"soone" poems
Fresh Spring, the herald of loves mighty king,
In whose cote-armour richly are displayd
All sorts of flowers, the which on earth do spring,
In goodly colours gloriously arrayd—
Goe to my love, where she is carelesse layd,
Yet in her winters bowre not well awake;
Tell her the joyous time wil not be staid,
Unlesse she doe him by the forelock take;
Bid her therefore her selfe soone ready make,
To wayt on Love amongst his lovely crew;
Where every one, that misseth then her make,
Shall be by him amearst with penance dew.
Make hast, therefore, sweet love, whilest it is prime;
For none can call againe the passèd time.
3.1k
Come, my Ardelia, to this bowre,
Where kindly mingling Souls a while,
Let's innocently spend an houre,
And at all serious follys smile
Here is no quarrelling for Crowns,
Nor fear of changes in our fate;
No trembling at the Great ones frowns
Nor any slavery of state.
Here's no disguise, nor treachery
Nor any deep conceal'd design;
From blood and plots this place is free,
And calm as are those looks of thine.
Here let us sit and bless our Starres
Who did such happy quiet give,
As that remov'd from noise of warres.
In one another's hearts we live.
We should we entertain a feare?
Love cares not how the world is turn'd.
If crouds of dangers should appeare,
Yet friendship can be unconcern'd.
We weare about us such a charme,
No horrour can be our offence;
For misheif's self can doe no harme
To friendship and to innocence.
Let's mark how soone Apollo's beams
Command the flocks to quit their meat,
And not intreat the neighbour -- streams
To quench their thirst, but coole their heat.
In such a scorching Age as this,
Whoever would not seek a shade
Deserve their happiness to misse,
As having their own peace betray'd.
But we (of one another's mind
Assur'd,) the boistrous world disdain;
With quiet souls, and unconfin'd,
Enjoy what princes wish in vain.
2.2k
mere kareeb aao,
ab na mujhe satao,
mere kareeb aao,
ab na mujhe rulao,
kaise bataun tumse,
dil me tum rahte **
mere ** mere tum,
dooriyan na badhao,
mere kareeb aao,
mujhse lipat tum jao.......
kaise bataun tumse,
k tum kitne ** pyare mujhko,
meri wafao me bas tum hi bas jao,
yaadon me rahte ** tum,
saanso me rahte ** tum,
ab yun na muh modo,
mere hamsafar ban jao,
aao kareeb aao,
mere kareeb aao......
mere is soone dil ki,
ek hi tamanna tum **
ankahe anchue ehsaason me,
ek hi to saona ** tum,
aarjoo hi tum ** meri,
meri jindgani ** tum,
na yun mujhe tadpao,
aaao kareeb aao,
mere kareeb aao.....
bebas hua dil mera,
gair jo hua koi tera,
teri jindagi ko mai mera banaun kaise,
meri mohabbat ko mai tujhpe lutaun kaise,
na kuj kar saka mai,
tu jo juda ** gaya hai,
ab to samajh tm jao,
k meri bandagi hai tujhse,
chahta mai paun kaise,
mai aona banaun kaise,
khud hi samajh tum jao,
aao kareeb aao,
mere kareeb aao,
meri hi bank hardam,
mujhse lipat tum jao.....
May 12, 2019
May 12, 2019 at 8:35 AM UTC
Kabhi phir se, aajao
"bas mere banke."
Sare taar cher jaao,
"soone man ke".
Paas betho, kuch to batao.
Usi ada se, muskurao.
Jo tum rutho, hum mana le.
Tere nakhre, bhi utha le.
Vo akad me, kya ada thi.
Teri narazgi b, maza thi.
Ji bhar k, dekhlu
Aja phir se, ban than ke.
Kabhi phir se, aajao
"bas mere banke."
Sare taar cher jaao,
"soone man ke".
Tu bhi mna le, kabhi jo roothe.
Chore de tere, tewar ye jhoothe.
Koi dekhe tuje, mera jalna.
Uff ye bekhauf,tera chalna.
Bin ruke tere bole jana.
Mile jo ankhein, palkein jhukana.
Kitni batein, hai adhuri..
Nyi yadein, hai zaroori.
Chadhi collar, teri gira de.
Fold sleeves,unfold kara de.
Gala laga ke, band kardu.
Teri shirt k jo, khule button the.
Kabhi phir se, aajao
"bas mere banke."
Sare taar cher jaao,
"soone man ke".
# BJ writes
# bj diaries
# incomplete
Sep 17, 2020
Sep 17, 2020 at 10:21 PM UTC
A happy soone Christmas to all ma
Poets
A happy thanksgiving to those I missed.
Everyone get spilling
On the emotions pain and poems bout kisses.
A happy Christmas to those I wont hear from
A merry Christmas to hello poets and everyone
Dis gurlies going to south Dakota
Where ma momma lives
It gonna be a kute Christmas
Dec 3, 2015
Dec 3, 2015 at 4:34 AM UTC
Soone must come morely close for a man as I of tim’d depression and despair
Ergo mine armour in regards to persist has me not but men of more lingering taste
Thy lord I true to be but to forsake me, and I to bereave, lament and lust
Rather so I’d ought to make amends with my sorrowful part as it perishes into the galactics
...to heave my heart and arts into the constance of stars and ablaze such ebullition of a passion and admiration I canst no longer contain
I shall wayt everly for us to be one for an instance once more
Untold; I know not if one couldst say this to be the elegy or the orb of euphony but forsooth it is...to the Herald of Lovers.
Nov 8, 2017
Nov 8, 2017 at 12:12 AM UTC