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Autumn Shayse Nov 2012
Tampered Purity
Take my hand
Let's get away from here;
Let us escape the intensity,
That is reality.
Let us wander:
Into the realms of imagination,
The spectacles of fantasy,
Stopping not once.
To reach the light, we must travel through the dark
Past the broken hearts
Past the sorrowed days
The dark is immense.
Past the antecedent
We walk through the perils of life
Of love, if it exists,
This is an uncertain time.

At last, the light approaches,
We reach the area of escapism,
But alas it's tampered
With the remnants of solace.
Continue reading...
Paramahansa Yogananda
Come To Me O Krishna
O Krishna, Lord of Hindustan, I sorrowed by the lonely Jumna river bank, where Thy flute-notes thrilled the air and led the lost calves to their homes. O Lotus of Love, musing on the sad absence of Thy delusion-dispelling eyes, I saw Thine invisible Spirit take form, frozen by my devotion's frost.

Thy divine form of sky-blue rays, with feet of eternity, walked on the banks of my mind, planting lasting footprints of realization there. I am one of Thy lost calves which followed Thy flower-footprints on the shoals of time. Listening to the melody of Thy flute of wisdom, I am following the middle path of calm activity, by which Thou hast led many through the portals of the dark past into the light.

Since all of us are of Thy fold, whether moving, sidetracked, or held stationary by the fogs of disbelief, O Divine Christ-na, lead us back to Thy fold of everlasting freedom. O Krishna, Thou reignest on the heart-throne of each knower of Thy love.

From: Whispers from Eternity
A Book of Answered Prayers
1949 Edition
Continue reading...
Chris Oct 2015
Always here
~

*If teardrops are your jewelry
A frown drawn on your face
And sadness seems a way of life
With dark outlines to trace

When clouded days of sorrowed gray
Now cover up your sky
And questions fill your weary mind
Always asking why

Just know that as the walls cave in
Distorting every view
No matter how alone you feel
I'm always here for you
Continue reading...
Ada Cambridge
Afar Off
1.

Is it a will o' the wisp, or is dawn breaking,
That our horizon wears so strange a hue?
Is it but one more dream, or are we waking
To find at last that dreams are coming true?

2.

Far off and faint, a golden line is streaking
The cloudy night that shrouds the life of man;
It is the sun that dim eyes have been seeking,
Through all blind pathways, since the world began.

3.

The sign to weary heart and waiting nation
That day will come to bring them their release
That, late or soon, through storm and tribulation,
Or with slow change, the earth shall rest in peace.

4.

That One, invoked, with half- despairing passion.
Through years and years of wrong, will right us then;
Will take away, in rude or gentle fashion,
The curse that man has laid on brother- men.

5.

Ah, blessed One! our souls go out to meet thee,
At whose feet Hope will fold her tired wing;
And yet we know not how we ought to greet thee,
And take the gifts thy bounteous arms will bring.

6.

Come not, O friend! with vengeful weapons, borrowed
Of them that warred against thee — sword and flame;
For all alike have suffered and have sorrowed,
And all alike have sinned against thy name.

7.

Come thou to men who groan in sore affliction
A breathing spirit of new life and grace;
Come in thy robes of light and benediction,
That all may recognize thy perfect face.

8.

Yet, as thou must, come soon, for them than need thee —
And thou wilt come — Deliverer great and strong!
Brighten, O tender dawn, though few may heed thee,
And bring the day that we have sought so long!

9.

No class strife then, each man against his neighbour,
No waste, no want, to breed the plague of crime;
No insolent pomp, no hard and sordid labour,
No wars, no famines, in that happier time!

10.

But pleasant homes, and good days growing better;
Contented hearts throughout the tranquil land,
That keep the law, in spirit and in letter,
Which we have been so dull to understand.

11.

And fruitful work, instead of barren duty,
With fruitful rest and leisure interweaved;
And life made bright with plenty and with beauty,
And souls made strong with noble aims achieved.

12.

Great Art, no more the plaything of the idle,
But nurse and handmaid to all human needs;
Great Nature, curbed no more with bit and bridle,
Nor men's religion crushed in bitter creeds.

13.

Nor sacred Love a crime, a jest, an error,
To keep or lose, to give or to suppress,
A secret shame, an anguish and a terror,
A curse to them that it was meant to bless.

14.

All round our narrow lives the tide encroaches,
Distant and dim, but spreading far and fast.
O Liberty, thy longed- for reign approaches
That is to give man's birthright back at last!
vasts;

15.

And must we go, who see the new age dawning,
While yet we suffer in the pangs of birth,
Nor breathe one breath of the divinest morning
That yet has come to bless our waiting earth?

16.

Oh, must we go, just when the day is growing?
Oh, must we waste with vast and vain desires,
Like sparks put out when viewless winds are blowing,
We, lit and quickened with supernal fires

17.

Are we to read no more the wondrous pages
Of this great tale that evermore goes on?
Will suns and stars light up eternal ages
With happier worlds — and we alone be gone?

18.

Never to learn the moral of the story —
Why we have toiled for what we must not keep,
Why we have fought to win no crown of glory,
Why we have sown what unborn hands will reap.

19.

Never to learn wherefore our Maker sent us
With these immortal passions in our breast.
Ah me! Ah me! Wherewith can we content us
To know so much, and not to know the rest!
Continue reading...
Elise Nov 2014
Death Drums
Another left,
another's gone,
my brother's tears,
my sorrowed song,
time is fleeting,
time is lost,
death touched his hand,
death's final cost.
***** Pearls
#love #death #song #brother #sibling
Continue reading...
Titanic-Lover Aug 2013
A Ghost Ship Named Titanic
The new ship sails by me,callous with behavior cruel,
Churning up the blackening waves,racing through nights' cool.
Paying not a bit of heed to me waiting by
Who watches their every move with disapproving eye.
They know who I am,they do know my name,
But they sail by me in haughty manner all the very same.
They think I am an old girl,and therefore are not wise,
True,I may be old,but I do not speak of lies.
Those ships would learn a lot from me if they merely heard,
What I would tell them in a few and simple words.
I will tell you new ships what I know in my very heart,
Listen closely to me and my words shall never part.

My decks were long and pleasurable,filled with a gentle breeze,
I was once the most beautiful on all seven seas.
People laughed aboard my decks,stood upon my bow,
But that was so long ago,no one is on me now.
No one gazes out my windows,
No one sweeps down my elegant stairs,
No lady stands before my mirrors to comb her long brown hair.
No men laugh within my parlors,
No one greets in my grand rooms.
No one is aboard me at all,Young Ship,
For I am but a tomb.
Children once laughed within my halls,
Gaily twirling a top,
Young lovers stood on Boat-Deck,wishing I'd never stop.
But,no one laughs within my halls,
Not a soul spins a top,
No lovers stand on Boat-Deck wishing I'd never stop.
The laughter echoes within my halls.
From so long ago,
I think I hear it once again,
Yet,it's the winds' whistling,I know.
I long to hear the children's joy,
The felicity of their glee,
I know though within my sorrowed heart,
No one is here but me.
The haunting call of the wind
Makes me ill at ease.
I do not regard it now as a gentle,pleasurable breeze.
It reminds me no one is with me,
It reminds me I am alone,
It's chilling echoes frighten me
Right down to my old,steel bones.
No one sits to play cards in my Grand Saloon,
No one is with me at all,Young Ship,
I am just a tomb.

No one waltzes gaily
To the pleasures of my band.
No one stands at my stern
To bade farewell to their homeland.
No one sits in deck chairs
Where they'd see the sun the most.
No one is aboard me at all,Young Ship,
I,myself,am a ghost.
No one stands within a room
To qualm a child's fear.
No one is with me at all,Young Ship,
Do not grow uneasy from my tear.
I have cried many times over,
And will for many years more.
I am struck with this painful truth
That settles in my heart's core.
Do not recoil from what
This old 'unwise' girl shall say,
Remember it always as you command the ocean's lay.

I once had people aboard me that thought such happy dreams,
But now my heart echoes with their
Hopeless screams.
I am so very lonely,Young Ship,
I dream of what could of been on distant land,
I dream of being draped with flower garlands
If things had gone as planned.
Why did it happen to me,Young Ship?
Why did I endure such coldhearted fault?
I had a life of promise,
Which drew to a rapid halt.
I sit here upon these wind-whipped waves
Dreaming of the joyful days of yore,
Remembering the grandeur I gave the people
Who are with me no more.
I remember my splendid glory,
Yet,you only see the dregs of time.
I recall my glossy-painted grandness,
You see only the slime.
Young Ship,I once was different,
Than this unpleasentness that greets your eye.
I once was pretty and strong,
Not haunted by despondent cries.
In my heart,I am not festooned with ribbons of rust,
The souls that were with me have not dissolved
To dust.
Within my heart,they are alive,
As life-filled as can be.
They be not anchored by Death
On the bottom of the sea.
My heart may be saddened,
My body may be old,
But,be mindful of any voyage you take,
Be not brash and bold.
Remember it,you Young Ship,
What I say to the letter.
Remember the words of an aged lady,
Whose life has not got better.

No one gazes up at clouds
Or marvels at my steam.
No one is with me at all,Young Ship,
I'm remembering a centuries old dream.
No one stands aft at stern
To smile at the sun.
No one sings of happy days,
For their life and mine is done.
The flash of lightening illumines me
At my forever post.
Then,all darkens yet again
Around my weary ghost.

I remember the clink of glasses,
Of people giving a toast.
Their joyful hearts were so glad,
I felt honored to be their host.
Light glittered like diamonds
From my grand chandeliers.
People marveled at their glimmer,
There was no weight of fear.
My heart grows so happy
When I remember the life I had,
But the sparkle of it's beauty fades when I know the bad.
Then,the picture fades away,
There's no more glimmer or gleam.
I am upon a lonely ocean
Without a power called steam.
I am stuck at the longitude
And latitude of my demise,
'UNSINKABLE!",they said.
They told me nothing but lies.
Young Ship,I could go on forever
About the short pleasures this heart did know.
But,you do not wait for always.
You must leave me and go.
You must leave me,Young Ship,
Alone again-without company.
I will sit still in my place
Gazing out on a endless sea.
I wish you didn't have to be so haughty,
I wish you wouldn't glare and flee,
I wish that you'd be nice to an old ship,
For there are no more ships like me.
But,you are not nice,Young Ship,
Nor are your relatives who confidently ply
The seas I wait over.
They don't even say 'good-bye'.
I watch you as you retreat
To the setting sun.
I have told you all I can tell you,
My message is nearly done.
There is one thing now to retain,
And tell all of your fleet,
About an occasion with an aged lady
That you chanced to meet.

No one gazes out my windows
Or dances in my hall.
Listen,oh,so carefully,to my horn's haunting call.
It speaks to you,Young Ship,
Of a day ended by doom.
A day when a hateful iceberg
Turned me into a tomb.
No faces peer from a window,
No sure hand commands my wheel.
All ended by an iceberg,
Who with the Devil made a deal.
When I started off in life,Young Ship,
I dreamt of where my life may have led,
But terror wracked my very soul with
'ICEBERG
DEAD
AHEAD!!!'
This poem has been written from the heart but also from truth. There have been many instances of modern day cruise ships suddenly having unexplainable engine difficulties,or actually completely stopping for no apparent reason in the vicinity of the 1912 tragedy. In my personal opinion,I believe it is Titanic herself which causes the mishaps. This is what I imagine she would think of the modern liners. Such a different breed they are from her and her sisters.
Continue reading...
Sophia Gaffney Mar 2016
A Soul Saving Sisterhood
16 Million
16 million babies each year are engineered by teen mothers
But lets look a little smaller
273,105
Girls who annually contrive babies to life in the United States
But lets divide that number down further
35,249
Adolescent girls whose lives become defined by a child in the state of California alone
But once more lets focus in even smaller
1.
One Athena Young.
Standing slightly over 5 feet tall, with chocolate kissed skin shelling her strong build and a wide white smile full of joyous laughter that covers convincingly that which you would only know if you asked her: that she is a teen mother whose heart and soul has sufficiently suffered.

Perhaps from birth she didn’t stand a chance
Pushed out of the womb to a path of dissonance between success and endurance
A low class family whose glance rests not on her best advance but on their personal pleasure
So on they prance leaving her alone at night to fend for her own life.
And as she navigates this path she is stopped in a trance of seemingly endless romance
That swept her up into a dance that waltzed whimsically one night to her bedroom where she let this boy advance into her pants.
And that once seemingly endless romance crash lands as he implants into her the blow that log jams her path of success and sling shots her to side of endurance.
Fraught and distraught because she was never taught how to not by the people who brought her into the world
Or maybe to spite the strife they have placed in her life because as words from her sorrowed soul said “its when you don’t care about disappointing someone that bad things happen”…
And happen they did as we bid goodbye to the boy who didn’t try to be a father to his joy and pride or a husband to a bride
But instead strode out of sight with a gun at his side to a land that didn’t care whether he lived or he died because he refused to stay true to the girl tangled in his tango.
Left her glued to a growing womb
A single struggling parent, seclusion and confusion in raising a brilliant baby girl in this wicked world she had not yet navigated herself.
And grades started to drop as her life was dragged and dropped to 4 different spots within 3 sun cycle slots.
She said if only they had known that chaos that was going on at home
And the baby that was growing then they could have shown her grace and love…
But they would soon know and throw her out with doubt that she could complete courses while her veins coursed with blood to flood nutrients to nourish her new fetus.
Alone.
No comfortable home.
A lack of understanding left her with no friends to call her own.
No potential for preferential favor on this jagged darkening path too well known.
Abandoned
When suddenly a light landed and handed her a second chance to better advance
To move past her heart-break romance
Her families abstinence,
Her friends distance,
Her schools disinterest.
What was this glorious light?
The alternative high school Mark Twain,
Provided shelter in the acid rain of isolation and pain,
Tamed the sinister storm that reigned and splayed her life into disarray.
For Shanti, a beautifully big-eyed bubbly baby,
Twain gave certain shelter and care from an elder so health could bury deep and fester while her mother, her positive protector, could center on gaining a degree that in theory will better their cumulative future.

But perhaps the hill to highlight is the hunk of hamlet handed to her.
A gallant group of life-giving girls, warrior women who baked and bore and breathed life into children.
Allowing her alienating anomie to be history by fulfilling her need for meaningful community. People who can share relating stories of baby daddy drama, family problems, baby progress. They understood and gave value to a valiant victor whose violent world had previously brought her bitter.
There was room to be a mother,
And room to be just another teenager
A people that taught her to lead her daughter to grow up with honor of her soul’s armor so the similar story would not cycler any further.
And her giving advice to her fellow friends raising soon to be men to avoid the vice she strides against, to teach their boys “to not leave the girl”, striving and fighting to brighten the bleak world that they are no longer merely surviving but thriving in with the aid of the high school who looks past the “normal” and “socially acceptable” and to the broken and vulnerable.
Now she sits.
Waiting.
Anticipating.
The degree her hands will soon hold.
The college campus her calloused feet will soon conquer.
Seeing her dreams of being a military general driving down the street towards reality
Thanks to the inspiring community.

So 1.
One Athena Young.
One out of 16 million moms
Whose once overcast life has forever been spun to the ever-brightening sun
By a school that showed her love and
By friendships that fought to rise above.
#lost #abandoned #school #saved #baby #found #teenmom
Continue reading...
Nat Lipstadt Sep 11
The Power to Inundate
"you have the power to inundate,
pro-create as you initiate the young
with the magic of your words." ^
<>
awake, askew, at just past midnight,
reread these worded cords with no deliberate haste,
as is not my wont,
no smile and drive~by for these privileged privies,
that unknowingly wrench and divvy my parts

no, theses require forethought,
deliberation,
there will be no outpouring,
there is no need,
this is not a crack to be slow filled with a potter's
artisan gold,
but a cutting that highlights continental divides,
wounded spaces and pain,
for which no glossing over can easy relieve,
each word a chosen well

for you make your own Grand Canyons,
in this life,
chasms that render, sunders with a constant but
invisible echoed thundering,
off /of my soul,
turned my persona, physical and intellectual,
into a walking, though awaking of the deadening
of a personal failure, a fail~you~are,
that cannot be undone, and now, out loud,
alone in the dead of night, in the construct of early mourning,
yes, in the sunroom where there is no sun nor son,
I weep openly at
words that should not have been
so tenderly and sweetly,
tendered to me

inundate,
I know this word,
better than most,
for grief is an old acquaintance
that you want to keep at a good distance,
for when it in-un-dates you,
you, visibly marked,
a cheekbone or two crushed,
a limp with no raison d'etre
and a chest pain, no pill can bring to
heel

for I am a centuries old grief,
and the inundation I speak of,
is the loss of child,
who has divided his living cells from my mine~mind

how oft, what is plainly visible,
is missed, goes dot unconnected,
this pulsing compulsion to lift the chin of the beginners in life,
whose sorrowed demeanor, complected temperament,
incompleted confusions,
can sometimes be so easy swatted,
encouraged away, and sometimes not,
but openly pleads for compassionate leave,
an easy helpful nudge away from
from the riptides of growing up,
& growing lower...

so my wonderful life is not so wonderful,
and my bad posture bent over is not from laziness,
my surgically repaired ventricular machina,
is more than a physical symptom, just a ticking clock
that solves for the quantity of beats of
busted opportunities

outside, an owl,
perched in a nearby acorn growing giant.
whom we have never seen,
for darkness, his/her palatial estate, hiding place,
hoots with no regularity,
a derisive hooting,
thinking I am too, asking for compassionate leave,
'but I am not

some five, nearly six decades ago,
a young songwriter wrote:

"Teach your children well
Their father's hell did slowly go by
Feed them on your dreams
The one they pick's the one you'll know by"^^

this never just passes by,
for its arrow is a permanent implantation in mine,
and the owl just hoot hoot hoots with the stubbornness of
an unhappy chile^^^

so I see now,
how I overcompensate,
and without a knowed thought,
extend a finger, an arm.
an entire tired life,
to
initiate, pro-create
the younger ones, (1)
but this still,
does not,
nor ever will it,
rhyme with
expiate

this, my very own
9/11,
and that other one,
which I experienced,
as well...


2:03am
Thu Sep 11
Twenty Twenty Five
<nml>

now, I rest, for how long?
^
words in a note from patty m., my unseen dearest friend

^^
Graham Nash

^^^
Children: "Chile" is a dialectal spelling for "child," pronounced like "chīl"

^^^^
expiate: atone for (guilt or sin).

(1)
""and the new players,
the young poets,
slap me on the back,
saying I had a great run,
but they don't know 'bout my
secret stash,
preprogrammed to appear,
long after these fingers
cease their tangled tango of tap dancing,
my dust,
my lusts and musts
will unstilled yet be
blowing, floating in the
soon to be'
#inundate #procreate #initiate #sonsun #nat #lipstadt #nml
Continue reading...
Xavier Paolo Josh Mandreza Mar 2013
SONNET TRIBUTE SUNDRY - ONE HUNDRED AND THREE - TOM DALEY
There is a Year part from which is assigned
Asides from your Truce to cover and rest
Till then, your Crafted Show to Fame consigned
My Girl's Centenniary will look its Best
This I Pledge, by the added Fifty-Four,
Honouring the Godfather I borrowed
If still, no Sound, least Assignment for more
Shall I conclude all my Efforts sorrowed
By then, to see and calculate for once
Despite I embrace this Familiar Ghost
This Truth - to Drill my steeling nerves upon
And cross-hair your Freedom which mattered most.
By that time, I should look for Someone else
Though in my Conscience I cast the same Spell.
#tomdaleytv #tomdaley1994
Continue reading...
John B Aug 2011
The sinner and the saint
Let me spin you all a story bout the sinner and the saint

Because happiness and sunshine in this world there ****** ain't

So the party and the running form are problems is the paint

On the tapestry In limbo were the gods and man embrace

In our land of independence we still fail to contemplate

That there's a ripple in the water radiating form the date

That you stepped into this world and began to find your place

But I digress my minds a mess

And making sense of all the rest

Has been a chore but I feel blessed  

So just ignore the ranting stress

His name is John and so is mine

For several years are lives entwined

He had no roof I had one spare

I scooped him up and put him there

He started off tried to improve

But he still had the need to use

His drug of choice a moral vice

Not a nihilist's first word choice

But man it fit him like a glove

We did our best to show him love

But it was pain that brought him here

So love to him was cash and drugs

That's not to say he didn't care  

He felt like crap he so bad it scared him

Maybe if he had a mother

She was there but 6 feet under

Same addiction kept her smothered

Not a drug, not one but many

Gravity just felt so heavy  

Anything to ease the weight

Until the day she couldn't take

All the love that she couldn't make

Never said bye to her husband and her son

Just coped out and left this place

So coming home one day from school

Cuz fates a ***** and life is cruel

He found his mom laying there dead

He shook her arm and slapped her head

She wouldn't wake but in her place

Were left the words she couldn't say

Like a tragedy incarnate god knows no one won that day

But he went on

His dad a wreck

He tried to scoop up the hole mess

And put the peace's back together

But I guess is dad was next

He talked A lot about his father

How he taught him all he knew

And how he hated that he left him

How he should have just puled through

What ever happened next

The peace's of his life turned to dust

There was no more need for tape

It blew away with just a gust

Alone and scared beyond repair   

Hopping one day not to care

And even though he keeps on living

You cant live never admitting

What he did he did the best

H and ***, ******* and ****

But when he picked up a guitar

His pain was clear beyond the eye

It filed the room

With sorrowed gloom that Erebus could not deny

But this was real not angst but fear

When yesterday was never here

Maybe he'd Play a song of cheer

If one day death brought peace to all men

And even now on present day

His sins are ghosts and sades of days went

But he was safe at least wile here

Tucked in my arm stead fast was kept well

God nor man could best me here

Because no strength was left we both fell

Like bullets, in bile the drugs were expelled  

In pain none see, not here, not in hell

We keep him up, we knew that he'd drowned

If life was left to keep him down

And so he moved on inch by inch

He kept in stride with every pitch

And of his life he makes the best

He's back in school, passing life's tests

I think one day he'll know there's time left

A saint of men still marching on

And I am blessed to sing his song

But who's the sinner here you coo

The same that made this world of blue
Its true.
Continue reading...
Jack Aug 2014
Sorrowed Flowers
~

Falling beneath dark skies
No sunlight finds my face
Lost within bramble and prickly thorn
Tearing at my heart, shredding tiny pieces
What little remains that I can feel
Broken branches splinter
Wilted blooms release no scent
Diluted hydrangea tear drops
Weeping of loss, never ending
Transparent silhouette faintly flutters
A butterfly fades into the shadows
Disappearing from this place
Where my smile once bloomed
*As I cry with the sorrowed flowers…
For a very special friend on this her day of sadness
Continue reading...
Nat Lipstadt Jan 2015
A Childless Mother (weary of mothers losing their children)
weary of mothers and friends
losing their children,
before their time,
weary of failing
to achieve reconciliation
with whatever one nominates
the force that regulates,
fate, Name-Your-God,
deity of your choice,
nature, laws of physics,
the "whatever"
that controls, interferes,
that you think to believe
wills these event's occurrence
non-randomly

cessation of formalities,
one sided truce
signed and delivered,
unafraid to call this
what it is,
**** and damning fate,
for no god
could be so cruel...

If only there was a
Dislike button
for life and the poems
wrenched from death

at 5:00 am
this thought is my
sole inhabitant

once again,
nature's bosses distort,
another friend's grief
asks, cajoles me
to betray my/thy belief

banish it or me,
for we both cannot be
cohabitants
under the one roof,
of this limited mind,
where flailing
poems
never good enough,
failing
to express my
sorrowed rage
also see part one, so to speak

http://hellopoetry.com/poem/1052415/a-personal-god-wailing-and-complaining/
~~~~~~~~~~
meet me
where the broad teary rivers
both empty and fill the oceans,
takers and givers,
swapping sorrowful fluids constant,
these loyal thieves,
from the sky, robbing a soul's moisture
selling what isn't hisn't
back to the soil

for this is the human condition,
the foaming eddys where
life becomes words becomes life,
infintum
~~~~~~~
Continue reading...
Mark Nelson Sep 2010
Sibilance
Willow herb floating

on silent certainty

ashes of sighs


not fleeting,

unvapoured on the

blossom of the rain,

I am too light to

pull or push

the swing of delight

through this land.




The rain left me for a

while

sun unshielding

-a thousand widows

more unyielding than the depths . .

Once shadowed whisperers

of delight,gossamer

sparkling , descending

their chains

of necromantic hope.





Lilith is no night owl

she is mother, eve

and my becoming:

sweet earth spun

at once ,

exhaling her .





The see saw

bumped gently

on my chin

it is a most gentle

form of awakening.




The silence bore no whispers

till sinking through the quicksand

-or was it quicksilver?

-in any case I could smell little

in my amniotic amnesia.

I made ten thousand friends,till their soap

made this place clean.



Is this a seed or a dying

hopefulness

-is my sallow sowing

beyond all shores of

reproduction;

a reflection of the child

they dared not bear?



Is my last breath like this

a forgotton yielding

will they catch me

as I fall ?

-(sweet earth)-



This moth of my ending,

a shallow recantation,

my fears-

their memories, mere

testubes of

stylish hope .





I breathe the elegant stare

you have forgotten .

Once more free

from such

rememberance






I need not ,

remained not ,

your imploded ,

wakefulness .





A thousand pardons

exhaled like silk

entwining

an unfinished race

spider of a thousand eyes .



One may say

I was

stared

to death

but surrogate air

mocks childish pity.



Taut refelexions

bear salt echoes

in silk convulsions

fresh water

a veneered hope .



Easier in death than life

is a child's sorrowed

partings ,

the illusion of

bouyancy

rippled tides

unfelt.



The oceans have not enough salt

for such shrunken sorrow.

if we could but once

have shared

unbreathed aspersion .



The room has come and gone

the pillow quite undry

unforgotten

unremembered.

A web untouched
2003. Tribute to Christina Lothian english teacher ,ended her life in the river Ayr ,in the embrace of another woman .They jumped together.I found out 30 years too late.
Continue reading...
Nat Lipstadt Aug 2013
Motet & Motet II
Motet: an unaccompanied choral composition with sacred lyrics; originated in the 13th century.  Suggestion: look up on YouTube, the Hilliard Ensemble.*  Jewish tradition says that there are 36 righteous souls on Earth, whom for their sake, God preserves the planet and its inhabitants.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Motet II

August 2013

Last night,
I lay with God,
Again.

We made love inimitable,
As if it were the first time.
The music of purity, voices ensemble,
The only commonality.

Afterwards, heaving, sweaty, in bed,
He reminded me that I had already
Written of the motet, long ago,
But permission granted to
Love it, write of it, once more,
As I He, and He, me...

Because after-all, the motet prayers belong to Him.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Motet

Nov. 2010

Ce soir, I am prepared, My Love,
hopeful of being worthy,
diminished before all,
rendered and prepared,
transported and train-spotted,
prostrate and yet risen.

The motek-sweet motet wings me
heavenward to more than relief.
Grace, grace, I am both,
becoming and becalmed,
drowned and delighted,
entwined and unwound,
compost but composed,
invaded and imbued.

These voices doth
wrack my fibers,
seethe and contract,
my internal power plant
implodes, heart attack.

Glorious generations of singers,
O woven voices that harmonize,
your motet is
umbilical to my lyrical,  
calming chemical reaction,
I am servant and
you are my server,
uplift, calm and provoke me.

Sing out loud God's
ephemeral, unpronounceable name,
cover me with the fame
of His naturity,
love me with divine kisses,
release unto and within me
the essential oils,
oils by which we breathe,
ancestorally transfused,
oils once called the
blood of the soul.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In my past harmonies of poesy,
you shared, lost or just deleted,
tribute unto tribulations human:

I recorded, ven diagrammed,
sorrowed tales of souls waylaid,
debts foreclosed, dues unpaid,
tales of non-fictional agonistes,
suffering a tutti frutti of sarcastic
Earthly  Delights.

Wrote writs re some poor souls,
Prado preserved,
by threading and dying,
on a cloistered tapestry
woven by Adonai worshipers.

With those selfsame oils,
they painted anticipated memories of
Heaven and Hell,
the ones of which I write,
far too oft.

But this night,
In my customary hour
when inspiration is my only tongue,
in the lean hours after midnight,
afore dawn's orangerie of
morning skyed break fast,
I am risen, nourished and
uplifted by the motet's synthesis,
by what I hope to see,
by what I wish to hear.

For I watch,
porched and perched on rooftop,
in the company of
urban spelunkers and debunkers,
all of us desperados,
differing reasons for despair,
yet together,
a human minion-minyan of ten,
we search Jerusalem,
from the Battery to the Cloisters
for glimpses, hints of human angels,
the thirty six^
ministering to the
homeless and dreamless,
to us all.*

Ce soir, I am prepared,
hopeful of being worthy,
diminished before all,
rendered and prepared,
transported and train-spotted,
prostrate and yet risen,
the motek-sweet motet wings me
heavenward to more than relief.

Grace, grace, I am both,
becoming and becalmed,
drowned and delighted,
entwined and unwound,
compost but composed,
invaded and imbued.

Reveal, reveal to me the identity
of your ministering angels!

As the thirty six preserve me,
motet me on eagle's wings, and
return us to you Lord,
that we may be returned.

Renew our days,
as they were before,
when the motet
was bright, organic,
in each of us.






----------------------------------------
^www.neveh.org­/winston/wonder36/36-08.html
Motel is Hebrew for sweet. Minyan, a gathering of ten (minimum) Jews in order to pray collectively.

In the PRADO , The Garden of Earthly Delights by Hieronymus Bosch
This is without doubt one of the most enigmatic paintings in the Prado Museum. The left-hand panel of the triptych represents Creation and Paradise, the central panel the sins of modern man, and the right-hand panel illustrates divine punishment. The obscene poses, strange characters and impossible buildings that populate this 16th-century work create a delirious world that anticipates the Surrealist movement.


In my youth, I was too young to know love, for I thought it was me thst mattered.  In my old age, I was sorrowful for not having loved enough, knowing that it was me that mattered. Nowadays, I only speak of God in tongues, for now I know but just a few words to speak, woman, human. He or She who has read this in its entirety, will have seven years of luck.  Very few of you will, for you have yet to listen to a motet.  Should you do so, I will carry you heavenwards on a ladder of these words. Promise.
Continue reading...
A. E. Housman
In My Own Shire, If I Was Sad
In my own shire, if I was sad,
Homely comforters I had:
The earth, because my heart was sore,
Sorrowed for the son she bore;
And standing hills, long to remain,
Shared their short-lived comrade's pain.
And bound for the same bourn as I,
On every road I wandered by,
Trod beside me, close and dear,
The beautiful and death-struck year:
Whether in the woodland brown
I heard the beechnut rustle down,
And saw the purple crocus pale
Flower about the autumn dale;
Or littering far the fields of May
Lady-smocks a-bleaching lay,
And like a skylit water stood
The bluebells in the azured wood.

Yonder, lightening other loads,
The seasons range the country roads,
But here in London streets I ken
No such helpmates, only men;
And these are not in plight to bear,
If they would, another's care.
They have enough as 'tis: I see
In many an eye that measures me
The mortal sickness of a mind
Too unhappy to be kind.
Undone with misery, all they can
Is to hate their fellow man;
And till they drop they needs must still
Look at you and wish you ill.
Continue reading...
Bean Nov 2014
Indirect Contact
I don't love him but he's here and you aren't
And he doesn't ******* hold my hand, all he does is **** me
And god forbid that god forbids you from being near me
Because when I see nothing but headlights and tire tread I think of salvation

I will hold onto you tighter than my father when he came home and told me I'd hate him
We don't speak anymore except about the time you were supposed to kiss me but instead I felt my jaw shatter
And he still wishes his fist could've done the same to yours as a 16th birthday present for me
But I guess you've never liked my voice so why would you wanna hear it

My tongue falls back into my throat like words I've choked on in front of you
If you came back, even as a dream, I would fill half a glass and let you decide if I'm emptier
I have the audacity to think I meant something more to you than to your temper
And I never needed a lighter to play with fire when baby, I had you

I fear fences because the one in my front yard couldn't keep your voice out
I'd gate off my mind but I'm sure I'd still fear January the 1st and I might even miss you
I always loved your hands even when they were breaking me
Even if they've made me flinch at a raised hand or a friendly pat on the back

I ******* hated the roadmaps in your arms because they couldn't guide me out of your grasp
I knew you were dangerous but I was excited by the fear of getting caught with you

I told you, "I am too ******* young."

And I felt more electricity in your fist hitting my cheekbones than I ever had in your lips
Even when I lay my sorrowed mind on his silk sheets I cannot fall asleep anymore
Don't worry
#domesticabuse
Continue reading...
John Ashton Upston Aug 2013
The War For Heaven-Part One
In a time before time,
The Morningstar shown bright,
Greatest of the seraphs he sang,
With a voice second only to God,
And he sang only in the name of God,
Lovingly glorifying his name,
And God was happy, for a time,
And for a time, all the angels gathered around the Morningstar,
and sang to his tune, even mighty Michael did too,
All spoke his praises, though they sang for God alone,
And he was happy with his purpose in the world.
But he was sneaky, and grew to have a will of his own,
And the Lord God knew what was in his heart and sorrowed,
He called the Morningstar into his throne,
The golden throne, seat of the God almighty,
Surrounded by the most beautiful and holiest of holies,
Beings beyond angels, naked and lovely,
Light made solid, Like God himself,
In what we would call a humanoid form,
And he spoke hath saying,
"My creation, Lucifer, why doth you sorrow and struggle on your own?
And thou hath not prostrated yourself before the Lord, your God,"
The Morningstar frowned but quickly humbled himself,
Bowing low before the God, saying,
"Nay, mighty Lord, I sorrow not, I am forever,
In your presence, filled with joy, singing your praises,
This alone makes me happy, for, after all, this is how you created me,"
But God, being in all places at once knew, so he said,
"So be it Lucifer, mightiest of all my angels, brightest light,
In the dew of the morning sky, let you only be happy, in this,
the presence of God,"
The Morningstar was sent away, full of God's love,
And he was very happy, but, a little part of him grew sick.
Still the day after, and every day since he sang louder,
and more beautiful, his wonderful angelic octaves,
reaching harmonies more and more awesome,
Full of the Holy Spirit, he was blessed most mightily,
And his fame and wonder grew, and all the beings of Heaven,
sung with him, melding their voices with his, until the praises,
of God, rang through the heavens unto the very throne of God,
And God was very pleased.
As the days went on, the Angels around the Morningstar started singing,
Not only of the praises of God but of Morningstar, most blessed among them,
And Morningstar was proud and vain and hapful,
And so he sang his own song now,
And created discord among the angels,
Until, even those that did not want to sing his songs,
Naturally followed along, so persuasive,
And beautiful was he,
Yes the Morningstar shown brightest that day,
And every day since,
Though when the Lord heard of this music,
He was wrathful and wrought,
The betrayal he knew was coming, came, will come,
and is coming,
So the Lord decided to create a new being,
One in his own image,
One which would not sing out of His volition,
Only to sing in their own names,
But rather beings to sing of free will,
And in so choosing,
Bathe the Lord,
In true and just glory,
The love of that which be freely given,
The God thought,
Is superior to that love made in heaven,
So there was light,
and six days later after man was created,
And God rested and listened to the singing,
and it was... good.
But then the Morningstar, feeling the God sleeping,
Looked down upon the freshness of creation,
Where before there was only the timelesness of Heaven,
And the void,
Now was Earth, and Human,
And all the birds and the beasts,
And the beautiful world, entrusted
To thee,
And he thought to himself,
They are unworthy,
To recieve such grace,
If anyone should be given life,
And free will,
it should be Me,
I am the greatest,
I love God the most,
This isn't fair,
This is unjust,
The grace of god has been broken,
This I just cant trust,
And full of wrath, and hunger,
And feelings of betrayal,
He went down to earth,
And took the form of a serpent,
And he walked over to Eve,
And he whispered so very sexily,
His beautiful voice rang to her saying,
"Lovely Eve, how beautiful though you be,
Truly you are Gods greatest creation,
Though don't you wonder why he hampers your elation?
It isn't fair that you can eat of all the animals,
of all the fruits, milks, and honeys,
All except this one, the golden fruit of the Tree,
of knowledge of good and evil,
but why oh why must this be Eve,
Surely, God doth jest with you,
Tricking you, making you fear him warily,
Surely you, who above all in beauty in wisdom,
Should be able to partake of all this world,
With nothing hidden from thee"
And Eve looked down then up bleating,
"But the Lord God specifically forbid this,
Saying we shall die if we eat,"
And the Serpent laughed such a happy warm laugh repeating,
"Nay, my fairest Eve, this was only a slight deception,
Surely you shall not perish, the grace of God doth protect thee,
God only, selfishly, wants to keep knowledge to him alone,
But you, of eating this tree, shall become closer to him,
and surely this will make him truly happy,"
And Eve looked down again, then brought her head up slowly once more,
And was decieved,
The Serpent handed her the fruit, with a smile adorned,
And she took of the fruit and ate it, and shook with feeling,
But when she looked up the Serpent was gone, and she was reeling,
Her way back to Adam and the fate that was in store.
My first take in epic poetry in quite a while so be easy on me! More will be coming shortly, till then, if you made it this far, be sure to write a reaction of what you thought, please :)
Continue reading...
Walter Savage Landor
Acon and Rhodope
The Year's twelve daughters had in turn gone by,
Of measured pace tho' varying mien all twelve,
Some froward, some sedater, some adorn'd
For festival, some reckless of attire.
The snow had left the mountain-top; fresh flowers
Had withered in the meadow; fig and prune
Hung wrinkling; the last apple glow'd amid
Its freckled leaves; and weary oxen blinkt
Between the trodden corn and twisted vine,
Under whose bunches stood the empty crate,
To creak ere long beneath them carried home.
This was the season when twelve months before,
O gentle Hamadryad, true to love!
Thy mansion, thy dim mansion in the wood
Was blasted and laid desolate: but none
Dared violate its precincts, none dared pluck
The moss beneath it, which alone remain'd
Of what was thine.

Old Thallinos sat mute
In solitary sadness. The strange tale
(Not until Rhaicos died, but then the whole)
Echion had related, whom no force
Could ever make look back upon the oaks.
The father said "Echion! thou must weigh,
Carefully, and with steady hand, enough
(Although no longer comes the store as once!)
Of wax to burn all day and night upon
That hollow stone where milk and honey lie:
So may the Gods, so may the dead, be pleas'd!"
Thallinos bore it thither in the morn,
And lighted it and left it.

First of those
Who visited upon this solemn day
The Hamadryad's oak, were Rhodope
And Acon; of one age, one hope, one trust.
Graceful was she as was the nymph whose fate
She sorrowed for: he slender, pale, and first
Lapt by the flame of love: his father's lands
Were fertile, herds lowed over them afar.
Now stood the two aside the hollow stone
And lookt with stedfast eyes toward the oak
Shivered and black and bare.

"May never we
Love as they loved!" said Acon. She at this
Smiled, for he said not what he meant to say,
And thought not of its bliss, but of its end.
He caught the flying smile, and blusht, and vow'd
Nor time nor other power, whereto the might
Of love hath yielded and may yield again,
Should alter his.

The father of the youth
Wanted not beauty for him, wanted not
Song, that could lift earth's weight from off his heart,
Discretion, that could guide him thro' the world,
Innocence, that could clear his way to heaven;
Silver and gold and land, not green before
The ancestral gate, but purple under skies
Bending far off, he wanted for his heir.

Fathers have given life, but ****** heart
They never gave; and dare they then control
Or check it harshly? dare they break a bond
Girt round it by the holiest Power on high?

Acon was grieved, he said, grieved bitterly,
But Acon had complied . . 'twas dutiful!

Crush thy own heart, Man! Man! but fear to wound
The gentler, that relies on thee alone,
By thee created, weak or strong by thee;
Touch it not but for worship; watch before
Its sanctuary; nor leave it till are closed
The temple-doors and the last lamp is spent.

Rhodope, in her soul's waste solitude,
Sate mournful by the dull-resounding sea,
Often not hearing it, and many tears
Had the cold breezes hardened on her cheek.
Meanwhile he sauntered in the wood of oaks,
Nor shun'd to look upon the hollow stone
That held the milk and honey, nor to lay
His plighted hand where recently 'twas laid
Opposite hers, when finger playfully
Advanced and pusht back finger, on each side.
He did not think of this, as she would do
If she were there alone.

The day was hot;
The moss invited him; it cool'd his cheek,
It cool'd his hands; he ****** them into it
And sank to slumber. Never was there dream
Divine as his. He saw the Hamadryad.
She took him by the arm and led him on
Along a valley, where profusely grew
The smaller lilies with their pendent bells,
And, hiding under mint, chill drosera,
The violet shy of butting cyclamen,
The feathery fern, and, browser of moist banks,
Her offspring round her, the soft strawberry;
The quivering spray of ruddy tamarisk,
The oleander's light-hair'd progeny
Breathing bright freshness in each other's face,
And graceful rose, bending her brow, with cup
Of fragrance and of beauty, boon for Gods.
The fragrance fill'd his breast with such delight
His senses were bewildered, and he thought
He saw again the face he most had loved.
He stopt: the Hamadryad at his side
Now stood between; then drew him farther off:
He went, compliant as before: but soon
Verdure had ceast: altho' the ground was smooth,
Nothing was there delightful. At this change
He would have spoken, but his guide represt
All questioning, and said,

"Weak youth! what brought
Thy footstep to this wood, my native haunt,
My life-long residence? this bank, where first
I sate with him . . the faithful (now I know,
Too late!) the faithful Rhaicos. Haste thee home;
Be happy, if thou canst; but come no more
Where those whom death alone could sever, died."

He started up: the moss whereon he slept
Was dried and withered: deadlier paleness spread
Over his cheek; he sickened: and the sire
Had land enough; it held his only son.
Continue reading...
Pauline Morris May 2016
Sorrowed Ink
Sorrowed ink fills my pen
So I write once again
I'm not seeking fame
Just trying to drain the pain
No one need to read
I use my pen to bleed

I write about my past
It'll leave you aghast
When want and reality collide
I write about dreams that died
When I become numb
My brain becomes dumb
I write about how I've succumb
To a life lived in the rabbit hole
Where no happiness ever flowed
I write about agony
That drives you to your knees

Yes in my pen is the most sorrowed ink
Watch me as I sink
As I paint a picture of a person on the brink
A comment on one of my other poems left by Stephan, a wonderful poet inspired this poem. So I give him all the credit for this write.
#poet #poems #writing
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Lucius Furius Aug 2017
A Poem of the Millennium
January 1, 1000

Year One-thousand, January One,
starts the new millennium.
The villein, Jacques, in Reims,
wakes to find his world unchanged.
His hut stinks; his flour's wormy.
He fears God's wrath, but trusts His mercy.
Walled in by his community,
set in Christian certainty;
by their fireplace, with his family, sitting,
he plans the plots he'll plant come spring
The stars above him do not move;
he knows God's power --and His love.

                                                          ­                                        
1118

Others loathe such conformity:
their minds and spirits must be free.
Tutor Pierre finds knowledge increase
in the arms of his pupil Héloise.
Risking life and reputation,
they learn a different conjugation.
(L'Université de Paris's great philosophe
and the canon's niece --in reckless love.)
You think the danger overstated?
Let me remind you that Abélard was castrated
--and the **** confined to a nunnery ...
whence she wrote most eloquently.
("Though I should think of God, I think of thee.")  


225

Dear Francis,
I hear that when you visited St. Peter's
you exchanged clothes with a beggar
and stood all day at the door of the church;
that you asked the people of Gubbio
to be kind to the wolf who was eating their sheep;
that you call birds your "sisters" and fire, your "brother";
that you would have us give all that we own to the poor....
--Perplexed in Perugia

Dear Perplexed,
I ask only that you see God's hand in all creation:
wolf, *****, flower, stone --
God gives to each His rain and His sun.
What man is in the eyes of the Lord,
that I am --and nothing more.


1517

Martin Luther says you can't buy salvation;
the individual conscience is the only true religion.
Of intermediaries, he'll have none;                              
Man is responsible to God alone.
The Bible, being God's holy Word,
must, by each Christian, be read and understood.
Humble toil is a service of God
far surpassing the holiness of monks.
God is terrible in his majesty;
by faith in God, are we made free.  


1611

[London; Shakespeare addresses assembled friends as he
retires to Stratford;... a mysterious stranger rebuts.]

"Despite it surely not being my intention
to slight the worth of imagination,
to doubt the value of our fictive craft,                                          
there can be no question:  in their import,
the actual deeds of actual men
must, perforce, surpass the disembodied pen.
This [pointing] is merely men upon a stage;
these, merely words I've placed on the page."

"Master Shakespeare, I beg to differ:
it is your words which will live forever.
When fiery Phoebus ten million times
has run his course 'round rotund Earth, men will
still be astonished at Lear's great woe,
still sigh with Juliet for her Romeo."


1711

They've placed Monsieur Voltaire in prison.
This will not postpone the Age of Reason.
Men will speak and write as they see fit,        
be governed by laws and the intellect.
        

1783

[General Washington, at Annapolis, Maryland]

"My friends, I'm honored deeply,
by the faith which you here show in me,
your confidence that these qualities
which served so well in war might now
to governance be applied successfully.    

"I, myself, have doubts:
I fear that battle's clear, cold steel will be dulled
in the gauzy murk of diplomacy.
And though I were suited to this high estate most perfectly
still I should shrink from it.
I think of Caesar,
returning, triumphant, from Gaul,
his heart full of zeal for the good of his people,                  
who achieved much, but whose lordly rule
gave way to others far less wise....

"There's a name for a man raised above men as a god:
it's 'king'. I'll have no kings!

"Thus, I surrender to you,
the duly-elected representatives of the States,
the outward and visible sign of my authority:
this sword. Let the world take note
that these united States, born under tyranny's yoke,
shall, in word and deed, henceforth
be governed democratically."


July 27, 1890

Vincent finds his world has narrowed,
(--what wonders he'd seen in la lumière d'Arles!--)
all the things for which he's sorrowed--
rejection by his cousin Kee,
reliance on his brother's charity,
failure of his "painters' community"--
come welling up....
He walks to the field from which he'd come.
In his pocket, the letter he'll never mail.
The wheatfield he'd so recently painted.
In his pocket, by his chest,...
the gun.


July 16, 1945

[Robert Oppenheimer, near Alamagordo, New Mexico]

    If the radiance of a thousand suns
    were to burst into the sky at once,
    that would mirror the Mighty One's splendor....
    I am become Death --World-destroyer.
    --The Bhagavad Gita

Everything was so much clearer
when it seemed the Germans might get the thing first....
Now it's all so terribly muddy....
Who knows what these generals'll do with it.
...The radiance of a thousand suns....                                                         ­                                                 

That 100-foot tower --completely gone!...
If we didn't do it, someone surely would....
I am become Death --destroyer of Worlds.  


January 1, 2000

Year Two-thousand, January One,
starts the new millennium.
The sales-clerk, Jacques, in Reims,
wakes to find his world unchanged.
He's got Internet access! Two cars!
He doesn't fear the universe....
The only group he's part of
is guys who drink at the local bar....
He goes to church, but doesn't believe.
His job, his marriage --nothing is certain....
Even the stars above him move.
He knows God's power --but not His love.
Hear Lucius/Jerry read the poem:  humanist-art.org/old-site/audio/SoF16.MP3 .
This poem is part of the Scraps of Faith collection of poems (https://humanist-art.org/scrapsoffaith.htm )
#millennium #abelard #heloise #stfrancis #shakespeare #georgewashington #vangogh #oppenheimer #spirituality
Continue reading...
Theodora Oniceanu May 2021
The B s
Because you needed a ***** in the House.
A sweet *****,
An awful *****,
A lousy *****,
A dreadful *****,
A lonely one,
A hopeful one,
A very very brave and powerful:
Real Hateful one.
A scarry *****,
A mighty *****,
A tired one...
A ****** filthy 'son of a gun' one!

The poor ***** that got broken,
AWW!
The sad ***** and pitiful,
The pretty *****,
Oh my Word! Oh, my Lord!

The charming and the jumping,
The petty...
The wonderful and working.

The stupid ***** you can't live with,
The one you can't live without.
"Better dead than that bad"

The natural *****,
The great *****,
"You little *****!"
The unnaturally something *****.

"My, my! The ***** that was
Is still mine!"

The healthy *****,
The stealthy *****,
The common *****,
The extraordinary *****...

A proud piece of rotting ****.
Your people, chosen or not disrespect.

The rotting *****,
Romantic *****,
The famished *****
And thirsty, eyes wide open,
Thinking *****, the doer *****,
The coldest *****,
You trending *****!

You want them
All                                 !
You want them

The wealthy *****,
The famous one,
The popular, loved n' hated one
The lofty one,
Superior one.
The Princess *****: you'll have to work for her and her lawn.

The never tired *****,
The always hard to take,
The better *****,
The one to money-make
Come true
The never wrong but needed *****,
Adored, much worshipped
Set free, caught in a web,
A bottle of champagne,
A cup o' tea,
A thought for thoughtful a *****
Who used to be too thoughtful,
Too loud,
Too something this and that,
To wrong.

Oh, faithful *****
Caught by all ******* love
For Gold and money and Fame you fall,
You have to.

Oh, sick of it,
Oh, knowing-it-all!
Creative *****, what have you done.
Inventive *****, illustruous *****?

My teaching a good lesson *****,
Thank you for helping me around.

Because you needed an idiotic *****!
A parting one,
Departing one,
An angry gal, good, sorrowed one.
Luckily a ****** one,
A greedy, thirsty for clean waters one,
A helplessly dreaming *****,
A needy one, needing a good witch,
The learning for better
In sickness and health,
Cleaning the wound, help mending a heart hurt
- gal!
A helpful one,
Much funny one,
A stronger one,
A stubborn one,
One to catch worms
Like every other one.

A witchy ****** annoying bitchey
Because without *******, what would be?
Oh what this world could be?
If having a good passion means to be a ***** in your eyes, so be it, I will be the *****, I will be the star, the sun in your eyes, all your waste of time preventing it.
Continue reading...
JadedSoul Aug 2014
Fingernails
Finger nails gnaw
Bare flesh rips
Blood spills
Over sorrowed hands

Now ribs crack
Then give way
Fingers tunnel
through flesh
Past bone
Then curl

Triumphantly
My hand pulls back
Raising up
Towards the heavens,
I hold my beating heart

Dying breath
Grasps it firm
Piercing it with
Thorny spike
And sets alight
My wretched body
#depression #death #fingernails
Continue reading...
Dee Thomas Jan 2011
Descend Into Addiction
I t seems it was my fate to be
Introduced to this addiction
Born by way of bloods descent
Mixed with generations past affliction
I have watched them sink so lowly
Into the depths of selfish little cracks
Like burdens of un-human kind
Carried on their children’s backs

Feeding on the scraps in life
Of those who struggle to survive
They care not for a child’s grief
When their addiction comes alive
It passed me by with sorrowed grins
Longing and obsessed by what it craved
I watch in mourning as your gift
Of any tomorrow was enslaved

You took the food from our mouths
To dine in the belly of the beast
On our tears and misery you fed
Addiction boasted of its feast
All of you just wasted away
Right before our haunted eyes
The depravity of selfish want
No longer wanted its disguise
I left your addiction to starve
Within its bowels I did divest
IT chokes within my bitter heart
While YOUR life he can digest

I am sickened by the display of false fault of the perverse
I won’t fall prey to your depravity or this ****** up family curse
I know it’s lurking round every corner waiting for me to descend
It's the shadow hounding at my feet and the cycle without end

There’s a needle in my hand
And a bottle of gin on the table
I would smoke this entire bag of ****
If my lungs were able
There are lines drawn out across my mirror
begging for my endless attention
There are hundreds of little jagged pills
That laugh at your impending intervention

There is heaven here
In this ecstasy and elation
Making love to all these drugs
Through oral copulation
It’s not any one of these drugs
That gives way to my endless contradiction
I have found that escaping my pain
Is my only true addiction
I thought for so long that I was the only one who could say I made it out of my family with out some addiction. From the oldest to the youngest there is daily abuse of some substance. In my maturity I have found that addiction is not just for substance...some are addicted to pain, food, ***, sympathy, relationships, love, reading, running, gambling....and many more. My point is, it's easy to look at a drug addict and point out their addiction, WHAT ARE YOU ADDICTED TO???
Continue reading...
Jacob Christopher Jul 2016
I Miss You Most At Night
I miss you,
when the wind flows like music
through the trees.
And I hear it as I once did your laughter.
I miss you,
when the sun sets
and I see it as I once did your smile
beneath your now sorrowed eyes.
I miss you,
when the stars hang high
and I find myself cold and alone in the dark,
for lack of your warmth.
But I miss you most at night,
when I wake up in an empty bed
searching for what's not there.
Continue reading...
Stephan Jun 2016
Cartoon headstones with scribbled crayon names
.

I choose to breathe for every breath is free
Calmly bound of tempted drizzled fears
Slow dancing on the desperate dying wind
Placing endless hope against the flow

This does come
beyond iron gates of broken trances
to sing
undying wishes upon deaf ears

Fractured in meanings and senses known,
these wrinkles form a favored mask
Donned in apprehension of a wilted feeling
Sleek and slender, along a poisoned vine they grow

Challenging
in endless streams of sorted need
Stead fast
with chains of charmed tethered truth

Cartoon headstones with scribbled crayon names
cast darker shadows beneath the edges of sanity
Ripped and tattered these empty voices scream
my name in echoes bearing nothing more than seen

As I cry
my tears sprout wings and flee from my face
I fall to my knees
finding only the jagged earth to rest

Desires cling to the massive arbors of life
Dreams falter along a winding creviced cliff
Nothing laughs like the air upon my sorrowed face
and I choose to breathe for every breath is free
Continue reading...
Pieter Andries Christiaan Oct 2013
Sensual
A senseless work of art
that is what I am
a being without heart
to you I'm not a man

I miss the smell of ecstasy
desire burns my soul
my tears will acid be
ending me in whole

I miss the taste of passion
saline on my tongue
now its only ashen
like a near-dead smoker's lung

I miss the sight of jubilance
a thing for sorrowed eyes
your beauty was the evidence
reason for my demise

I miss the sound of springtime
dancing on your voice
now I see a pantomime
in which joy is not a choice

I miss the softest caress
as our lips would lightly brush
now my minds a mess
my body on a rush

I miss your vibrant groaning
as I penetrate your mind
and the sound of your moaning
when we explore the find

I miss your pulsing heart rate
felt through your tightening skin
and how I debate
our affection is a sin

but then you said you loved me
and that you were here to stay
but ripped my heart in pieces
as I watched you walk away

so now I live a empty life
always missing you
wondering if, through your strife
You might be missing me too

A senseless work of art
that is what I am
a being without heart
to you I'm not a man
Continue reading...
Darren Edsel Wilson Mar 2022
The Name of Time...
Leaves fell
amidst snow's descent
Leaves grew
under sun's ascent
Times changed
and memories faded
Times changed
and I grew jaded

I was always concerned
am I left behind
will I yet grow more
is the deadline due
when will she get here
I am so **** late
I am so fed up
there's so much on my plate

I blew a fuse
my bell was rung
my clock ran out
there loads the gun
but before I go
I ask of time
what is your name
what have I done?

A gentle touch
an eve of peace
a staircase looms
a wreath of fleece
adorns me now
I make a vow
to see what waits
'pon yonder bow
it held my hand
and took me hence
to arid peak
to distant land
and there I saw them
low and weary
stooping dreary
sorrowed
teary

I said can't they see!
They need but wait
for their sorrows will end
by time it will be sate
and satan's hold
his clutch will loose
they shall be free
like airborne goose
but I saw myself then
like roast on the table
Thanksgiving dinner
feast for the sinner
of course they're broken
of course they don't know
because time waits for no man
man waits for time...

Another journey
to far-flung ages
where machines roam free
and lords are sages
people commune
in a peace distilled
from forgotten wars
from absence of pills
I saw them congregate
like ants in a colony
working in unison
for each other's grace
and there was a feeling
like waking from dreaming
how timeless it all was
where peace was manifest

But just like that
I was pulled from the panacea
from the vision of victory
from the dawn of destiny
a saw pain as prophecy
I saw pleasure as peasantry
I saw passion as poetry
I saw power as illusion
I saw my struggles as choice
I saw my misery as vice
I saw my vices as voices
voting down my ambitions
undermining my plans
I then strove for strength
I then fought for freedom
I then stood for salvation
I found the purpose I'd always run from
and it was then
that I heard the voice of time

It said you are my name
and you shall wait no longer
for you wait for no man
you are man no more
you are an agent of change
and the future is yours!
I'll just leave it there.
Felt some peace from that write.
I hope you all felt it, too.

Enjoy!

DEW
#peace #time #change #war #passion #motivation #revolution #transformation #death #creation
Continue reading...
Kassey Lane Jan 2015
Sorrowed soul
Buried in your sorrows,
Not a day without tomorrow's.
Your windowed pain
Spider cracks in the rain.
The hopes and dreams,
Sinking in empty screens.
But not a second floats by,
That you don't remember how you'll die.
In this world,
money equals fate,
Be careful not to procreate.
Promises of false securities,
Foolish plans and possibilities.
Standing here on your own
Listening to busy signal on the phone.
Pain builds up in your head.
Soon your screaming.
Could it be easier if you're dead?
Your calling out for some notion,
Just a tiny speck of emotion....
Silence fills the room.
Your on your own and it feels too soon.
Now it's time to leave the lagoon.
Let go of your rock and drift away
The ocean will bring you back another day.
#helpless #life #dark #sorrow #soul #storm #ocean #troubled #buried #cryingout
Continue reading...
Conrad Aiken
The House Of Dust: Part 03: 08: Coffins: Interlude
Wind blows.  Snow falls.  The great clock in its tower
Ticks with reverberant coil and tolls the hour:
At the deep sudden stroke the pigeons fly . . .
The fine snow flutes the cracks between the flagstones.
We close our coats, and hurry, and search the sky.

We are like music, each voice of it pursuing
A golden separate dream, remote, persistent,
Climbing to fire, receding to hoarse despair.
What do you whisper, brother?  What do you tell me? . . .
We pass each other, are lost, and do not care.

One mounts up to beauty, serenely singing,
Forgetful of the steps that cry behind him;
One drifts slowly down from a waking dream.
One, foreseeing, lingers forever unmoving . . .
Upward and downward, past him there, we stream.

One has death in his eyes: and walks more slowly.
Death, among jonquils, told him a freezing secret.
A cloud blows over his eyes, he ponders earth.
He sees in the world a forest of sunlit jonquils:
A slow black poison huddles beneath that mirth.

Death, from street to alley, from door to window,
Cries out his news,--of unplumbed worlds approaching,
Of a cloud of darkness soon to destroy the tower.
But why comes death,--he asks,--in a world so perfect?
Or why the minute's grey in the golden hour?

Music, a sudden glissando, sinister, troubled,
A drift of wind-torn petals, before him passes
Down jangled streets, and dies.
The bodies of old and young, of maimed and lovely,
Are slowly borne to earth, with a dirge of cries.

Down cobbled streets they come; down huddled stairways;
Through silent halls; through carven golden doorways;
From freezing rooms as bare as rock.
The curtains are closed across deserted windows.
Earth streams out of the shovel; the pebbles knock.

Mary, whose hands rejoiced to move in sunlight;
Silent Elaine; grave Anne, who sang so clearly;
Fugitive Helen, who loved and walked alone;
Miriam too soon dead, darkly remembered;
Childless Ruth, who sorrowed, but could not atone;

Jean, whose laughter flashed over depths of terror,
And Eloise, who desired to love but dared not;
Doris, who turned alone to the dark and cried,--
They are blown away like windflung chords of music,
They drift away; the sudden music has died.

And one, with death in his eyes, comes walking slowly
And sees the shadow of death in many faces,
And thinks the world is strange.
He desires immortal music and spring forever,
And beauty that knows no change.
Continue reading...
Mary Wagner May 2013
The Flag
Adam kicked the soccer ball to the front of the house.  Sam watched him chase after it, while she sipped her sweet tea.  The sound of his feet stopped and was replaced with car tires driving through the gravel road.  She stood up and walked down the steps to see who had come.  Adam cut her off before she made it around the corner of the house.
Panting and out of breath, he gasped, “Mommy…Daddy’s home.”
Sam stared at Adam, letting those two words sink in.  Adam turned around and started running back.  She stood there for a moment and then took after her son.  Thoughts were flooding her mind.  When she hugged him one last time before he left, him walking towards the plane, the letters coming home every week, his arms wrapped around her, and the sounds of him and Adam playing football in the afternoon.
Her pace slowed when she arrived to the front of the house.  Cameron’s grey truck turned off followed by another black car tuning its engine off.  Cameron hopped out of the truck and looked over at her with sorrowed filled eyes.  Adam ran up and gave him hug, but Cameron’s eyes never left hers.
A Marines officer walked up to Sam with letters in his hands.  Her heart started beating faster and could feel a hole beginning to form in her stomach.  Please…Please, don’t tell me he’s gone.  Please be a mistake, she closed her eyes and thought.
Ma’am, are you Sam Chesterfield?” the officer asked.
She opened her eyes and forced a whisper, “Yes.”
“Mrs. Chesterfield, I am sorry to inform you that your husband has died in combat.  He gave me this letter to give to you.  Here is another letter from the Department of
Defense about the funeral if you have any questions.  You have my deepest condolences, Daniel was an honorable man,” he placed his hand on her shoulder and walked away.
As he climbed into his car, Sam broke down.  She feel to her knees, letting her vision get blurry.  Cameron ran over and wrapped his arms around her, trying to calm her down.  Adam walked over and took his mother’s hand.
“Mommy…is Daddy coming home?”
Sam looked up at him.  She saw so much of Daniel in him.  Before she could answer, Cameron responded, “Your dad…well he went somewhere where he can get better.”
Adam just nodded.  “Sweetie, why don’t you and Cameron go inside.  I need to take care of some things,” she sputtered out.
As they went inside, she stared at the white envelope with her name scribbled on the front of it.  She slowly opened it and began to read,
My Dearest Samantha,
If you are reading this, you already know that I am not coming home.  I could not know or describe the pain that you are going through right.  When Adam has asked what has become of me, tell him the truth.  Let him know that his father died a hero and that I loved him very much.  I already asked Cameron to look after you and Adam, and he has promised.
Sam, please do not grieve my death for the rest of your life.  Smile and remember the good times.  Our wedding day, the first day we met, how we fell in love.  Remember all of that; watch the tapes to see my face again.  I will always love you and be with you, no matter what.  I know that it may be hard at first on your own, but you are a strong woman and can do it.  You and Adam are my life’s love and happiness.  I will always be with you two in heart.
There is another letter in here for Adam to read.  I want you to give it to him when you think he is ready to read it.
I love you with all of my heart.
Love,
Daniel
Continue reading...

— The End —