"spares" poems
Wide open are your arms
the sun is a small paintbrush
every daybreak it draws
exposes you as new as ever!
The surges in the billows
blow out swimming clouds
across the globe.
No they don’t splash out to
the starry thrillers on the sky
they all are a dwarf bunch
draws down to you kind Moon:
Down to earth on the ground
spares the heap for all
for the day for the noon.
Then you are there too
far afar, where is nothing
but you the lotus in bloom
on uncharted water.
Who can describe it better
everyone is lost for words!
Apr 20, 2017
Apr 20, 2017 at 10:11 PM UTC
A necessary evil for our segregation,
It's the deadly examination monster.
It's rough-tough so it never spares us,
Alongside the weaknesses it bares us.
Prepare for them if you want it easy,
Your scores often determine the life.
Never you give-up all fearing failure,
For you can write your future bright.
Holding shining silver string of love,
You 'come more courageous in life...
Mar 24, 2014
Mar 24, 2014 at 2:21 PM UTC
i.
your love is like that
of romeo and juliet.
you fit perfectly,
like puzzle pieces,
and despite the raging seas,
you both man the sails
of your eager ship.
ii.
the night sky
is empty,
for all the stars are now in your eyes.
and you have all the blueprints planned out
as though you've forgotten that life
is not a house.
you keep on running,
as though you've forgotten that life
is not a track.
you keep on loving,
as though you've forgotten that life
spares no one
(not romeo, not juliet).
iii.
and just like romeo,
and his dear juliet,
in the end,
you will both come crashing down.
(a.m.)
Nov 27, 2014
Nov 27, 2014 at 7:09 PM UTC
ᗩIᑎᕼᗩᖇᗩ
~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
Out of the Palace, into the Queen's
Garden. *'One that could rival King
Paul's Luciuscemian Gardens,'* she
thinks as she walks under the high
cream arches and Grecian columns
with ivy vines coiling around them.
She stands on the white marble
steps. *'Truly, this is the Queen
Mother's finest work yet...'*
~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
The young Queen Lyn spares no
expense in expanding her library,
filling it with leather-bound books
and scrolls, new and old. She spares
no expense when it comes to her
love for herbal teas, near and far...
But her mother?
~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
The Queen Mother is known for
her keen eye, fast wits, bladed
tongue and for her love for fashion,
gardening and a frugal nature.
*'Like frugal mother, like bookish
daughter!'* Ainhara can not help
but to chuckle.
~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
She watches as the gardeners trim
the mint-green grass, beech hedges
and shrubby. But what Ainhara
marvels most are the flowers.
Pots of lavender and roses,
rosemary and mint are placed
around carefully, by the white
lilies, orange lilies, yellow lilies,
flushing lilies.
~ ⚪♫⚪ ~
She notices that green lilies and
blue lilies; the gifts from Queen Yidna;
plants native to her Puhan Kingdom,
are in full bloom. They remind her of the
colours of the Seas that she, Esshi and Lyn
had sailed when they visited Queen Yidna.
*'Puhan has the calmest seas of the brightest
colours,'* She recalls how her Queen was
happy and relaxed then...
Sep 14, 2018
Sep 14, 2018 at 11:33 AM UTC
(1)
The day she visited the dissecting room
They had four men laid out, black as burnt turkey,
Already half unstrung. A vinegary fume
Of the death vats clung to them;
The white-smocked boys started working.
The head of his cadaver had caved in,
And she could scarcely make out anything
In that rubble of skull plates and old leather.
A sallow piece of string held it together.
In their jars the snail-nosed babies moon and glow.
He hands her the cut-out heart like a cracked heirloom.
(2)
In Brueghel's panorama of smoke and slaughter
Two people only are blind to the carrion army:
He, afloat in the sea of her blue satin
Skirts, sings in the direction
Of her bare shoulder, while she bends,
Finger a leaflet of music, over him,
Both of them deaf to the fiddle in the hands
Of the death's-head shadowing their song.
These Flemish lovers flourish;not for long.
Yet desolation, stalled in paint, spares the little country
Foolish, delicate, in the lower right hand corner.
6.7k
This little heart of mine
often you nourished it
and cherished it gladly
as if it was a sweet smile
among a million primulas!
Oh, this little heart of mine
how often should it be scrutinised
be squeezed into the flip side?
What magic, should it show up?
Though no longer one sheds a tear
but spares a dose of love.
The sweetest moments in life
only come from love.
The harrowing ones are
no strangers—too big and bold
and could flesh out with no bound.
But fill this with only a slice—
not the lot—just with a bit of love,
this little heart of mine!
May 9, 2017
May 9, 2017 at 5:03 PM UTC
Behind the eight ball
she sits.
Resigned.
From her pimp's
leash,
she's lead.
Deadweight, she feels
his ways and ills,
like cattle, that's branded.
Best she hustles,
or be backhanded.
Once molded,
she learns to light up
Big Daddy's cigar
and bring him his pie loaded.
More cabbage to fill his gold baggage.
Sometimes he spares a small leaf for her.
Though times she short, his fist takes sport.
And every night
she plays for the band
of her john's,
singing their song,
while a thousand ****** of light
inches along all wrong.
The nameless, faceless and most relentless
getting their fill.
A flower in her wails loves not fear.
However, Big Daddy's eyes are always near.
She knows better than to run
past the pasture gates
onto verdant fields,
free as a bird,
without a home, money or vocation
and ever so fearful of Big Daddy's gun.
A flower in her wails loves not fears.
As she remembers those first tears.
A Big Daddy's indoctrination.
It started off on social media,
a whim
a fantasy went wrong.
Three nights her body violated,
Big Daddy's cavalry,
descending on her picnic,
wax and whips,
a thousand ****** of might,
and the scream of the night.
Coldcocked.
Say hello to the new girl on the block.
A flower in her wails loves not fears.
Her youth robbed as the days morph into years.
Like a blur.
The guise, the lure, the drugs, the fear.
The trap.
Eighteen young became twenty-four old.
A lost puppy to her folks back home.
And every lost night
she struts her Prada dress a little higher
Big Daddy has a buyer.
Logan Robertson
7/27/2018
Jul 27, 2018
Jul 27, 2018 at 6:32 AM UTC
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;
To bend with apples the mossed cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o'er-brimmed their clammy cell.
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep,
Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers;
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cider-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.
Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,---
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir, the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft,
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
2.4k
Hecate,
When I was off and gone world weary
Weeping sorrowful in winter
I called on you to help and spare me sorrow.
Now that it is spring, it is now
My duty,
Sweet, sweet magical maiden fair
To grant you help in all you seek.
For you, master of magic, mistress of mythos
Can not fathom that which is the greatest magic,
The one within even mere mortals.
Love, Hecate. Love.
I know that I am one to talk,
Having broken free of the shackles that were formerly Hera’s,
But you, sweet Hecate, must not be mistaken as we are.
In your eyes sits the light of a thousand suns, burning with joy and potential to be,
You cannot subject yourself to these mortal pains, these mortal errors,
These wounds of the flesh as he does.
For he will lead you down a path rarely survived,
Rarely survived truly,
He will walk you into depths of sorrow,
Your own Hades, sweet Hecate.
He will lead you to question the very meaning of yourself,
The very essence of who it is that you are.
You are stronger than a mortal,
As any oracle will tell you,
As any of my court will attest.
He maintains such a level of power over you
That he makes fools of gods and spares no souls,
He has taken you for something silly and of that nature too.
But Hecate, you know this, a spell of love is just a spell
And so driven are you like Apollo before you, so driven with love
That you’ll cast it.
It is not yours to cast, that is Eros’ part and doing so would cause the world to shift out of balance.
But you will do it anyway, Hecate, for I know you well.
I shall leave you with this, and this truly,
Bad things happen to mortals who mess with gods.
-Persephone.
Mar 18, 2018
Mar 18, 2018 at 6:56 PM UTC
One day I'll be gone.
Do not cry for me
It was always meant to be
Like this.
I, a traveler in this life
Journey onward seeking.
I think to places I've been
Tales and visions and glory seen
Stones of great cities far and wide
Speak to stories, times of great pride.
Snow capped peaks, spine of the world
Shimmering mystery of heights untouched
Give down in endless amber plains graze the antelope freed
From bounds as trains roll through the scene
Onward to horizons hiding lands unseen.
No longer am I there
Memories turned to ash and dust
Time, the destroyer of all
Spares none come nightfall.
This feeble mind of mine
Journeys faithful through sands of time
Remembers few and far between
The kind words and kind souls
Pierced the boundaries that lie
Between here and there
If only for a moment.
Jan 31, 2021
Jan 31, 2021 at 3:06 PM UTC
This is not to say I pulley you down
And spread your Level to consort with my Ague
Your Bones, better than mine, to my Nerves frown
This Season as a Misbegotten Plague
A Blessing ideal is; Though disappoint
That Everyday Recorder plays again
Of Busy Trough's Effort spares to anoint
The very Oil you inspired since then
Come to think - Oil - its property slips by
And hard it is to keep the Dirt in-check
Though by Creed to be Faithful still - then lie,
As a Well-Mannered Specimen in-wreck.
All-in-all, we only wish for your Youth
To one day Understand the Better Truth.
Mar 15, 2013
Mar 15, 2013 at 3:24 AM UTC
In the twilight hour
We reached the watch tower
The swinging trunks had got our smell
And one could tell
They weren't pleased
We had just intruded into their dust bath
Post the shower at the pool
Between us the distance
Was one of studied silence
Till one's trumpet froze me to the ground
From among the trees
Big little mud hills surrounded the space
Our clicking lens
Wore out their patience
And we were just nuts
Before that large herd
Some more were coming up the river
We heard someone whisper
And I thought of rebellious elephants
Fighting for territory once their own
Against an invader that spares none
What if this dwindling day hour
They crush the watch tower!
Apr 21, 2016
Apr 21, 2016 at 9:48 AM UTC
Reaching my third year in college and still remembering the past easily really means that time spares no one or no memory. We could all grow out of our old skins to realize that our new shells are just as hollow as ever, deeming hopeless in life and its travesty. Nevertheless, that's what makes us so human, bleeding out our murderous thoughts and spilling it onto paper. The feeling of wanting to empty yourself to be a coreless vessel again, void of any emotions, unreadable to a living soul. Some of us get there faster with a pen, or even a blade, each of us digging deeper to our own little numb world, to ease the pain of conflict within or to put out the flames that are thirsty for oxygen, until the very wicker within us crumbles to dust. Back to where we started off. Fine as the dirt beneath our feet with no sign of life and no capsule of memory.
Apr 15, 2015
Apr 15, 2015 at 10:52 AM UTC
I
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.
II
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,
Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.
III
Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,--
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
1.9k
Death who is pale and cold
He takes both young and old
His gaze sweeps 'cross the land
And all fall to his hand
He walks the fields of war
Where men fall to the sword
He haunts the scholars' hall
And spares no one at all
He rides a pale white steed
His every command it heeds
It bears him near or far
To where the dying are
Beware the Reaper's scythe
He comes to end your life
For always there is Death
When you take your last breath
Jun 7, 2014
Jun 7, 2014 at 8:40 PM UTC
the hairdresser used the wrong dye
your boyfriend dumped you for a guy
all you have left is shattered dreams
camera flash blinds you with its beams
missionaries bring word of an impending doom
your dog snuck in and broke your fave perfume
trying to grow your hair but you have split ends
the guy you've been eyeing wants to be just friends
your favorite jeans ripped and you don't have spares
you would ask for a friend's but nobody cares
you're late to work and you don't know why
you got scouted to model but you were suddenly too shy
you failed the pop quiz that everybody aced
you got mistaken for a celebrity and brutally chased
you dropped your wallet jogging around
you found it empty a week later in the lost and found
you forgot not to and picked a scab
your favorite uncle's stuck in rehab
your grandmother mistook you for her son
in reality you're female, and nowhere near fifty-one
you're a penny short but the cashier won't budge
your mother is still holding that 10-year grudge
what can you do, what can you say?
when all you have is first world problems, today.
Nov 17, 2013
Nov 17, 2013 at 2:50 PM UTC
I'm sick
I'm sick of every filter
I'm sick of fake photographers
I'm sick of fake philosophers
and Instagram pornographers
I'm sick of the fake feminists
who don't understand the movement
I'm sick of fake politicians
who make no ******* improvements
I'm sick of all the favorites
I'm sick of all the likes
I'm sick of ******* tinder
causing cheating every night
I'm sick of ******* eyebrows
like who ******* cares
when did we become so obsessed
with ******* forehead hair
I'm sick of religion
I'm sorry but it's true
it's caused so much division
in our red white and blue
I'm sick of trump supporters
who never read the news
they want to close our borders
but don't understand the ruse
I'm sick of fake people
who pretend for us all
cover their old selves in diesel
didn't hesitate or stall
I'm sick of Caitlin Jenner
she/he whatever isn't noble
committed ******* manslaughter
yet still remains boastful
I'm sick of post it note relationships
that last for three weeks
it's not a ******* battleship
just make the proper tweaks
I'm sick of all these hookups
it's become a culture
all of these pickups
initiated by the vultures
I'm sick of everyone caring
about what celebrities wear
I'm sick of overbearing hate
that never ever spares
I'm sick of all the judgment
of how a person looks
I'm sick of everyone watching YouTube
trading it for books
I'm sick of all this money
that we will never see
I'm sick of never knowing
what I'm supposed to do
I'm sick of schooling never showing
how to live our lives through
I'm sick of all this debt
that I'll be paying until my death
Im sick of feeling like our society is *******
but most of all I'm really sick
that this list has applied to me too.
Feb 17, 2016
Feb 17, 2016 at 11:11 AM UTC
The Fairy of the Silver Shop
Now all little fairies run out of things
Little clover soaps and even replacement wings.
Little vine laces for their little fairy feet
Little fairy apple pips as a midday treat.
So they all go to the silver shop for spares
And there is a fairy appointed that really cares
She has drawers filled with this and that
From silver bells to a rose petal hat
There is no such thing as money in fairyland
Every sale done with a shake of the hand.
The fairy of the silver shop everyone’s delight
Open every morning and closes at midnight.
The imps and elves enjoy the pleasure
Of rooting through such precious treasure.
Cherry stones and acorns make great pipes
And little lacy cobwebs make superior wipes
She stocks all these and very much more
It won’t be long before she opens a superstore.
Apr 5, 2016
Apr 5, 2016 at 12:25 PM UTC
*Moments pass,
Days go by,
Time, it is too honest -
Arrogant, not shy.
It comes, and it goes,
It cares not, for your emotions,
It steals your dreams,
It throws them into
the deepest depths,
of the darkest, vastest oceans.
Time, it spares no pain,
It reminds you, constantly,
That it will soon take you...
It trys so hard
to make you anxious -
It will eventually break you!
It teases you
with the most pleasurable moments,
Those, that you will never forget...
It gives you special memories -
most precious,
and a few,
that you may live long enough
to regret.
Time, is an absolute blessing.
However, its inevitable end,
feels like a massive curse,
Time,
It ticks away faster
As you get older,
Making all of your anxieties
Feel horribly worse.
Time, it is impetuous,
And, unfortunately,
There a many souls
Who lack appreciation
For every blessed, precious,
Unstoppable second.
Sadly, they realise this,
Only when their final moments
Are about to come - when their last Breath is about to be taken;
When their soul
Has been beckoned.
Time,
It kisses you,
Then it runs,
It causes chaos,
Daily.
But, still,
With every second of it,
That we are blessed,
It makes us,
The lucky ones!
By Lady R.F ©2016*
Nov 17, 2016
Nov 17, 2016 at 1:57 AM UTC
Gazing at the window pane,
I see a road with 8 lanes. .
I live near an international airport,
Also not much far from the court.
The roads are always full with life,
and is visible a life taking another life..
A kidnapping here, A **** there..
Dress properly, to do none would dare...
Take away the right to wear frocks, from a girl under ten
Toned legs are arousing, and legs 're visible in them..
Take away a girls right to walk alone in streets,
When on a public property, as a public property people shall treat
Nobody spares you here...
Strangers,
Teachers,
Uncles,
brothers,
Step fathers
And even fathers!
Nobody understands love here, Everything is love making.
A girl in pain, 'cause of rod which in her body is shaking.
We have murderers,
We have ISIS agents,
We have corrupt officials,
We have suiciding peasants...
We have kidnappers,
We have hackers,
We have looters,
We also have sharp shooters,
We also have all age hookers...
Come, see my city,
And then on it, do pity..
Dec 26, 2015
Dec 26, 2015 at 9:26 AM UTC
paradoxes under tables
walled open doors
back alleys, woodwork streets
all busy, all morose
rat podium picture maze
my arms are gelatin
affixed in spares
left to be eaten
windows with glare
the arches of Rome
panels of glass
the musical sheets
orchestration aligned
trumpets on my right
tubas on my left
the open door
let the rats in
May 1, 2013
May 1, 2013 at 9:29 AM UTC
Click, clack
bucket hat
won't that ghost go home.
Flying around the moon,
silent in the smoke,
in a spaceship made of stone.
Voyage of the ******
It begins with one.
The man was once a great explorer,
reduced to
the time between six and noon.
Recovery is a process that takes
lies, and
deceit, and
moon light.
Shining through window panes and
smelling of sulfur.
Coo coo achoo.
God bless you.
If the apple rises up in revolt,
what would Newton do?
The world is full of monsters and cheap drinks.
Yes,
the two go together.
Sometimes they hide behind ghosts.
Expect the unexpected to tell the truth
in jazz bars and to
use ***** needles.
Clack, click
the rumors will stick in
the adulterers mind.
Which is funny because the punchline,
wraps around the world,
like a snake crushing the Golden Goose with monstrous jaws.
The ghost struggles to shake hands while,
watching the street collect dust.
The man dies.
So,
now there are two.
Swirling and spinning,
crisp and clean.
The house will be demolished.
Brick by brick by brick by brick.
Windows don't break,
they shatter like glass.
Which makes sense over time.
What if the ghost can't go home?
Then,
there will only be two.
Coo coo bless you.
Cut off before the big finale,
***** curtains dropping
hints that,
the spaceship with be destroyed.
Death will come for the man.
The ghost will go home.
Click,
clack.
There is no bucket hat on the moon,
only the sound of trucks rumbling.
The moon,
like all cheeses,
spoils
the child and spares the rod.
Dish, dash, doom.
Hair slicked back,
the man is lowered into the grave,
looking like fire.
No tombstone reminder.
Just green grass and
mistakes made for two.
Watching in the rearview mirror as the world turns,
finally,
the man is an explorer once more.
Mar 23, 2016
Mar 23, 2016 at 4:55 PM UTC
...
One day you'll find that in reality people don't care, they're just curious.
┯┷
Do not follow this black willow dog
"I'm not following you."
The lucid smoke hums you lie
"I don't smoke."
Of course you don't
"Then what do you mean?"
You merely burn
┯┷
"So...why are you always by yourself?"
It was a quiet war
"Quiet war?"
I lost so many
"So many what?"
Beloved souls to the book
"What book?"
Death's wish-list
┯┷
"Are you the only one left?"
Supposedly
"How do you know?"
This rain spares nothing
"So you don't know."
Time knows
"It's 3:04 a.m."
So it is
┯┷
"Are you going home?"
The city is laughing, little lamb
"Why is it laughing?"
Cold feet of the crossroads
"Why are we talking about crossroads?"
Home was eaten there
"Excuse me?"
That is why we stray
┯┷
"You look sad."
I am indeed
"Why don't you rest for a while?"
Is the riverbed dry?
"What are you talking about?"
Drought season isn't here yet
┯┷
"Are you hungry?
I drank chipped starlight
"I asked if you were hungry."
The abyss always is
"I'm lost..."
Nothing needed to be found
┯┷
"Who are you?"
A stray willow dog
"What's a willow dog?"
Yellow bones rattle the concrete
"Why are they yellow?"
I'm grieving
"Because?"
The sky died in his heart
┯┷
"What if I told you I loved you?'
Coins in the fountain
"That has nothing to do with..."
Forget them
"Forget who?"
Sweet water wishes
"But wishes are not forgotten."
The smoke is humming again
"How peculiar.."
You take these for granted
┯┷
You have disobeyed
"Oh? How so?"
You followed me to the cobblestones
"Oh, I'm sorry."
Blue mirrors
"What about them?"
Reflect morbid futures
"But you don't have one, don't you?"
Willows weep for many reasons
┯┷
"Hey...you're going the wrong way."
Am I, now?
"Heaven's this way."
...
May 9, 2016
May 9, 2016 at 11:14 AM UTC
my heart.
feels weighed down.
it has been carved out
the moment I feel safe.
you leave me
with the key I presumed
you would handle with care
the locksmith closed down.
luckily, I had a couple of spares
but, they are hidden away,
I thought I hid them well,
I spared them for safety.
I knew that they could not be copied,
they couldn't be recklessly handed out,
I'd done that too much,
had so much stolen from me overnight.
I don't think my life would bear another break in
I have one left and I've hidden it so well,
I don't even know where it is anymore.
Which I think in the end might be a good thing.
The person who claims that key will naturally know how to obtain it, even if I don't.
Considering they are the only one with the last copy.
Jun 19, 2016
Jun 19, 2016 at 5:16 AM UTC