"spired" poems - Hello Poetry

T ough resourceful, I ntelligent and admirable F ound face first in the pages of books F reeing herself from the cages of the world. A spired writer with pent emotions N egligence of vent Y onder is her ability to write for fear it may come to light

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Feb 18, 2014

Feb 18, 2014 at 5:50 AM UTC

thalion-voronwe-aearion

Tough resourceful, Intelligent and admirable

T ough resourceful, I ntelligent and admirable F ound face first in the pages of books F reeing herself from the cages of the world. A spired writer with pent emotions N egligence of vent Y onder is her ability to write for fear it may come to light

8

--To M. M. M'B. Above the Crags that fade and gloom Starts the bare knee of Arthur's Seat; Ridged high against the evening bloom, The Old Town rises, street on street; With lamps bejewelled, straight ahead, Like rampired walls the houses lean, All spired and domed and turreted, Sheer to the valley's darkling green; Ranged in mysterious disarray, The Castle, menacing and austere, Looms through the lingering last of day; And in the silver dusk you hear, Reverberated from crag and scar, Bold bugles blowing points of war.

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2k

William Ernest Henley

From A Window In Princes Street

--To M. M. M'B. Above the Crags that fade and gloom Starts the bare knee of Arthur's Seat; Ridged high against the evening bloom, The Old Town rises, street on street; With lamps bejewelled, straight ahead, Like rampired walls the houses lean, All spired and domed and turreted, Sheer to the valley's darkling green; Ranged in mysterious disarray, The Castle, menacing and austere, Looms through the lingering last of day; And in the silver dusk you hear, Reverberated from crag and scar, Bold bugles blowing points of war.

15

pressing the tight muscles of my shoulders hard against the stillness of the air leaning into the melody and out of it again my fingers not unlike grasping claws trying to pull music from a dead thing that does not love me the way it used to. you have robbed me of my music, of the words that would flow in elegant waves from my willing fingers, refreshing as water but not nearly as cliche. the melodies that raised the veins in my neck when i spoke them to the mirror and the windshield, that left me breathless heart pounded half-smiling into the beautiful vortex of my spired mind. they're gone now. and i'm left with a dead horse slung across both shoulders and an albatross around my neck.

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Jun 3, 2013

Jun 3, 2013 at 10:38 AM UTC

jillyan-adams

albatross

pressing the tight muscles of my shoulders hard against the stillness of the air leaning into the melody and out of it again my fingers not unlike grasping claws trying to pull music from a dead thing that does not love me the way it used to. you have robbed me of my music, of the words that would flow in elegant waves from my willing fingers, refreshing as water but not nearly as cliche. the melodies that raised the veins in my neck when i spoke them to the mirror and the windshield, that left me breathless heart pounded half-smiling into the beautiful vortex of my spired mind. they're gone now. and i'm left with a dead horse slung across both shoulders and an albatross around my neck.

27

HE stood among a crowd at Dromahair; His heart hung all upon a silken dress, And he had known at last some tenderness, Before earth took him to her stony care; But when a man poured fish into a pile, It Seemed they raised their little silver heads, And sang what gold morning or evening sheds Upon a woven world-forgotten isle Where people love beside the ravelled seas; That Time can never mar a lover's vows Under that woven changeless roof of boughs: The singing shook him out of his new ease. He wandered by the sands of Lissadell; His mind ran all on money cares and fears, And he had known at last some prudent years Before they heaped his grave under the hill; But while he passed before a plashy place, A lug-worm with its grey and muddy mouth Sang that somewhere to north or west or south There dwelt a gay, exulting, gentle race Under the golden or the silver skies; That if a dancer stayed his hungry foot It seemed the sun and moon were in the fruit: And at that singing he was no more wise. He mused beside the well of Scanavin, He mused upon his mockers: without fail His sudden vengeance were a country tale, When earthy night had drunk his body in; But one small knot-grass growing by the pool Sang where -- unnecessary cruel voice -- Old silence bids its chosen race rejoice, Whatever ravelled waters rise and fall Or stormy silver fret the gold of day, And midnight there enfold them like a fleece And lover there by lover be at peace. The tale drove his fine angry mood away. He slept under the hill of Lugnagall; And might have known at last unhaunted sleep Under that cold and vapour-turbaned steep, Now that the earth had taken man and all: Did not the worms that spired about his bones proclaim with that unwearied, reedy cry That God has laid His fingers on the sky, That from those fingers glittering summer runs Upon the dancer by the dreamless wave. Why should those lovers that no lovers miss Dream, until God burn Nature with a kiss? The man has found no comfort in the grave.

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1.7k

William Butler Yeats

The Man Who Dreamed Of Faeryland

HE stood among a crowd at Dromahair; His heart hung all upon a silken dress, And he had known at last some tenderness, Before earth took him to her stony care; But when a man poured fish into a pile, It Seemed they raised their little silver heads, And sang what gold morning or evening sheds Upon a woven world-forgotten isle Where people love beside the ravelled seas; That Time can never mar a lover's vows Under that woven changeless roof of boughs: The singing shook him out of his new ease. He wandered by the sands of Lissadell; His mind ran all on money cares and fears, And he had known at last some prudent years Before they heaped his grave under the hill; But while he passed before a plashy place, A lug-worm with its grey and muddy mouth Sang that somewhere to north or west or south There dwelt a gay, exulting, gentle race Under the golden or the silver skies; That if a dancer stayed his hungry foot It seemed the sun and moon were in the fruit: And at that singing he was no more wise. He mused beside the well of Scanavin, He mused upon his mockers: without fail His sudden vengeance were a country tale, When earthy night had drunk his body in; But one small knot-grass growing by the pool Sang where -- unnecessary cruel voice -- Old silence bids its chosen race rejoice, Whatever ravelled waters rise and fall Or stormy silver fret the gold of day, And midnight there enfold them like a fleece And lover there by lover be at peace. The tale drove his fine angry mood away. He slept under the hill of Lugnagall; And might have known at last unhaunted sleep Under that cold and vapour-turbaned steep, Now that the earth had taken man and all: Did not the worms that spired about his bones proclaim with that unwearied, reedy cry That God has laid His fingers on the sky, That from those fingers glittering summer runs Upon the dancer by the dreamless wave. Why should those lovers that no lovers miss Dream, until God burn Nature with a kiss? The man has found no comfort in the grave.

48

i have no words for emptiness i'm a bulwark of clots and knots death is a ***** in a party mask her seduction a cruel bite we have always lived for nakedness on a pyre makes the man the bodyless are toasting at a college breakfast party in the netherworld of new birthed astral lights the dead living somersaulting like fantasmal flux while we the living dead gimp through labyrinths time-space marking spired hands of a clock that ***** like a black glove towards endless white-knuckle struggles no matter our destiny in a dream of forms like run on ***** a truth only the dead know

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Jul 2, 2018

Jul 2, 2018 at 4:40 PM UTC

zebrablack

No Words for Emptiness

i have no words for emptiness i'm a bulwark of clots and knots death is a ***** in a party mask her seduction a cruel bite we have always lived for nakedness on a pyre makes the man the bodyless are toasting at a college breakfast party in the netherworld of new birthed astral lights the dead living somersaulting like fantasmal flux while we the living dead gimp through labyrinths time-space marking spired hands of a clock that ***** like a black glove towards endless white-knuckle struggles no matter our destiny in a dream of forms like run on ***** a truth only the dead know

23

Isn't it compelling how poems can affect us so emotionally? I mean sure a picture says more than a thousand words but watching television only tells us a certain vision. On the other hand contracting letters must always be spelled right or else there's nothing left to make sense. I refuse to sign a contract to make cents, although I wouldn't cross swords if the oppertunity presents itself. Maybe I am contradicting myself but crossing words is just a hobby to me, for now atleast. I do believe that spelling is like magic spells. We fuse words like a magnet, they either connect to our feelings or repell eachother. It's confusing sometimes when I get inspired beacasue I'm in spired to cast spells, yet I can only spell what I've been remotely controlled by the remotecontroll to my limited visions. I am afraid living. Have I Lived or have I liveD in reverse and learned to embrace the Devil?

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Mar 25, 2018

Mar 25, 2018 at 3:28 PM UTC

amme

Magical spells

Isn't it compelling how poems can affect us so emotionally? I mean sure a picture says more than a thousand words but watching television only tells us a certain vision. On the other hand contracting letters must always be spelled right or else there's nothing left to make sense. I refuse to sign a contract to make cents, although I wouldn't cross swords if the oppertunity presents itself. Maybe I am contradicting myself but crossing words is just a hobby to me, for now atleast. I do believe that spelling is like magic spells. We fuse words like a magnet, they either connect to our feelings or repell eachother. It's confusing sometimes when I get inspired beacasue I'm in spired to cast spells, yet I can only spell what I've been remotely controlled by the remotecontroll to my limited visions. I am afraid living. Have I Lived or have I liveD in reverse and learned to embrace the Devil?

11

Build your nests of red bricks and stone Dig your holes and bend the world to your will The wind carries the scent of your folly to me I may choose to dwell amongst the untrodden ways or perch upon your spired vanity but cherish not with pride the beloved ways of man for what you make or take richens my domain You may abide my enemies but my triumph is centuries long I have danced in the clouds with the souls of dead poets and marked the long leagues from the mountains to the sea The skies are mine My joy you never see Tied to the earth Forever burdened be

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Jul 9, 2013

Jul 9, 2013 at 5:18 PM UTC

jeremy-wyatt

The Clouds are Mine

Build your nests of red bricks and stone Dig your holes and bend the world to your will The wind carries the scent of your folly to me I may choose to dwell amongst the untrodden ways or perch upon your spired vanity but cherish not with pride the beloved ways of man for what you make or take richens my domain You may abide my enemies but my triumph is centuries long I have danced in the clouds with the souls of dead poets and marked the long leagues from the mountains to the sea The skies are mine My joy you never see Tied to the earth Forever burdened be

16

Mother spinster’s sporcy spindle spaed a specious spider splenetically spinning a sparkling specimen of the spired and spherically eggish; still though spinose although sporadic, seemingly soft, deceivingly so, sacred, secret special place to stave off such besetments! Her enchantment’s curse, no less the worse, arachnid terse in webs of verse, or plainly verse we shall rehearse from high above to stage below or thought to hanging from strangely gallows, the sickly web a trap thus cloven of heaven’s weaver said to woven in all her life never betrothen, she cast aside all such resentments! And so Old Mother Hubbard then went to the cupboard speaking her cursed ways… Along came Ariadne, the spider beside thee, winding her spinning, pointing thus pinning upon her the blame for all days. With no voice to speak, evading flood did she seek, a way up from the sea on the laurels of Mother’s uprooted tree. So was it ended, uprooted, upended, the guilt, blame and controversy. Umun-Hubbur, Humwawa, Humbaba, star-weaver and Hubbard and Ariadne!

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Jun 6, 2016

Jun 6, 2016 at 9:56 PM UTC

david-john-mowers

Older Than the Oldest

Mother spinster’s sporcy spindle spaed a specious spider splenetically spinning a sparkling specimen of the spired and spherically eggish; still though spinose although sporadic, seemingly soft, deceivingly so, sacred, secret special place to stave off such besetments! Her enchantment’s curse, no less the worse, arachnid terse in webs of verse, or plainly verse we shall rehearse from high above to stage below or thought to hanging from strangely gallows, the sickly web a trap thus cloven of heaven’s weaver said to woven in all her life never betrothen, she cast aside all such resentments! And so Old Mother Hubbard then went to the cupboard speaking her cursed ways… Along came Ariadne, the spider beside thee, winding her spinning, pointing thus pinning upon her the blame for all days. With no voice to speak, evading flood did she seek, a way up from the sea on the laurels of Mother’s uprooted tree. So was it ended, uprooted, upended, the guilt, blame and controversy. Umun-Hubbur, Humwawa, Humbaba, star-weaver and Hubbard and Ariadne!

4

Concrete beneath seats of listeners Chalk artists creating frames for the next rainfall Wash away sun burnt big toes beads of sweat on sunglasses Spoken word next to handrails The river below huffs the wind Spits it to the current of artistry waving back from shore Cancel the 12:50 replace the interruption with impromptu colors of the rainbow Let children wander under bridges and pop balloons filled with water Color paint Let the world around us drink water of guitar strings and gaze at ambient light with star-struck eyes Let the world revolve around lightning bolt revolt Protect sacred performing stages Say yes to Art-spired revolution

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Jun 21, 2017

Jun 21, 2017 at 5:00 PM UTC

benny-the-jet

Galvanízo̱ (for Artspire 2017)

Concrete beneath seats of listeners Chalk artists creating frames for the next rainfall Wash away sun burnt big toes beads of sweat on sunglasses Spoken word next to handrails The river below huffs the wind Spits it to the current of artistry waving back from shore Cancel the 12:50 replace the interruption with impromptu colors of the rainbow Let children wander under bridges and pop balloons filled with water Color paint Let the world around us drink water of guitar strings and gaze at ambient light with star-struck eyes Let the world revolve around lightning bolt revolt Protect sacred performing stages Say yes to Art-spired revolution

39

Touch the roughness of my natures bark, Through the needle ****** of my out-stretched (branched) legacy, How I once spired toward the heavens, But now am filled with rot and moldy decay, All ways had my arms stretched out, Green with envy, Of having you not by my side, But seen in the company of theirs, Yet now my ****** have softened, As I have altered from a rugged envious green, To a mellow yellowed, And the last of me is drying up inside, I still stand alone, My rise upward has all but continued onward, My branched out legacy as you now see, Is now wasting away, I am a near naked skeleton, Soon to become no more, Oh, how at my life’s end shall I do what I refused to do in my pride, For life shall surely break my back… and I left to lean on others, Their arms shall hold me up with all their strength, But their help is now futile, For the weight of my life’s gluttony, Will break their resolve and push me down ward, That is now the legacy of my life’s route, But before I collapse, With a rage of hot red… I shall become, My needles will one last time harden, As I frantically poke my anger into all who dare reach into me, The rugged skin of my stature may have partly flaked off, But I want not that my soul core be reached, By any who wish to reach in and dissect it, My strength or weakness need not their assistance, Nor their explanation of matters concerning it, I was once a great tree in an endless forest of trees, But it was you alone… that had made me special. (c) Joseph D R-H Palmateer

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Mar 9, 2017

Mar 9, 2017 at 10:02 AM UTC

joseph-d-r-h-palmateer

I Once Was a Tree

Touch the roughness of my natures bark, Through the needle ****** of my out-stretched (branched) legacy, How I once spired toward the heavens, But now am filled with rot and moldy decay, All ways had my arms stretched out, Green with envy, Of having you not by my side, But seen in the company of theirs, Yet now my ****** have softened, As I have altered from a rugged envious green, To a mellow yellowed, And the last of me is drying up inside, I still stand alone, My rise upward has all but continued onward, My branched out legacy as you now see, Is now wasting away, I am a near naked skeleton, Soon to become no more, Oh, how at my life’s end shall I do what I refused to do in my pride, For life shall surely break my back… and I left to lean on others, Their arms shall hold me up with all their strength, But their help is now futile, For the weight of my life’s gluttony, Will break their resolve and push me down ward, That is now the legacy of my life’s route, But before I collapse, With a rage of hot red… I shall become, My needles will one last time harden, As I frantically poke my anger into all who dare reach into me, The rugged skin of my stature may have partly flaked off, But I want not that my soul core be reached, By any who wish to reach in and dissect it, My strength or weakness need not their assistance, Nor their explanation of matters concerning it, I was once a great tree in an endless forest of trees, But it was you alone… that had made me special. (c) Joseph D R-H Palmateer

37

“Insistent I beseech; that I must be upon its brim.” Wallow-crusted, ink-seared bed; a crooked- pearl adorned corals by the thawed bank, Bountiful aye! The cruise has yet booked; but hasty tripped the waves and got me shank! “Hush’n harken! ‘Tis the fruiting!” And yet amidst the spree; thereafter peered I through, A boon past filigree, An overbrim en-route: A gilded chalice; to glow when only spired upon its wallow. “However scornful, I insist; still.”

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Sep 28, 2017

Sep 28, 2017 at 1:17 PM UTC

sorcierdargent

A Lulled Trove

“Insistent I beseech; that I must be upon its brim.” Wallow-crusted, ink-seared bed; a crooked- pearl adorned corals by the thawed bank, Bountiful aye! The cruise has yet booked; but hasty tripped the waves and got me shank! “Hush’n harken! ‘Tis the fruiting!” And yet amidst the spree; thereafter peered I through, A boon past filigree, An overbrim en-route: A gilded chalice; to glow when only spired upon its wallow. “However scornful, I insist; still.”

12

Weird is the heart Of this wired hour! I AM EMPOWERED in spired towers On walls of blooming morning flowers As darkness cowers; lord the land! You tenant man, this fruit is yours, devour.

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Jan 4, 2016

Jan 4, 2016 at 9:24 AM UTC

goodbyepoetry

empowered

Weird is the heart Of this wired hour! I AM EMPOWERED in spired towers On walls of blooming morning flowers As darkness cowers; lord the land! You tenant man, this fruit is yours, devour.

7

*i just wana be your sweet dreamy demon lover boy nocturnal emissions crimson puddle a storm brewing over your body blood moons kissing your eyes in my mouth your *** a sanctum spired kicks and hot spit licks Satan and the Saints weeping like naked torrents i play her like a cello a languid dirge licking deep deep with utterances wild caress like black tea steep steep mouths gaping like cherry blood raw and dark jam a vampires moistened lips till **** drooled and pooled thick muscles flex taught we are voodoo dolls in flames all falling red ribbons i am a pole of lightning you all *** smog spread your tongue a flogging lolly spilling sparks the body of this woman a crying wound red sun streaming freaky kisses flesh eater drinking beaten bones and skin marrow melting *** crime sublime who did what to who is it bad are we sad where we've been is it a sin?

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Oct 15, 2017

Oct 15, 2017 at 1:10 PM UTC

zebrablack

Blood Moons

*i just wana be your sweet dreamy demon lover boy nocturnal emissions crimson puddle a storm brewing over your body blood moons kissing your eyes in my mouth your *** a sanctum spired kicks and hot spit licks Satan and the Saints weeping like naked torrents i play her like a cello a languid dirge licking deep deep with utterances wild caress like black tea steep steep mouths gaping like cherry blood raw and dark jam a vampires moistened lips till **** drooled and pooled thick muscles flex taught we are voodoo dolls in flames all falling red ribbons i am a pole of lightning you all *** smog spread your tongue a flogging lolly spilling sparks the body of this woman a crying wound red sun streaming freaky kisses flesh eater drinking beaten bones and skin marrow melting *** crime sublime who did what to who is it bad are we sad where we've been is it a sin?

44

*Satan's *** nail is pounded in the floor sharp side jutting up pristine it glows like a diamond in flames be careful to wear the thick boots of God its a crime if you step upon this gleaming nail bare foot there are dagged blades voluptuous spired and protruding from every wall made of black obsidian shards be mindful to wear Gods hair shirt to keep from being pierced by edges so dark they are the marks of Satan's lust the stony land you inhabit is torrid feverous a world soul of scintillating rhythms be careful to wear the warm woolly hat of God with thick ear muffs to shield you from the rays and Lucifer's moans of seduction don't take off your shoes to cool and stretch crimped toes or Satan's *** nail will pierce your feet don't remove your hair shirt or dagged cutlery will score your torso ****** don't remove your woollies or the seductive rhythms will set you dancing thread-less a mindless dizzy sinner shaking your *** if you dare find yourself lewd hungry for dark lechery aphrodesia you will be aghast at first a scourge even to your self ashamed that you are not ashamed unable to suffer the the protection of Gods garments any longer thrilled dancing naked your cut feet will be scorched with fragrant balms and sweeten the earth with sensuality your wounded torso will be perfumed and fondled with rich thickened unguents the adoration of limitless love your head will bob to the rhythms of the world soul your raw mouth red slicked with creamy waters ***** ***** **** and *** will fly like silky angels to gates of adoration in the feral embrace of multitudes and when asked by men of God why you dance naked like a happy ***** clad in piercings your torch a black fire like a Babylon of harlots you will realize horror of horrors that you are hooked on Satan's *** nail an abomination to the good men of God religion drinking piranhas and as they ply their craft of wisdom and inquisition with accusations of souls black heart you may look around and realize the God they praise is a hard red fist admonitions and threats of endless purgatories and hells to bind the lascivious heart delicious a bean counter of transgressions every pleasure a sin every imprisonment a virtue their God a Vatican of curses*

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Jul 15, 2017

Jul 15, 2017 at 7:20 PM UTC

zebrablack

SATAN'S *** NAIL

*Satan's *** nail is pounded in the floor sharp side jutting up pristine it glows like a diamond in flames be careful to wear the thick boots of God its a crime if you step upon this gleaming nail bare foot there are dagged blades voluptuous spired and protruding from every wall made of black obsidian shards be mindful to wear Gods hair shirt to keep from being pierced by edges so dark they are the marks of Satan's lust the stony land you inhabit is torrid feverous a world soul of scintillating rhythms be careful to wear the warm woolly hat of God with thick ear muffs to shield you from the rays and Lucifer's moans of seduction don't take off your shoes to cool and stretch crimped toes or Satan's *** nail will pierce your feet don't remove your hair shirt or dagged cutlery will score your torso ****** don't remove your woollies or the seductive rhythms will set you dancing thread-less a mindless dizzy sinner shaking your *** if you dare find yourself lewd hungry for dark lechery aphrodesia you will be aghast at first a scourge even to your self ashamed that you are not ashamed unable to suffer the the protection of Gods garments any longer thrilled dancing naked your cut feet will be scorched with fragrant balms and sweeten the earth with sensuality your wounded torso will be perfumed and fondled with rich thickened unguents the adoration of limitless love your head will bob to the rhythms of the world soul your raw mouth red slicked with creamy waters ***** ***** **** and *** will fly like silky angels to gates of adoration in the feral embrace of multitudes and when asked by men of God why you dance naked like a happy ***** clad in piercings your torch a black fire like a Babylon of harlots you will realize horror of horrors that you are hooked on Satan's *** nail an abomination to the good men of God religion drinking piranhas and as they ply their craft of wisdom and inquisition with accusations of souls black heart you may look around and realize the God they praise is a hard red fist admonitions and threats of endless purgatories and hells to bind the lascivious heart delicious a bean counter of transgressions every pleasure a sin every imprisonment a virtue their God a Vatican of curses*

87

#☩ ☩ ☩ If you think That Haile Selassie is the Living God of scripture you are WAY too high and I and I and I and I . . .

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Mar 25, 2021

Mar 25, 2021 at 11:13 AM UTC