Hello Poetry
Submit your work and get some sparkles! Create free account
Words
"spire" poems
What we have named Fire Escape (an ordered, angular tangle of ladders and rail) had made picture geometries in my west window well-framed and flat--set foreground and background in two dimensions, as the sun hid, and my round eye opened. What we have named Fire Escape was flaked-paint brown orange, as if first it had been born of a flame and then had taken up living as metal-- tempered itself into usefulness, which I should trust now, in case of the yelling and the engines. What we have named Fire Escape was happy Jungle Jim or Jungle for Jane for the sparrows I saw this morning which flitted and wildly played within, rising up arched and back again. Made of the square pairs of ladder rungs-- a tunnel entrance or ducking posts, or highway bridges to clear; the birds like small plane, daredevil pilots each following each, going under. No sparrow would ever crash. And what is this I remember now? How one bird eased its engine and perched there to stay? As if to offer me, with a little turn of head gesture-- a thank you, for the bread I'd left on the sill? Or to say I'd better shut the curtain and make my exit? Either prideful guess gets me nowhere fast. Failed even is speaking in any sparrow languages from my recline stuffed chair; again, but now imagined, to draw beady eyes to fix on me, telling me much less. That morning, with the very last sparrow gone, I remember that nothing in my sight moved, save an American flag at a distance in the wind, with its one red-white striped wing waving toward the cold north, as the white church spire, framed in open quadrilaterals, held its position.
0
Apr 15, 2013
Apr 15, 2013 at 5:18 AM UTC
sam-hawkins
A Fire Escape of Sparrows
What we have named Fire Escape (an ordered, angular tangle of ladders and rail) had made picture geometries in my west window well-framed and flat--set foreground and background in two dimensions, as the sun hid, and my round eye opened. What we have named Fire Escape was flaked-paint brown orange, as if first it had been born of a flame and then had taken up living as metal-- tempered itself into usefulness, which I should trust now, in case of the yelling and the engines. What we have named Fire Escape was happy Jungle Jim or Jungle for Jane for the sparrows I saw this morning which flitted and wildly played within, rising up arched and back again. Made of the square pairs of ladder rungs-- a tunnel entrance or ducking posts, or highway bridges to clear; the birds like small plane, daredevil pilots each following each, going under. No sparrow would ever crash. And what is this I remember now? How one bird eased its engine and perched there to stay? As if to offer me, with a little turn of head gesture-- a thank you, for the bread I'd left on the sill? Or to say I'd better shut the curtain and make my exit? Either prideful guess gets me nowhere fast. Failed even is speaking in any sparrow languages from my recline stuffed chair; again, but now imagined, to draw beady eyes to fix on me, telling me much less. That morning, with the very last sparrow gone, I remember that nothing in my sight moved, save an American flag at a distance in the wind, with its one red-white striped wing waving toward the cold north, as the white church spire, framed in open quadrilaterals, held its position.
Continue reading...
42
i come to you half mad with desire like slithers tongue i wish to have painfully stitched to your silky **** an act of desires supplication my *** turned to poison deprivations effulgent obsidian flower salivating your every smile fleshy bells ringing warping tintinnabulations i am a starved incubus drooling at your knees behind me a frothy junket of misdeeds for loves sake your feet the scent of lavender and salt their shape evoking numberless poems and begging adorations your belly a tender cauldron undulating tummy ***** dancer sacred ********** temple of worship the site of your rounded bottom naked red mouth calling my sacred liturgy your ***** velvet tulips for a tremulous kiss I seed you a thousand times a raging bludgeon storming wounded gates Palisades drenched and florid fruit and milk **** until jaws lock and spire drops turning me to midnight cadaver ***** black hollows a dark eyelid, blink-less dead **** face down a slumped snake then soft dew and cool ales clear thickened muds saturation lighten heat and peel the warm palate with agile caress tender haunches wide and spiced milk and butter thighs her hair in mine rushing river life again i animate an embryo id dressed in fire all vices and virtues blood and sky
0
Jul 12, 2017
Jul 12, 2017 at 1:23 PM UTC
zebrablack
*** DEATH AND RESURRECTION
i come to you half mad with desire like slithers tongue i wish to have painfully stitched to your silky **** an act of desires supplication my *** turned to poison deprivations effulgent obsidian flower salivating your every smile fleshy bells ringing warping tintinnabulations i am a starved incubus drooling at your knees behind me a frothy junket of misdeeds for loves sake your feet the scent of lavender and salt their shape evoking numberless poems and begging adorations your belly a tender cauldron undulating tummy ***** dancer sacred ********** temple of worship the site of your rounded bottom naked red mouth calling my sacred liturgy your ***** velvet tulips for a tremulous kiss I seed you a thousand times a raging bludgeon storming wounded gates Palisades drenched and florid fruit and milk **** until jaws lock and spire drops turning me to midnight cadaver ***** black hollows a dark eyelid, blink-less dead **** face down a slumped snake then soft dew and cool ales clear thickened muds saturation lighten heat and peel the warm palate with agile caress tender haunches wide and spiced milk and butter thighs her hair in mine rushing river life again i animate an embryo id dressed in fire all vices and virtues blood and sky
Continue reading...
59
The feds are making headway (generously passing out their treats!) *while the whistle blower and his boon companion hit the 22nd floor* fiscal plans are tidily falling into place and the suits are all busy chasing their dimes dancing around the spire full of wine and cheer (seems the demand side imbalance has got everyone doing the same old shimmy!) they’re all studying their bollinger bands MACD's, and treasuries just like the good old days santali would say while capitol hill is busy with its own pleasantries; *repatriate that currency hold those rates bring the boys back home!* the affirmations are robust and filled with glee! conspiracy thinkers are busy in their own back rooms initiating the trade and building their counter claims as pork bellies and soybeans continue to soar (looks like eddy and the margin men are at it again!) what happened to that bear masquerade anyways? they really were a band of brothers colourful clowns with big painted smiles ready to lead in any parade but they met with the resistance a horned wall satan’s horsemen riding high with bags hung heavy under dark squinting eyes are we near an end? the undertakers will say it's only a blink of an eye to the thin red line where risk takers and front men all jump ship debt addiction is crippling and hell breaks loose when entitlements are out and towels are thrown in there’s a center piece here those pugnacious statesmen with invigorating tales have had their place time to clip them at the limbs and pull the punch from the bowl (sobriety has its merits you know!) let’s head to the commission and throw darts to the board ~ seems the moral blueprints are fading
0
Nov 11, 2017
Nov 11, 2017 at 5:47 PM UTC
ck-baker
Bull Run
The feds are making headway (generously passing out their treats!) *while the whistle blower and his boon companion hit the 22nd floor* fiscal plans are tidily falling into place and the suits are all busy chasing their dimes dancing around the spire full of wine and cheer (seems the demand side imbalance has got everyone doing the same old shimmy!) they’re all studying their bollinger bands MACD's, and treasuries just like the good old days santali would say while capitol hill is busy with its own pleasantries; *repatriate that currency hold those rates bring the boys back home!* the affirmations are robust and filled with glee! conspiracy thinkers are busy in their own back rooms initiating the trade and building their counter claims as pork bellies and soybeans continue to soar (looks like eddy and the margin men are at it again!) what happened to that bear masquerade anyways? they really were a band of brothers colourful clowns with big painted smiles ready to lead in any parade but they met with the resistance a horned wall satan’s horsemen riding high with bags hung heavy under dark squinting eyes are we near an end? the undertakers will say it's only a blink of an eye to the thin red line where risk takers and front men all jump ship debt addiction is crippling and hell breaks loose when entitlements are out and towels are thrown in there’s a center piece here those pugnacious statesmen with invigorating tales have had their place time to clip them at the limbs and pull the punch from the bowl (sobriety has its merits you know!) let’s head to the commission and throw darts to the board ~ seems the moral blueprints are fading
Continue reading...
63
The flames branching upwards in a spire It's cruel twists never seem to tire A dark soul comes from the fire It's Sam, a kid they all admire Fables try to claim thee Through stories of a tree Branching upwards in a plea A widow stares at a stain, left by the rain Constructs a local fane, all in her saviours name Caught between the fear and guilt Of living off someone's fame Knowing the day it all stops, she'll be engulfed by a flame Abaddon is calling, Ezekiel is balling Babylon returns Mathias saw the world, while Belial just watched it burn With immense follow through The path becomes true As he watches triple 7's disciple scamming for a buck or two Out on a past due lease The Man Of Peace
0
Jul 21, 2013
Jul 21, 2013 at 11:48 PM UTC
charles-lutwidge-dodgson
Duality
The flames branching upwards in a spire It's cruel twists never seem to tire A dark soul comes from the fire It's Sam, a kid they all admire Fables try to claim thee Through stories of a tree Branching upwards in a plea A widow stares at a stain, left by the rain Constructs a local fane, all in her saviours name Caught between the fear and guilt Of living off someone's fame Knowing the day it all stops, she'll be engulfed by a flame Abaddon is calling, Ezekiel is balling Babylon returns Mathias saw the world, while Belial just watched it burn With immense follow through The path becomes true As he watches triple 7's disciple scamming for a buck or two Out on a past due lease The Man Of Peace
Continue reading...
20
1278 The Mountains stood in Haze— The Valleys stopped below And went or waited as they liked The River and the Sky. At leisure was the Sun— His interests of Fire A little from remark withdrawn— The Twilight spoke the Spire, So soft upon the Scene The Act of evening fell We felt how neighborly a Thing Was the Invisible.
0
5.2k
Emily Dickinson
The Mountains stood in Haze—
1278 The Mountains stood in Haze— The Valleys stopped below And went or waited as they liked The River and the Sky. At leisure was the Sun— His interests of Fire A little from remark withdrawn— The Twilight spoke the Spire, So soft upon the Scene The Act of evening fell We felt how neighborly a Thing Was the Invisible.
Continue reading...
13
Two lovers by a moss-grown spring: They leaned soft cheeks together there, Mingled the dark and sunny hair, And heard the wooing thrushes sing. O budding time! O love's blest prime! Two wedded from the portal stept: The bells made happy carolings, The air was soft as fanning wings, White petals on the pathway slept. O pure-eyed bride! O tender pride! Two faces o'er a cradle bent: Two hands above the head were locked: These pressed each other while they rocked, Those watched a life that love had sent. O solemn hour! O hidden power! Two parents by the evening fire: The red light fell about their knees On heads that rose by slow degrees Like buds upon the lily spire. O patient life! O tender strife! The two still sat together there, The red light shone about their knees; But all the heads by slow degrees Had gone and left that lonely pair. O voyage fast! O vanished past! The red light shone upon the floor And made the space between them wide; They drew their chairs up side by side, Their pale cheeks joined, and said, "Once more!" O memories! O past that is!
0
4.4k
George Eliot
Two Lovers
Two lovers by a moss-grown spring: They leaned soft cheeks together there, Mingled the dark and sunny hair, And heard the wooing thrushes sing. O budding time! O love's blest prime! Two wedded from the portal stept: The bells made happy carolings, The air was soft as fanning wings, White petals on the pathway slept. O pure-eyed bride! O tender pride! Two faces o'er a cradle bent: Two hands above the head were locked: These pressed each other while they rocked, Those watched a life that love had sent. O solemn hour! O hidden power! Two parents by the evening fire: The red light fell about their knees On heads that rose by slow degrees Like buds upon the lily spire. O patient life! O tender strife! The two still sat together there, The red light shone about their knees; But all the heads by slow degrees Had gone and left that lonely pair. O voyage fast! O vanished past! The red light shone upon the floor And made the space between them wide; They drew their chairs up side by side, Their pale cheeks joined, and said, "Once more!" O memories! O past that is!
Continue reading...
36
You can see it already: chalks and ochers; Country crossed with a thousand furrow-lines; Ground-level rooftops hidden by the shrubbery; Sporadic haystacks standing on the grass; Smoky old rooftops tarnishing the landscape; A river (not Cayster or Ganges, though: A feeble Norman salt-infested watercourse); On the right, to the north, bizarre terrain All angular--you'd think a shovel did it. So that's the foreground. An old chapel adds Its antique spire, and gathers alongside it A few gnarled elms with grumpy silhouettes; Seemingly tired of all the frisky breezes, They carp at every gust that stirs them up. At one side of my house a big wheelbarrow Is rusting; and before me lies the vast Horizon, all its notches filled with ocean blue; ***** and hens spread their gildings, and converse Beneath my window; and the rooftop attics, Now and then, toss me songs in dialect. In my lane dwells a patriarchal rope-maker; The old man makes his wheel run loud, and goes Retrograde, hemp wreathed tightly round the midriff. I like these waters where the wild gale scuds; All day the country tempts me to go strolling; The little village urchins, book in hand, Envy me, at the schoolmaster's (my lodging), As a big schoolboy sneaking a day off. The air is pure, the sky smiles; there's a constant Soft noise of children spelling things aloud. The waters flow; a linnet flies; and I say: "Thank you! Thank you, Almighty God!"--So, then, I live: Peacefully, hour by hour, with little fuss, I shed My days, and think of you, my lady fair! I hear the children chattering; and I see, at times, Sailing across the high seas in its pride, Over the gables of the tranquil village, Some winged ship which is traveling far away, Flying across the ocean, hounded by all the winds. Lately it slept in port beside the quay. Nothing has kept it from the jealous sea-surge: No tears of relatives, nor fears of wives, Nor reefs dimly reflected in the waters, Nor importunity of sinister birds.
0
4.4k
Victor Hugo
Letter
You can see it already: chalks and ochers; Country crossed with a thousand furrow-lines; Ground-level rooftops hidden by the shrubbery; Sporadic haystacks standing on the grass; Smoky old rooftops tarnishing the landscape; A river (not Cayster or Ganges, though: A feeble Norman salt-infested watercourse); On the right, to the north, bizarre terrain All angular--you'd think a shovel did it. So that's the foreground. An old chapel adds Its antique spire, and gathers alongside it A few gnarled elms with grumpy silhouettes; Seemingly tired of all the frisky breezes, They carp at every gust that stirs them up. At one side of my house a big wheelbarrow Is rusting; and before me lies the vast Horizon, all its notches filled with ocean blue; ***** and hens spread their gildings, and converse Beneath my window; and the rooftop attics, Now and then, toss me songs in dialect. In my lane dwells a patriarchal rope-maker; The old man makes his wheel run loud, and goes Retrograde, hemp wreathed tightly round the midriff. I like these waters where the wild gale scuds; All day the country tempts me to go strolling; The little village urchins, book in hand, Envy me, at the schoolmaster's (my lodging), As a big schoolboy sneaking a day off. The air is pure, the sky smiles; there's a constant Soft noise of children spelling things aloud. The waters flow; a linnet flies; and I say: "Thank you! Thank you, Almighty God!"--So, then, I live: Peacefully, hour by hour, with little fuss, I shed My days, and think of you, my lady fair! I hear the children chattering; and I see, at times, Sailing across the high seas in its pride, Over the gables of the tranquil village, Some winged ship which is traveling far away, Flying across the ocean, hounded by all the winds. Lately it slept in port beside the quay. Nothing has kept it from the jealous sea-surge: No tears of relatives, nor fears of wives, Nor reefs dimly reflected in the waters, Nor importunity of sinister birds.
Continue reading...
44
The spider Queen, aloofly vain! She rules a silent ruthless reign, with black-bead eyes like pearls of rain that damp the depths of her demesne. . . . A spider spins, with nimble feet, a sticky web of grim deceit that drapes the corners, dark, discreet, in catacombs of her retreat. Her jointed legs (in number, eight) traverse the threads with stilted gait, but often more she'll lie in wait within the hub of her estate. Shy spiders live their lives alone ensconced within a silky throne; unless a transient guest comes flown, their lives bide empty, monotone. . . Well, now and then, a sullen breeze may twitch the toils, begin to tease – yet nothing's caught and nothing pleas, so patience's bid at times like these. But then again, when stars ignite, may maunder by a gnat, by night, be taught a dance, a writhing rite, within a lace of death, wrapped tight. Sometimes a spider's in the mood and waits awhile, whilst being wooed – and then, to later feed her brood, the widow slays her mate for food. In time a spider dies, 'tis true, bequeathing but a residue entwined, devoid of retinue, in fibers decked in silver dew. . . . One asks "What purpose serves the GNAT – to feed and make the spider fat? Well, 'tis perchance just naught but that within a mindless habitat. . . "Yet, what's the aim?” you may inquire, “at the heart of MAN's desire. To which goals should WE aspire reaching high and reaching higher?" We've, through the ages, left the mire, trundling wheels and taming fire, doing deeds that must inspire, nursing needy, calming crier, … Such things as these, most may admire: - placid dove and war defier (some are bolder, some are shyer) - patience (mess-up mollifier); - humankind (Life's justifier) - charity (charmed self-denier) - tolerance (proud pacifier ) - love of Life (folk unifier). What more could we, as flesh, require? Needless kneeling neath the spire? Childish chanting in the choir? Preaching hell's impending pyre? No, Death's the only rectifier, comes the instant we expire, nothing after, sentience prior. So, treasure Life and don't deny Her.
0
Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 1:29 PM UTC
terry-oleary
The Gnat
The spider Queen, aloofly vain! She rules a silent ruthless reign, with black-bead eyes like pearls of rain that damp the depths of her demesne. . . . A spider spins, with nimble feet, a sticky web of grim deceit that drapes the corners, dark, discreet, in catacombs of her retreat. Her jointed legs (in number, eight) traverse the threads with stilted gait, but often more she'll lie in wait within the hub of her estate. Shy spiders live their lives alone ensconced within a silky throne; unless a transient guest comes flown, their lives bide empty, monotone. . . Well, now and then, a sullen breeze may twitch the toils, begin to tease – yet nothing's caught and nothing pleas, so patience's bid at times like these. But then again, when stars ignite, may maunder by a gnat, by night, be taught a dance, a writhing rite, within a lace of death, wrapped tight. Sometimes a spider's in the mood and waits awhile, whilst being wooed – and then, to later feed her brood, the widow slays her mate for food. In time a spider dies, 'tis true, bequeathing but a residue entwined, devoid of retinue, in fibers decked in silver dew. . . . One asks "What purpose serves the GNAT – to feed and make the spider fat? Well, 'tis perchance just naught but that within a mindless habitat. . . "Yet, what's the aim?” you may inquire, “at the heart of MAN's desire. To which goals should WE aspire reaching high and reaching higher?" We've, through the ages, left the mire, trundling wheels and taming fire, doing deeds that must inspire, nursing needy, calming crier, … Such things as these, most may admire: - placid dove and war defier (some are bolder, some are shyer) - patience (mess-up mollifier); - humankind (Life's justifier) - charity (charmed self-denier) - tolerance (proud pacifier ) - love of Life (folk unifier). What more could we, as flesh, require? Needless kneeling neath the spire? Childish chanting in the choir? Preaching hell's impending pyre? No, Death's the only rectifier, comes the instant we expire, nothing after, sentience prior. So, treasure Life and don't deny Her.
Continue reading...
70
The quiet August noon has come, A slumberous silence fills the sky, The fields are still, the woods are dumb, In glassy sleep the waters lie. And mark yon soft white clouds that rest Above our vale, a moveless throng; The cattle on the mountain's breast Enjoy the grateful shadow long. Oh, how unlike those merry hours In early June when Earth laughs out, When the fresh winds make love to flowers, And woodlands sing and waters shout. When in the grass sweet voices talk, And strains of tiny music swell From every moss-cup of the rock, From every nameless blossom's bell. But now a joy too deep for sound, A peace no other season knows, Hushes the heavens and wraps the ground, The blessing of supreme repose. Away! I will not be, to-day, The only slave of toil and care. Away from desk and dust! away! I'll be as idle as the air. Beneath the open sky abroad, Among the plants and breathing things, The sinless, peaceful works of God, I'll share the calm the season brings. Come, thou, in whose soft eyes I see The gentle meanings of thy heart, One day amid the woods with me, From men and all their cares apart. And where, upon the meadow's breast, The shadow of the thicket lies, The blue wild flowers thou gatherest Shall glow yet deeper near thine eyes. Come, and when mid the calm profound, I turn, those gentle eyes to seek, They, like the lovely landscape round, Of innocence and peace shall speak. Rest here, beneath the unmoving shade, And on the silent valleys gaze, Winding and widening, till they fade In yon soft ring of summer haze. The village trees their summits rear Still as its spire, and yonder flock At rest in those calm fields appear As chiselled from the lifeless rock. One tranquil mount the scene o'erlooks-- There the hushed winds their sabbath keep While a near hum from bees and brooks Comes faintly like the breath of sleep. Well may the gazer deem that when, Worn with the struggle and the strife, And heart-sick at the wrongs of men, The good forsakes the scene of life; Like this deep quiet that, awhile, Lingers the lovely landscape o'er, Shall be the peace whose holy smile Welcomes him to a happier shore.
0
4.1k
William Cullen Bryant
A Summer Ramble
The quiet August noon has come, A slumberous silence fills the sky, The fields are still, the woods are dumb, In glassy sleep the waters lie. And mark yon soft white clouds that rest Above our vale, a moveless throng; The cattle on the mountain's breast Enjoy the grateful shadow long. Oh, how unlike those merry hours In early June when Earth laughs out, When the fresh winds make love to flowers, And woodlands sing and waters shout. When in the grass sweet voices talk, And strains of tiny music swell From every moss-cup of the rock, From every nameless blossom's bell. But now a joy too deep for sound, A peace no other season knows, Hushes the heavens and wraps the ground, The blessing of supreme repose. Away! I will not be, to-day, The only slave of toil and care. Away from desk and dust! away! I'll be as idle as the air. Beneath the open sky abroad, Among the plants and breathing things, The sinless, peaceful works of God, I'll share the calm the season brings. Come, thou, in whose soft eyes I see The gentle meanings of thy heart, One day amid the woods with me, From men and all their cares apart. And where, upon the meadow's breast, The shadow of the thicket lies, The blue wild flowers thou gatherest Shall glow yet deeper near thine eyes. Come, and when mid the calm profound, I turn, those gentle eyes to seek, They, like the lovely landscape round, Of innocence and peace shall speak. Rest here, beneath the unmoving shade, And on the silent valleys gaze, Winding and widening, till they fade In yon soft ring of summer haze. The village trees their summits rear Still as its spire, and yonder flock At rest in those calm fields appear As chiselled from the lifeless rock. One tranquil mount the scene o'erlooks-- There the hushed winds their sabbath keep While a near hum from bees and brooks Comes faintly like the breath of sleep. Well may the gazer deem that when, Worn with the struggle and the strife, And heart-sick at the wrongs of men, The good forsakes the scene of life; Like this deep quiet that, awhile, Lingers the lovely landscape o'er, Shall be the peace whose holy smile Welcomes him to a happier shore.
Continue reading...
60
Losing a tail Is like losing a rudder Like losing a ballast Stability must be found elsewhere As a quadruped there are four points of contact A biped has only two How do we replace that stability? With aspiration ~ Extinct ~ **** erectus* and **** neanderthalensis* ~ Extant ~ Hominids Great Apes Primarily lumbering along on all fours Quadrupedal Except Us **** sapiens* What mechanism allowed for bipeds? Natural selection? Or a naturally selected collective vision Through collective perspiration Art is used to mine dream-time Inspiring the masons among us The art is the plan The architecture is built upon And the builders perspiration Leads to the built environment How do you cap it? Egyptians used a capstone Aspiration Leading to Inspiration Leading to Perspiration Leading to A Spire Naturally
0
Oct 24, 2014
Oct 24, 2014 at 3:58 AM UTC
aaronmullin-fb
Natural Aspirations
Losing a tail Is like losing a rudder Like losing a ballast Stability must be found elsewhere As a quadruped there are four points of contact A biped has only two How do we replace that stability? With aspiration ~ Extinct ~ **** erectus* and **** neanderthalensis* ~ Extant ~ Hominids Great Apes Primarily lumbering along on all fours Quadrupedal Except Us **** sapiens* What mechanism allowed for bipeds? Natural selection? Or a naturally selected collective vision Through collective perspiration Art is used to mine dream-time Inspiring the masons among us The art is the plan The architecture is built upon And the builders perspiration Leads to the built environment How do you cap it? Egyptians used a capstone Aspiration Leading to Inspiration Leading to Perspiration Leading to A Spire Naturally
Continue reading...
40
if you drill down, past the hair, flesh and bone. into my mind where the ego and id  reside. then turn to the left, and follow the i.q. down the alley, you will find a place. where on thrones of cogitating thoughts, king big questions asked, reigns in conjunction, with, queen yet unanswered. they watch with interest benign, over a field of  an eternal tourney, split roughly down the middle by a chasm quite wide. on one side of the gorge is arrayed, the banners of philosophy. at the vanguard, the epistemological knights; plato, descartes, ferrier, kant, hume,spinoza and bosanquet. the major forces ride beneath the banners, of their schools of thought. followed by the lesser lights, and those, obscure or forgotten, who walk at the rear,carrying the gear and to set the tent poles. as to the other side, that is given to, the seminaries of religion; bhuddism, taoism, islam, hindu, juche, rastafarian, sikh, diasporic, parsis, tenrikyo, judaism and christianity with all its clans. they array themselves in cadres, according to belief. and to the rear, there rides, an interesting guerilla band, of intertestemantals, about 3 or 4 hundred years wide. these are the few who are  accounted for, when god spoke nothing, or perhaps a lot but the message just got lost. they number in their disparate clan, alexander the great, ptolemy, the hellanic masses, seluecids, maccabeans, hasmoeans and pompey the great, not all, but the noteworthy. across the divide, by arrowing thought were fought rallies of acumen and battles of wit and occasionally, a persipacious fire was lit. but there is one more player, to mention. apathy, the great hulking ****** who for want of gumption, and get up and go, sat crouched, (quite uncomfortably so) on a spire. made of mediocracy, cemented by woe, in the iddle of the rifted abyss. unable to decide with which team to go.
0
Mar 31, 2014
Mar 31, 2014 at 5:37 PM UTC
betterdays
the tourney
if you drill down, past the hair, flesh and bone. into my mind where the ego and id  reside. then turn to the left, and follow the i.q. down the alley, you will find a place. where on thrones of cogitating thoughts, king big questions asked, reigns in conjunction, with, queen yet unanswered. they watch with interest benign, over a field of  an eternal tourney, split roughly down the middle by a chasm quite wide. on one side of the gorge is arrayed, the banners of philosophy. at the vanguard, the epistemological knights; plato, descartes, ferrier, kant, hume,spinoza and bosanquet. the major forces ride beneath the banners, of their schools of thought. followed by the lesser lights, and those, obscure or forgotten, who walk at the rear,carrying the gear and to set the tent poles. as to the other side, that is given to, the seminaries of religion; bhuddism, taoism, islam, hindu, juche, rastafarian, sikh, diasporic, parsis, tenrikyo, judaism and christianity with all its clans. they array themselves in cadres, according to belief. and to the rear, there rides, an interesting guerilla band, of intertestemantals, about 3 or 4 hundred years wide. these are the few who are  accounted for, when god spoke nothing, or perhaps a lot but the message just got lost. they number in their disparate clan, alexander the great, ptolemy, the hellanic masses, seluecids, maccabeans, hasmoeans and pompey the great, not all, but the noteworthy. across the divide, by arrowing thought were fought rallies of acumen and battles of wit and occasionally, a persipacious fire was lit. but there is one more player, to mention. apathy, the great hulking ****** who for want of gumption, and get up and go, sat crouched, (quite uncomfortably so) on a spire. made of mediocracy, cemented by woe, in the iddle of the rifted abyss. unable to decide with which team to go.
Continue reading...
76
I could hold it in a breath, bury it inside my chest, watch the cilia react, a current sent with each contact; alas, I cannot keep it in considering the broken skin; with crimson ink, this razorblade’s a fountain pen, I scrawl away: “Hear me now, in sight of God, first all is still, then comes the flood.” The little blackbird hushed her song— she could sense something was wrong— pitchforked lightning bent the trees and fireworks consumed the leaves where my better angels hanged— this, the Province of the ****** If you were kept inside my chest, you’d have slipped out with the rest, while the vultures had their fill picking piece by piece until I’m left bone-bleached in the sun— all the others turned to run; but you were steadfast through it all, from the spire to the fall. The willow whispers from outside where my history resides, ghosts of angels hide beneath the wilted branches of that tree— I still catch glimpses of the scythe from the corner of my eye, but morning’s come, I cannot sleep here in the shadow of the Reaper.
0
Apr 11, 2018
Apr 11, 2018 at 1:01 AM UTC
benjamin-lockwood
Sleeper
I could hold it in a breath, bury it inside my chest, watch the cilia react, a current sent with each contact; alas, I cannot keep it in considering the broken skin; with crimson ink, this razorblade’s a fountain pen, I scrawl away: “Hear me now, in sight of God, first all is still, then comes the flood.” The little blackbird hushed her song— she could sense something was wrong— pitchforked lightning bent the trees and fireworks consumed the leaves where my better angels hanged— this, the Province of the ****** If you were kept inside my chest, you’d have slipped out with the rest, while the vultures had their fill picking piece by piece until I’m left bone-bleached in the sun— all the others turned to run; but you were steadfast through it all, from the spire to the fall. The willow whispers from outside where my history resides, ghosts of angels hide beneath the wilted branches of that tree— I still catch glimpses of the scythe from the corner of my eye, but morning’s come, I cannot sleep here in the shadow of the Reaper.
Continue reading...
32
BENEATH the flat and paper sky The sun, a demon's eye, Glowed through the air, that mask of glass; All wand'ring sounds that pass Seemed out of tune, as if the light Were fiddle-strings pulled tight. The market-square with spire and bell Clanged out the hour in Hell; The busy chatter of the heat Shrilled like a parakeet; And shuddering at the noonday light The dust lay dead and white As powder on a mummy's face, Or fawned with simian grace Round booths with many a hard bright toy And wooden brittle joy: The cap and bells of Time the Clown That, jangling, whistled down Young cherubs hidden in the guise Of every bird that flies; And star-bright masks for youth to wear, Lest any dream that fare --Bright pilgrim--past our ken, should see Hints of Reality. Upon the sharp-set grass, shrill-green, Tall trees like rattles lean, And jangle sharp and dissily; But when night falls they sign Till Pierrot moon steals slyly in, His face more white than sin, Black-masked, and with cool touch lays bare Each cherry, plum, and pear. Then underneath the veiled eyes Of houses, darkness lies-- Tall houses; like a hopeless prayer They cleave the sly dumb air. Blind are those houses, paper-thin Old shadows hid therein, With sly and crazy movements creep Like marionettes, and weep. Tall windows show Infinity; And, hard reality, The candles weep and pry and dance Like lives mocked at by Chance. The rooms are vast as Sleep within; When once I ventured in, Chill Silence, like a surging sea, Slowly enveloped me.
0
3.6k
Dame Edith Sitwell
Clowns' Houses
BENEATH the flat and paper sky The sun, a demon's eye, Glowed through the air, that mask of glass; All wand'ring sounds that pass Seemed out of tune, as if the light Were fiddle-strings pulled tight. The market-square with spire and bell Clanged out the hour in Hell; The busy chatter of the heat Shrilled like a parakeet; And shuddering at the noonday light The dust lay dead and white As powder on a mummy's face, Or fawned with simian grace Round booths with many a hard bright toy And wooden brittle joy: The cap and bells of Time the Clown That, jangling, whistled down Young cherubs hidden in the guise Of every bird that flies; And star-bright masks for youth to wear, Lest any dream that fare --Bright pilgrim--past our ken, should see Hints of Reality. Upon the sharp-set grass, shrill-green, Tall trees like rattles lean, And jangle sharp and dissily; But when night falls they sign Till Pierrot moon steals slyly in, His face more white than sin, Black-masked, and with cool touch lays bare Each cherry, plum, and pear. Then underneath the veiled eyes Of houses, darkness lies-- Tall houses; like a hopeless prayer They cleave the sly dumb air. Blind are those houses, paper-thin Old shadows hid therein, With sly and crazy movements creep Like marionettes, and weep. Tall windows show Infinity; And, hard reality, The candles weep and pry and dance Like lives mocked at by Chance. The rooms are vast as Sleep within; When once I ventured in, Chill Silence, like a surging sea, Slowly enveloped me.
Continue reading...
48
The summer sun is sinking low; Only the tree-tops redden and glow: Only the weathercock on the spire Of the neighboring church is a flame of fire; All is in shadow below. O beautiful, awful summer day, What hast thou given, what taken away? Life and death, and love and hate, Homes made happy or desolate, Hearts made sad or gay! On the road of life one mile-stone more! In the book of life one leaf turned o’er! Like a red seal is the setting sun On the good and the evil men have done,— Naught can to-day restore!
0
3.4k
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Sundown
The summer sun is sinking low; Only the tree-tops redden and glow: Only the weathercock on the spire Of the neighboring church is a flame of fire; All is in shadow below. O beautiful, awful summer day, What hast thou given, what taken away? Life and death, and love and hate, Homes made happy or desolate, Hearts made sad or gay! On the road of life one mile-stone more! In the book of life one leaf turned o’er! Like a red seal is the setting sun On the good and the evil men have done,— Naught can to-day restore!
Continue reading...
15
i stand in front of the Bath, Taking a moment to enjoy the experience before it starts. Stream rises from the Surface, Like butterflies over a field of fresh spring blossoms It hovers, seductively inviting me in with a lazy sense if urgency. In the corner, a lone Candle flickers in the rising Steam, Lazily shining its Light Like a Capetonian on a lazy summers evening sipping wine under the setting sun. The Water, blue from the bubblebath, Smells like an orange, ancient, triangular spire in the early dawn of Time. The hot Water receives my body And awakens hibernating skin From its cold, white winter's slumber. The curious Water Finds its way all over my skin In every corner it can, It crawls into And caresses me softly Slowly I relax, As Sir Isaac Newton makes my bath colder And as my skin and water temperatures equalise I lose all sense of self Held afloat by the mighty Water I gaze at the white bubbles As they dance on my chest Popping and merging Reflecting light and whispering Until I finally fall asleep in blissful relaxation.
0
Aug 1, 2014
Aug 1, 2014 at 9:43 PM UTC
jadedsoul
The Bath
i stand in front of the Bath, Taking a moment to enjoy the experience before it starts. Stream rises from the Surface, Like butterflies over a field of fresh spring blossoms It hovers, seductively inviting me in with a lazy sense if urgency. In the corner, a lone Candle flickers in the rising Steam, Lazily shining its Light Like a Capetonian on a lazy summers evening sipping wine under the setting sun. The Water, blue from the bubblebath, Smells like an orange, ancient, triangular spire in the early dawn of Time. The hot Water receives my body And awakens hibernating skin From its cold, white winter's slumber. The curious Water Finds its way all over my skin In every corner it can, It crawls into And caresses me softly Slowly I relax, As Sir Isaac Newton makes my bath colder And as my skin and water temperatures equalise I lose all sense of self Held afloat by the mighty Water I gaze at the white bubbles As they dance on my chest Popping and merging Reflecting light and whispering Until I finally fall asleep in blissful relaxation.
Continue reading...
30
A pigeon loft on the protected building list! We should add a Fishermans hut they will all be missed. They are built around the docks hung with nets and pots, That are repaired and stacked for the next tidal slot. The smell of fresh fish and tarred rope in the air, Lots to sell and some spire. Boats are moved and huts come down, Progress changes Seaham town. Replaced by cafés and sailing boats, No more lobster pots with coloured floats. Improvements are made so we can move on, What can we save before it’s all gone?
0
Apr 21, 2010
Apr 21, 2010 at 11:47 PM UTC
john-ryles
Fisherman's Hut
A pigeon loft on the protected building list! We should add a Fishermans hut they will all be missed. They are built around the docks hung with nets and pots, That are repaired and stacked for the next tidal slot. The smell of fresh fish and tarred rope in the air, Lots to sell and some spire. Boats are moved and huts come down, Progress changes Seaham town. Replaced by cafés and sailing boats, No more lobster pots with coloured floats. Improvements are made so we can move on, What can we save before it’s all gone?
Continue reading...
12
A flaw in the crystal spire Of our deeply entwined hearts, Much like the flaws of corundum, Alights a ruby's fire.
0
May 9, 2016
May 9, 2016 at 1:04 PM UTC
lark-train
Burning Flaws
A flaw in the crystal spire Of our deeply entwined hearts, Much like the flaws of corundum, Alights a ruby's fire.
Continue reading...
4
The snowflake is castellated cold, Of chill crenellations and turnings narrow. Court of pie-powders and gray-skied brazier smoke, Of inner mazework dimmed to ****** holes, Or the hooded machicolations from tower spire Of oily darkness and arrowslits of Greek fire. — The snowflake is Medieval reliquary, The frozen skull of rain and blood clear of sin, Wind-captive with its prayer of quiet On quietest lips, close to wine and sacrament. Or the chapel and its waxen paramours Of incorrupt body and candlelight upon the moors. — The snowflake is the mighty frozen spark, Fire-forged and ironwrought, Under the eye of Hephaestus, Blacksmith of sorrow’s wind.
0
May 11, 2019
May 11, 2019 at 7:47 PM UTC
ChrisSaitta
Two Truths of the Snowflake... and a Lie
The snowflake is castellated cold, Of chill crenellations and turnings narrow. Court of pie-powders and gray-skied brazier smoke, Of inner mazework dimmed to ****** holes, Or the hooded machicolations from tower spire Of oily darkness and arrowslits of Greek fire. — The snowflake is Medieval reliquary, The frozen skull of rain and blood clear of sin, Wind-captive with its prayer of quiet On quietest lips, close to wine and sacrament. Or the chapel and its waxen paramours Of incorrupt body and candlelight upon the moors. — The snowflake is the mighty frozen spark, Fire-forged and ironwrought, Under the eye of Hephaestus, Blacksmith of sorrow’s wind.
Continue reading...
18
People's lives are like far away places and all we can see are their faces and faint traces and flashes of their soul when it seeps through the cracks because it crashes at it's outmost edges. It's as though we nearly think that their soul is what they do, but no and neither is it who they claim to be, or show, it is where they have been, and where they shall go. We gasp for air,  we grasp it there that others must breathe too. Somehow storms still shock us with their might, somehow even when i dont want to, breathing feels right Somehow i know that i was breathed to life somehow sparks that set afire, though they consumed all i was, became small sprouts of life to spire, from the hardest dirt i'd ever seen, when i was the worst man I had ever been they stalked my essence in the ashes, saw through all of the smudges, scratches, held me up to light and saw, an image etched, demanding awe, there it was, but with blurred edges, the image of My god implanted, seed within my soul to bear, the harshest winds, the hottest air. So, as above, so below even stars search for somewhere to go In me, i see my friend, In my friends I see my end, in my end i see beginning, so long as the earth is spinning, and when finally it stops, when we've all forgotten clocks, then in heaven as on earth, shall we know that all has worth, and remember then shall we, all the roots, of life, the tree.
0
Sep 5, 2014
Sep 5, 2014 at 1:25 AM UTC
LuminUmbra
as above, so below.
People's lives are like far away places and all we can see are their faces and faint traces and flashes of their soul when it seeps through the cracks because it crashes at it's outmost edges. It's as though we nearly think that their soul is what they do, but no and neither is it who they claim to be, or show, it is where they have been, and where they shall go. We gasp for air,  we grasp it there that others must breathe too. Somehow storms still shock us with their might, somehow even when i dont want to, breathing feels right Somehow i know that i was breathed to life somehow sparks that set afire, though they consumed all i was, became small sprouts of life to spire, from the hardest dirt i'd ever seen, when i was the worst man I had ever been they stalked my essence in the ashes, saw through all of the smudges, scratches, held me up to light and saw, an image etched, demanding awe, there it was, but with blurred edges, the image of My god implanted, seed within my soul to bear, the harshest winds, the hottest air. So, as above, so below even stars search for somewhere to go In me, i see my friend, In my friends I see my end, in my end i see beginning, so long as the earth is spinning, and when finally it stops, when we've all forgotten clocks, then in heaven as on earth, shall we know that all has worth, and remember then shall we, all the roots, of life, the tree.
Continue reading...
38
Because our talk was of the cloud-control And moon-track of the journeying face of Fate, Her tremulous kisses faltered at love’s gate And her eyes dreamed against a distant goal: But soon, remembering her how brief the whole Of joy, which its own hours annihilate, Her set gaze gathered, thirstier than of late, And as she kissed, her mouth became her soul. Thence in what ways we wandered, and how strove To build with fire-tried vows the piteous home Which memory haunts and whither sleep may roam,— They only know for whom the roof of Love Is the still-seated secret of the grove, Nor spire may rise nor bell be heard therefrom.
0
2.5k
Dante Gabriel Rossetti
Secret Parting
Because our talk was of the cloud-control And moon-track of the journeying face of Fate, Her tremulous kisses faltered at love’s gate And her eyes dreamed against a distant goal: But soon, remembering her how brief the whole Of joy, which its own hours annihilate, Her set gaze gathered, thirstier than of late, And as she kissed, her mouth became her soul. Thence in what ways we wandered, and how strove To build with fire-tried vows the piteous home Which memory haunts and whither sleep may roam,— They only know for whom the roof of Love Is the still-seated secret of the grove, Nor spire may rise nor bell be heard therefrom.
Continue reading...
14
.                                                 sea and sand,                                          .                                           salt and surf, foam and                                        froth, greet and gather, tumble                                     and turn, rock and roll, spray and                                  spin, cross and current,                roar                                        and rise, crash and curdle,                mix                             and mash, blend and bash, drip                          and drop, pour and plunder, leap and                      layer, mound and mist, shine and sheen, scoop                   and scale, spread and span, fall and falter, leap and                layer, splash and spire, bubble and brine, writhe and write          s             e            a           w           o           r            t           h           y
0
May 17, 2019
May 17, 2019 at 2:08 AM UTC
shamamama
seaworthy
.                                                 sea and sand,                                          .                                           salt and surf, foam and                                        froth, greet and gather, tumble                                     and turn, rock and roll, spray and                                  spin, cross and current,                roar                                        and rise, crash and curdle,                mix                             and mash, blend and bash, drip                          and drop, pour and plunder, leap and                      layer, mound and mist, shine and sheen, scoop                   and scale, spread and span, fall and falter, leap and                layer, splash and spire, bubble and brine, writhe and write          s             e            a           w           o           r            t           h           y
Continue reading...
12
The Blue Falcon, cross the spire, Waits in the gables of the white House. Wounded in youth by crush Of air, spent, a wisp perched In the aerie dark with a view of mountains Blue as ice under glacier. The wooden Church from the other side clutches The sky but the Falcon blue is lost In a tuft of cloud that bobs but never Kills. On this strike he is sheathed in stealth The dull talons slip as they dry In the tented air, the songbirds at play In the high-ground underneath warble And chide but the Falcon cannot hear The Falcon near. His heart is soft And muted in the breast, his ears Are dumb to their tickling-songs. Before the Falcons time, over The tilling fields, dropped his world In the spoils where splendour burst in green, Rain meant the feathers ran and the woods, A banquet of game, were bounty's breach Fording blue currents he was A fisher in the sun, but the sun Sank in his drowning sky no store From plateau to quarry the drought of days Moved a castle felled in the dancing Dust, his wings broke in the shuttered Eye of the sun and etched his form Into grey silhouette. Now, the Blue Falcon, jeered In the branches of the rooted air Above the yellowed grass, under the pines And a great blue mountain, stirs a Druid Shape, vaporous, in the cauldron Of the attic in the white house A throw of stones crossways from The sacred yews of the steeple spire.
0
Oct 13, 2013
Oct 13, 2013 at 1:06 PM UTC
ormond
The Blue Falcon
The Blue Falcon, cross the spire, Waits in the gables of the white House. Wounded in youth by crush Of air, spent, a wisp perched In the aerie dark with a view of mountains Blue as ice under glacier. The wooden Church from the other side clutches The sky but the Falcon blue is lost In a tuft of cloud that bobs but never Kills. On this strike he is sheathed in stealth The dull talons slip as they dry In the tented air, the songbirds at play In the high-ground underneath warble And chide but the Falcon cannot hear The Falcon near. His heart is soft And muted in the breast, his ears Are dumb to their tickling-songs. Before the Falcons time, over The tilling fields, dropped his world In the spoils where splendour burst in green, Rain meant the feathers ran and the woods, A banquet of game, were bounty's breach Fording blue currents he was A fisher in the sun, but the sun Sank in his drowning sky no store From plateau to quarry the drought of days Moved a castle felled in the dancing Dust, his wings broke in the shuttered Eye of the sun and etched his form Into grey silhouette. Now, the Blue Falcon, jeered In the branches of the rooted air Above the yellowed grass, under the pines And a great blue mountain, stirs a Druid Shape, vaporous, in the cauldron Of the attic in the white house A throw of stones crossways from The sacred yews of the steeple spire.
Continue reading...
38
Carry me out Into the wind and the sunshine, Into the beautiful world. O, the wonder, the spell of the streets! The stature and strength of the horses, The rustle and echo of footfalls, The flat roar and rattle of wheels! A swift tram floats huge on us . . . It's a dream? The smell of the mud in my nostrils Blows brave--like a breath of the sea! As of old, Ambulant, undulant drapery, Vaguery and strangely provocative, Fluttersd and beckons. O, yonder-- Is it?--the gleam of a stocking! Sudden, a spire Wedged in the mist! O, the houses, The long lines of lofty, grey houses, Cross-hatched with shadow and light! These are the streets . . . Each is an avenue leading Whither I will! Free . . . ! Dizzy, hysterical, faint, I sit, and the carriage rolls on with me Into the wonderful world.
0
2.3k
William Ernest Henley
Discharged
Carry me out Into the wind and the sunshine, Into the beautiful world. O, the wonder, the spell of the streets! The stature and strength of the horses, The rustle and echo of footfalls, The flat roar and rattle of wheels! A swift tram floats huge on us . . . It's a dream? The smell of the mud in my nostrils Blows brave--like a breath of the sea! As of old, Ambulant, undulant drapery, Vaguery and strangely provocative, Fluttersd and beckons. O, yonder-- Is it?--the gleam of a stocking! Sudden, a spire Wedged in the mist! O, the houses, The long lines of lofty, grey houses, Cross-hatched with shadow and light! These are the streets . . . Each is an avenue leading Whither I will! Free . . . ! Dizzy, hysterical, faint, I sit, and the carriage rolls on with me Into the wonderful world.
Continue reading...
27