of deer
or hop of mouse across the snow
the sculpted thin arrangement
of the reeds and grasses sticking through
conducting a stilled soliloquy
in quiet of clearings among trees
where dancing snowflakes come to rest
the hiss of frozen moisture on the run across the lakes
the thuds on sheds- the crunch like sugared icing
on the paths - the swish of skis and sledges passing by
the echoing booms as the lakes lid cracks
the whistle through of the wind whisking out the tracks
a symphony in grey and white well into night
when deeper tones of brown and black
make background shadows in the woods
Margaret Ann Waddicor 27th January 2016
Jan 27, 2016
Jan 27, 2016 at 10:32 AM UTC