Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Elaina Jan 2013
Beautiful Haiku
Seventeen sounds form message
Words springing to life
Loud without the wind was roaring
Through th'autumnal sky;
Drenching wet, the cold rain pouring,
Spoke of winter nigh.
All too like that dreary eve,
Did my exiled spirit grieve.
Grieved at first, but grieved not long,
Sweet--how softly sweet!--it came;
Wild words of an ancient song,
Undefined, without a name.

"It was spring, and the skylark was singing:"
Those words they awakened a spell;
They unlocked a deep fountain, whose springing,
Nor absence, nor distance can quell.

In the gloom of a cloudy November
They uttered the music of May ;
They kindled the perishing ember
Into fervour that could not decay.

Awaken, o'er all my dear moorland,
West-wind, in thy glory and pride!
Oh! call me from valley and lowland,
To walk by the hill-torrent's side!

It is swelled with the first snowy weather;
The rocks they are icy and ****,
And sullenly waves the long heather,
And the fern leaves are sunny no more.

There are no yellow stars on the mountain
The bluebells have long died away
From the brink of the moss-bedded fountain--
From the side of the wintry brae.

But lovelier than corn-fields all waving
In emerald, and vermeil, and gold,
Are the heights where the north-wind is raving,
And the crags where I wandered of old.

It was morning: the bright sun was beaming;
How sweetly it brought back to me
The time when nor labour nor dreaming
Broke the sleep of the happy and free!

But blithely we rose as the dawn-heaven
Was melting to amber and blue,
And swift were the wings to our feet given,
As we traversed the meadows of dew.

For the moors! For the moors, where the short grass
Like velvet beneath us should lie!
For the moors! For the moors, where each high pass
Rose sunny against the clear sky!

For the moors, where the linnet was trilling
Its song on the old granite stone;
Where the lark, the wild sky-lark, was filling
Every breast with delight like its own!

What language can utter the feeling
Which rose, when in exile afar,
On the brow of a lonely hill kneeling,
I saw the brown heath growing there?

It was scattered and stunted, and told me
That soon even that would be gone:
It whispered, "The grim walls enfold me,
I have bloomed in my last summer's sun."

But not the loved music, whose waking
Makes the soul of the Swiss die away,
Has a spell more adored and heartbreaking
Than, for me, in that blighted heath lay.

The spirit which bent 'neath its power,
How it longed--how it burned to be free!
If I could have wept in that hour,
Those tears had been heaven to me.

Well--well; the sad minutes are moving,
Though loaded with trouble and pain;
And some time the loved and the loving
Shall meet on the mountains again!
Simon Monahan Mar 2018
Springing, a wooden fountain clawing up and seizing handfuls of sky,
From a seed, once pierced, flooding bark and vein and leaf,
A flash-frozen image witnessing centuries of inching growth,
Earth’s womb births a living monument to the beauty of tireless patience.

His grip streams also downwards, cascading away from the light,
Roots surge, a backwards tree, a forest to gravity submissive,
Sundering stone and breaking bedrock, juggernaut tendrils,
Disdaining gold and diamond to drink deep decomposed dirt.

Come summertide, branches bow and bend, saluting the forest floor,
Spring flowers fall and seed-fruits swell, the weight of promised life,
Fecundity unrivalled, to feed man and bird and wasp and deer,
And to charge the earth with secret plans of sprouts for future days.
The first line is taken from another poem of mine, "Lauds Arboreal": https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2206491/lauds-arboreal/
Joan Karcher Aug 2012
how many paths, how many loves
living and changing and ever climbing
learning and growing and springing over
like purple sunsets entering red mountains
each experience reopening your eyes, gaining
wisdom and freedom, ever increasing strength

Atlas holding Gaia, never ending strength
becoming charged and overcome with love    
encircled with history and caring, gaining
a repertoire of eternal connections, climbing
into dream fields surrounded by mountains
will this serenity ever be over?

though hopefully the uncertainty will be over
and that we will have strength
to conquer all the encountered mountains
created by each newly attained love
embrace avenues crossed and obstacles climbed
to have pleasure and confidence gained

though will paradise ever be gained
allowing forgetfulness of pain we're over
while still remembering friendships we climbed
every node you pass gives strength
for the next stage of love
giving elemental power to move mountains

our past shadows creating fresh mountains
to relive, to adore; understanding gained
so many different forms of love
meaningfully distinct, passed but never over,
each one providing new wonderful strength
to allow us unique nirvanas climbed

always strive for larger heights climbed
those hopes will be worth mountains
don't fear any loss of strength,
weakness endured is often willpower gained
hate and sorrow should never over-
come the treasureful bliss of love

*Don't be afraid of the climb to the top of the mountain
unbelievable strength will be gained,
all the adventures that are over will become unforgettable love
The vines have turned the color of the season —
as red as the wine their grapes will spill.
I peer back up the hillside into the circling sun,
an infinite swath of yellow. Below it surges
Homer’s wine-dark sea, repeatedly, endlessly, effortlessly
spreading. Except the sea is never red in Greece or Italy,
or even in France, where I stand amid a sea of wine-red leaves,
in silence, under the sun, holding back the flood of invaders below.

From the crumbling wall of the vineyard,
I survey the village of Riquewihr in all its medieval splendor,
gorged with tourists like an unfortunate goose
gagging on grain forced down its gullet:
foie gras for the shopkeepers, who crowd the cobbled courtyard
in all its chaos and cacophony.
“Sample a macaroon for free under the ramparts.”
“Buy a reproduction of a one-of-a-kind watercolor of the bell tower,
built in 1291. (Only 400 Euros for the original),” the artist says.
“Reserve it now for Christmas.”

His stocking cap needs cleaning, I think.
I eye the village fountain, the half-timbered shops, the claustrophobic
stone houses, brightly painted, squeezed into walls like tiny fortresses.
The artist tells me how hard it is to make a living —
the global economy his impenetrable wall, which holds back a flood
of buyers from Germany, China, New York.

I decline his offer to buy and climb the steep hill out of town,
the wine-dark hill of the vineyard.
This is what it means to inherit the world:
to stand apart, high, distant, above the sea
of other tourists, just like yourself, who yearn to stand apart,
just like yourself, laden with bulky guidebooks,
just like yourself, looking for the perfect souvenir, just like yourself,
the one that will sit perfectly on their mantle. Just like yourself,
they seek a memento that will remember for them — remember
all they could have had if only they had had the village to themselves.
If only you had had the village to yourself, to make it your own.

On this sunny afternoon, the village is my own — for a moment,
from a distance, awash in gray-blue shadow. Only the vineyard beams:
isolated, fecund, teeming with dreams; ever gaining on the harvest;
angling closer to the giant wine press that will spew the scarlet juice
at my feet, the earth turned the color of blood.

I resist the urge to pluck a baby cluster of grapes, nestled safely
beneath a leafy wave of this wine-dark sea, these purple berries
springing from the ground: so many earthy bubbles, born to burst.
Le terroir in French: The dirt makes all the difference.

A handful of soil would prove the perfect souvenir, nest-ce pas?
sitting pretty on my mantle. The dust and debris would blow away
day by day, like ashes spilled from a funerary urn,
the sacred remains of my travels.

Let me be buried, then, in memory of the fertile furrows of Alsace.
Let me push up this hillside, along its ample paths of abundance;
its ripening rows of fruit; its wine-red passageways through leaves
and vines, steep and luminous; the sea of blood yet to be pressed
from the soon-to-be-crimson grapes.

“Does this vast vineyard hold any secret worth journeying halfway
around the world to find?” That is the question I scribble in the dirt.
“Does this village? Does this vision? Does this ancient, failing wall?”
Even if the answer is “No, no, no,” I shall reply, “Yes, yes, yes.”

Yes, let me be buried in Alsatian soil as a lasting souvenir.
Yes, let me lie here, as I stand: free and upright,
lighted by the autumn sun, unchanging, set apart
to revel in the marvel of red blood seeping into the soil
.
Yes, let me make this stained patch of dirt my own.

The vines have turned the color of the season —
wine-red, wine-dark, blood-red.
And I have turned the color of the vines,
in silence, under the sun, holding back the flood.
ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOUGH, IN APRIL, 1786

Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flow’r,
Thou’s met me in an evil hour;
For I maun crush amang the stoure
Thy slender stem:
To spare thee now is past my pow’r,
Thou bonie gem.

Alas! it’s no thy neebor sweet,
The bonie lark, companion meet,
Bending thee ‘mang the dewy weet,
Wi’ spreckled breast!
When upward-springing, blithe, to greet
The purpling east.

Cauld blew the bitter-biting north
Upon thy early, humble birth;
Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth
Amid the storm,
Scarce reared above the parent-earth
Thy tender form.

The flaunting flow’rs our gardens yield,
High shelt’ring woods and wa’s maun shield;
But thou, beneath the random bield
O’ clod or stane,
Adorns the histie stibble-field,
Unseen, alane.

There, in thy scanty mantle clad,
Thy snawy ***** sunward spread,
Thou lifts thy unassuming head
In humble guise;
But now the share uptears thy bed,
And low thou lies!

Such is the fate of artless Maid,
Sweet flow’ret of the rural shade!
By love’s simplicity betrayed,
And guileless trust,
Till she, like thee, all soiled, is laid
Low i’ the dust.

Such is the fate of simple Bard,
On Life’s rough ocean luckless starred!
Unskilful he to note the card
Of prudent lore,
Till billows rage, and gales blow hard,
And whelm him o’er!

Such fate to suffering worth is giv’n,
Who long with wants and woes has striv’n,
By human pride or cunning driv’n
To mis’ry’s brink,
Till wrenched of ev’ry stay but Heav’n,
He, ruined, sink!

Ev’n thou who mourn’st the Daisy’s fate,
That fate is thine -no distant date;
Stern Ruin’s ploughshare drives, elate,
Full on thy bloom,
Till crushed beneath the furrow’s weight,
Shall be thy doom!
Valsa George Jul 2014
When the sun glowed warm with brighter sheen
The Earth that lay inert in drunken sleep
Woke up suddenly to greet the glorious dawn
Casting aside the blanket of fluffy wool

Beams of light thawed and melted the icy crust
Leaving the land, bare, bright and new
A clean slate for life to make a fresh start
And give our Earth a lovely face lift

As winter slouched away in staggering steps
Spring, came down gracefully on dancing feet
Like an ingenious wizard with the Mida’s touch
Turning everything into glittering green n’ gold

So awesome it is to watch with widening eye
The first burgeoning of life with the kiss of spring
Every tree n’ every shrub, dressed in sudden sprout of leaves
And every plant and every bough bursting into newer buds

Daffodils on wayside nodding in blooms of gold
Pansies and daisies springing close to passing heels
The laburnum and lilacs, getting ready to burst into bloom
Flowers yellow, red and blue on every fence and field

Butterflies flitting round and round on colorful wings
And exotic blooms in gentle breeze swinging their heads
The birds that ere migrated to warmer climes
Coming back once more to fill the aerial space

Sparrows merrily twittering around tiled eaves
The robin springing, throwing a livelier note
The lark disappearing into the sky of fleecy clouds
The swallows shooting out into giddy heights

The feathered minstrels, filling the air in riotous rings
And Nature covering the Earth in quilts of lovely designs
Lovers leave their fireside hearths and coming out
To ramble through country paths, hand in hand

Oh! Spring has come to wipe away the frosty tear
And fill the hearts with overwhelming cheer
Let us join this array of happy crowd
And sing a song of joy with this mirthful brood
Sa Sa Ra Dec 2012
~Welcome the Eighth of days!!
Whereby the snake of fear becomes our best of friend transmutable,
we come here now ready already in~~

"Joy"
~'Release all your fear
Heaven anticipates earth
Rolling in laughter'~~
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/joy-18/

‎"Everything you see has its roots in the unseen world.

The forms may change, yet the essence remains the same.

Every wonderful sight will vanish,

every sweet word will fade,

But do not be disheartened,

The source they come from is eternal, growing,

Branching out, giving new life and new joy.

Why do you weep?

The source is within you

And this whole world is springing up from it".


-Rumi~~
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/rumi-weep-within-you-springing-up-from-it/

~'So It Is Sown!!!

From,
The Heart of the Infinite Deep Dark Sea of LOVE <3 <3 :) :)!!!
From where she and all is sprung and springs still and still;
Where if some is Good More Is Given!!!!

Welcome to the 8th of Days...
My Dearly departed and imperishable ones of such this very LOVE!!!'~~
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/dearly-departed-1/

'Satyam Shivam Sundram Love Truly as Kindness in Action
as Beauty Be of Great Spirits's Ka- Alling Afu Ra's Childeren All
Must Be One Great Womb Where Our Love's Light Spirit Breathes
Within as without, above and below every rainbow I Am Another You';
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/in-lakech-ala-kin/

'I know of these flock's,
Of all the little birds and swarms,
Of bees, but whom did 'Tweet',

Which did 'Pollinate' Lovely Upon Such,
A Shimmering Glimmering Flowering Field,

I know not which one,
or if s/he was or is still sleeping!!!

**"Bliss's!!R'
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/glimmer-the-field/

2012 Crossing Over, A New Beginning;
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hlfYHAV1i8w

'Nostradamus and sleeping prophet's One lost image of the singular Eye';
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/columbuss-crossing/

'Nostradamus too understood so much within,
With and about these could find no conclusion,
Of otherwise what was self evident,
Certain kinds of trends predictable,

But a blank of 'time/space',
That went blank thereabouts by,
Nine Times Nine the 81st page,
'The Lost Book of Nostradamus',
Where it was left open...

IS... Us...

Knock Knock!!!
BLISS

You can become

'One' with this then 'Great Architect',
See, Understand A Midwife Be Need,

Then Also Completely That None Can Be Left Out Indeed!!!'
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/come-home-all-returning/

"KISS Kiss'S KissES"!!!

'Keep It Simple Silly

'Sweet

Especially Sweet!!!'
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/kiss-kisss-kisses-1/

"HEART TIME"

'GOOD  Time
Bad Time

HEART

NO TIME

HEART

NO TIME
AT ALL'
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/heart-time/

"Knock Knock BLISS!!!"

'If this BLISS comes knockin'
BLISS wants in, O' Be Lite Swift

Say the 'Door Is Already Open'
Bring Friends All The More!!!'
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/knock-knock-bliss/

'Dancing In LOVE's
Joyly Fun Seeking
Thine Rightfully
Divined Kiss's
Thine Divine
All Willing
Alrighty
Got
\/
.
.
And
Out of
Ode Baseless
Fearful Trances
Hypnotic Spell's
Broken Freed
~Of IT ALL~
Abusively
Already
Leave's
If You
Let It
Be!!
\/
S
o'
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/my-needs-deep-of-all/

~'We Shall Launch That
Greater Magical Mystery
'IT' of them ALL!!!'~~
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/friend-of-heaven/

~'Know soonly
We shall find,

Truly Abundantly Food
For Our Bodies And Souls;

EIGHT DAYS A WEEK!!!'~~
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/here-we-are-eight-days-a-week/

~'Your heart
torrential river
rushing reaching
touching changes all
at once all so between
it's every beating!!!'~~
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/yours-and-mine/

~'As we breathe so too it follows like the Great Tantric Being...'~~
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/faith-from-whence-they-came/

~'Solomon is here with me man
and we laughing really we can
understand the wooing of such
pains fading Heaven oh so hard
and at once too easily off!!'~~
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/solomon-is-here/

~'Sure I can understand your heart
that just assume chop garlic really

and more than imagine
the quandaries

and about the fairly's of lonely's

wide by wakeful heart of eye
I can dream about the hopes, dares

and of your despairs of your great
yet uncertain missions too'~~
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/garlic-really-or/

~'Still I say
Forgive me all!!!

Oh silly me,
for to be or not to be,
twas not question after all,'~
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/forgive-me-all/

~'In any Darkness at all,

This or night, still you will find,
there is truly only More Love Willing,

To Come Into the Sphere' of Our Beings,'~~
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/this-eye-timothy/

"Mind Games" - John Lennon

We're playing those mind games together

Pushing the barriers, planting seeds
Playing the mind guerrilla

Chanting the mantra, peace on earth
We all been playing those mind games forever

Some kinda druid dudes lifting the veil
Doing the mind guerrilla

Some call it magic, the search for the grail

Love is the answer and you know that for sure
Love is a flower, you got to let it, you got to let it grow

So keep on playing those mind games together

Faith in the future, outta the now

You just can't beat on those mind guerrillas
Absolute elsewhere in the stones of your mind

Yeah we're playing those mind games forever
Projecting our images in space and in time

Yes is the answer and you know that for sure
Yes is surrender, you got to let it, you got to let it go

So keep on playing those mind games together
Doing the ritual dance in the sun

Millions of mind guerrillas
Putting their soul power to the karmic wheel

Keep on playing those mind games forever
Raising the spirit of peace and love

Love...
(I want you to make love, not war, I know you've heard it before)
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/imagine-this-two-by-john-lennon-1/

“When you work you are a flute through whose heart the whispering of the hours turns to music.
To love life through labor is to be intimate with life’s inmost secret.
All work is empty save when there is love, for work is love made visible.”
~~Kahlil Gibran~~~!!!
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/kahlil-gibran-such-your-beauty-of-love/

'We gift each other,
I will run with what you impart,
to me and with what I see,
your most precious gifts,'
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/again-with-for-timothy-one-with-all/

'As much as this is simple truth,
I know those now whose body itself is one with this inner spirit,
and runs in defiance of all other illusion!!!'

"Know then that the body is merely a garment
Go seek the wearer , not the cloak."

~ Rumi
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/in-defiance-of-all-other-illusion/
I agree with the spiritual aspects of this film however I do not agree with 'they here now, past no longer' and or forward'
All are in this together and all will roll with the 'Stone' One Force of Love!!!
They we have all worked hard and long for the One Dream befalling upon us all!!
We are fee to see, hear, understand, forgive our selves and other selves and Speak with Compassionate LOVE!!! It is the gift one finds with inner self love through inner self honesty!!
What you truly wish to see without you must embrace truly within as we all receive this pure Divine Love Spirit inwardly receiving!!!!
All abandoned power is regained and solution is love mete need without question or discrimination!!!

2012 Crossing Over, A New Beginning OFFICIAL FILM
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hlfYHAV1i8w

As much as this is simple truth,
I know those now whose body itself is one with this inner spirit,
and runs in defiance of all other illusion!!!

"Know then that the body is merely a garment
Go seek the wearer , not the cloak."

~ Rumi
https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=382088405208293&set;=a.143009069116229.37546.143005819116554&type;=1&theater;

Poem by Sa Sa Ra in draft,
edited well enough yet,
half completed!!!

I share here what I have yet!!!
<3 <3 :) :) R

l'ON'L'eYe'

ILLUSSION
PARADISE
\               /
Is that
IT NEVER
Left
Right
BRAIN

only
IMAGINED
WE
D'eye'D

  ~Heart
    KISS's~~

MISS'S
/                   \
LITE HEART's
BLISS's

DEARLY
DE-PARTED's
LOVE's

Light
Star Dust
EmcSquared's
  wh"Y"      
        Owe    
yoU    
'
'S'
'
Let's
Sow
Be

IT US
AS ALL
RETURN

SO MUCH
HAVE EARNED

LEARNED ALL
OF LOVE

WAKE
SHAKE

MAKE
UP

OUR
SELVES

<3<3##:):)!!! Sa Sa!!!
The month was a short, cold month.
This new poetry was a real month,
but the old months, remembered dimly,
not remembered, were the most
informative.  Reading was like walking,
in contemplation, through the blue light.
Some are laughing, some are weeping;
She is sleeping, only sleeping.
Round her rest wild flowers are creeping;
There the wind is heaping, heaping
Sweetest sweets of Summer's keeping,
By the cornfields ripe for reaping.

There are lilies, and there blushes
The deep rose, and there the thrushes
Sing till latest sunlight flushes
In the west; a fresh wind brushes
Through the leaves while evening hushes.

There by day the lark is singing
And the grass and weeds are springing:
There by night the bat is winging;
There forever winds are bringing
Far-off chimes of church-bells ringing.

Night and morning, noon and even,
Their sound fills her dreams with Heaven:
The long strife at length is striven:
Till her grave-bands shall be riven
Such is the good portion given
To her soul at rest and shriven.
vircapio gale Mar 2013
below the eyelid-waves,
another iridescence grows.
currents blur the view in pentacles of light
to rhythms of the waning breath
--warping what an artist's vision yields,
the canvas of the mind stretched taut
in hues to coalesce the old and new,
absorb the intertidal volumes
with keener intake,
firmest diaphram to lift the pressure out
and sink into pelagic origins finally,
imbue myself poseidonal,
renew the birth of "love"

i am soaking with it,
open mouthed my cry is swallowed by the sea
i am a kracken echinoidea
******* up the floor
of life exchanging me with joy--
of jellyfish and snail,
burrowed shrimp, eyeful gobies,
clowns in their anemones--
my spires swirling clouds of green
to carpet spotted sky with verdant wake
and springing there,
from crest to crest,
a body undulating foam, it rolls voluptuous to swell
the bioluminescent instant... taken in the vast, full span of time...
to see her born here,
'mid dolphin song and symbol crash of tide
protuberance of shore awash in seeming pleasure of the rhythmic act--
alive the goddess comes, into her flesh--
to widen eyes,
re-establish channels to the heart
as if an aperture of cloud
were opening again,
to end an ancient overcast
and usher down to earth
the lance of starlight that would reach beyond the wrecks of ocean depth...

so too her visage strikes the darker corners of the heart
illumes all buried hopes
of bottom dwelling wretchedness,
and draws the tide above the line,
littoral tresses falling,
steep in pools calcareous and algal
worlds remaking worlds within the contours sexing there
imagined limestone in your many perfect forms,
marble softness swimming in my eyes
awaken appetites of newfound youth again.
the ochre lines that stripe along your curves
let hidden ripeness waft across my passion-eye
and with the grassy dunes i lie, doze in wrack at once--
as arches of my sight are pierced with rays of inner sun
my seabreath muse purveys, inhaled;
i would see you as you are entirely,
disperse myself into aesthetic mist,
become the spray on coastal loam
a sundog floating in and out of forms
become your mullusk lust;
sipuncula embrace of benthic dust
and slip along the textures
of your progenation's flood--
emerge as one and many lives
becoming me, this vision
in your suds, your divination's scree
--the salty rooting of the coastal trees,
the sand, the wave and moon
upon the dancing kelp forestal out at sea...
shining in the winking foam and symbiota sand.
crevice and the length of dyads simulating one,
phallus, *****, and none--
egg and **** bed..
diatoms  flourishing  again...
in you i am the ****** my own gestation obviates
i am effluxion of all lives in balance
on an ever-swaying crestline of irruptive suds--
diaphanous array upon your porous *****'s heave
weaving in and out, continuing to blur
in riven sight and empty heart to fill
the blood containing rapid urgency
to feed, to taste and seek its nourish-all
when after having given up the possibilities of love
and having worn the incompleteness raw,
the obverse affirmation cracks the sky...
at last they burst surreal into the now
and lacking practice courting glory
stumble over habits long attuned to falsities unveiled
and drawn into your undertow,
all cravings wrung into the novelty of merging without end--
arrive, horizonal, and echo from the dawn of being more than one




.
littoral: of or relating to the shore
wrack: masses of dried seaweed, kelp found on the beach
sipuncula: marine worms
benthic: relating to the bottom of a sea or lake or to the organisms that live there
diatoms: algae or phytoplankton essential to ecosystems
effluxion: a flowing outward
I

Who would be
A mermaid fair,
Singing alone,
Combing her hair
Under the sea,
In a golden curl
With a comb of pearl,
On a throne?

II

I would be a mermaid fair;
I would sing to myself the whole of the day;
With a comb of pearl I would comb my hair;
And still as I comb'd I would sing and say,
'Who is it loves me? who loves not me?'
I would comb my hair till my ringlets would fall
                Low adown, low adown,
From under my starry sea-bud crown
                Low adown and around,
And I should look like a fountain of gold
        Springing alone
        With a shrill inner sound
                Over the throne
        In the midst of the hall;
Till that great sea-snake under the sea
From his coiled sleeps in the central deeps
Would slowly trail himself sevenfold
Round the hall where I sate, and look in at the gate
With his large calm eyes for the love of me.
And all the mermen under the sea
Would feel their immortality
Die in their hearts for the love of me.

III

But at night I would wander away, away,
        I would fling on each side my low-flowing locks,
And lightly vault from the throne and play
     With the mermen in and out of the rocks;
We would run to and fro, and hide and seek,
     On the broad sea-wolds in the crimson shells,
Whose silvery spikes are nighest the sea.
But if any came near I would call and shriek,
And adown the steep like a wave I would leap
     From the diamond-ledges that jut from the dells;
For I would not be kiss'd by all who would list
Of the bold merry mermen under the sea.
They would sue me, and woo me, and flatter me,
In the purple twilights under the sea;
But the king of them all would carry me,
Woo me, and win me, and marry me,
In the branching jaspers under the sea.
Then all the dry-pied things that be
In the hueless mosses under the sea
Would curl round my silver feet silently,
All looking up for the love of me.
And if I should carol aloud, from aloft
All things that are forked, and horned, and soft
Would lean out from the hollow sphere of the sea,
All looking down for the love of me.
Ay, this is freedom!--these pure skies
  Were never stained with village smoke:
The fragrant wind, that through them flies,
  Is breathed from wastes by plough unbroke.
Here, with my rifle and my steed,
  And her who left the world for me,
I plant me, where the red deer feed
  In the green desert--and am free.

For here the fair savannas know
  No barriers in the bloomy grass;
Wherever breeze of heaven may blow,
  Or beam of heaven may glance, I pass.
In pastures, measureless as air,
  The bison is my noble game;
The bounding elk, whose antlers tear
  The branches, falls before my aim.

Mine are the river-fowl that scream
  From the long stripe of waving sedge;
The bear that marks my weapon's gleam,
  Hides vainly in the forest's edge;
In vain the she-wolf stands at bay;
  The brinded catamount, that lies
High in the boughs to watch his prey,
  Even in the act of springing, dies.

With what free growth the elm and plane
  Fling their huge arms across my way,
Gray, old, and cumbered with a train
  Of vines, as huge, and old, and gray!
Free stray the lucid streams, and find
  No taint in these fresh lawns and shades;
Free spring the flowers that scent the wind
  Where never scythe has swept the glades.

Alone the Fire, when frost-winds sere
  The heavy herbage of the ground,
Gathers his annual harvest here,
  With roaring like the battle's sound,
And hurrying flames that sweep the plain,
  And smoke-streams gushing up the sky:
I meet the flames with flames again,
  And at my door they cower and die.

Here, from dim woods, the aged past
  Speaks solemnly; and I behold
The boundless future in the vast
  And lonely river, seaward rolled.
Who feeds its founts with rain and dew;
  Who moves, I ask, its gliding mass,
And trains the bordering vines, whose blue
  Bright clusters tempt me as I pass?

Broad are these streams--my steed obeys,
  Plunges, and bears me through the tide.
Wide are these woods--I thread the maze
  Of giant stems, nor ask a guide.
I hunt till day's last glimmer dies
  O'er woody vale and grassy height;
And kind the voice and glad the eyes
  That welcome my return at night.
O happy rose-bud blooming
  Upon thy parent tree,--
Nay, thou art too presuming;
For soon the earth entombing
  Thy faded charms shall be,
And the chill damp consuming.

O happy skylark springing
  Up to the broad blue sky,
Too fearless in thy winging,
Too gladsome in thy singing,
  Thou also soon shalt lie
Where no sweet notes are ringing.

And through life's shine and shower
  We shall have joy and pain;
But in the summer bower,
And at the morning hour,
  We still shall look in vain
For the same bird and flower.
barnoahMike Jun 2011
Here Kitty,  Kitty,, called aloud the man~relaxing in his Lounge chair~while sipping a Slightly-Sugared Iced tea.   Here Kitty,  Kitty,,He continued to call~wondering where the curious cat~might have have made off to~THIS TIME..     Perhaps to the New neighbors~where boxes of all shapes and colors~were carefully~Disarrayed in the back yard~Just waiting for the curious...      Not getting any response from Kitty~the Man decided to PEER over ~the Neighborhood Alignment Fence~and Sure enough~There was Kitty!     Kitty was Springing~Up and Down~Like a YO-YO and Jumping from Box to Box.   Curiosity is an Amazing thing~Isn't it?    The Man seemed to be caught in a Trance~As he watched Kitty~continue to jump and  YO-YO !    What could be in those boxes?~that held such fascination?   Was it a Creepy-crawler~a Slimy-Slitherer~a Wise-Wiggler~a Dashing-Dancer~an Awful-Awesome~a Yelping-Yeoman~an Energized-Egrit~an Ugly-Duckling~a Fast Frog~a Gorgeous-Gargantula~a Social Secret~a Horrible-hulk'a Raspy-Rascal~an Insensitive-Iguana~a Jumping-Jackal ?     OR ,    was it simply the color of the Boxes ?     Look at that Curios Kitty~Jumping and Jumping and Jumping !      SUDDENLYthe Man~Totally overcome by ~Lady Curiosity~Bounded over the Alignment Fence~Dashed Promptly to the Boxes~Scattering them all over the Yard~Trying to Discover ~ "THE SOURCE" ..    Only ONE box remained ~after opening~All the Others!  NOW he would find the ANSWER!   He carefully approached the LAST BOX~Gently pulled it closer~looking for a way to Open~-------  Lifting Lid carefully~Slowly~KITTY~came Bounding out~All claws~digging and clinging to His chest~Was that FEAR~~HE SAW in KITTY'S  eyes?_  "AS His ALARM-CLOCK ,, Screamed out to Him"AWAKEN_
COPYRIGHT @2011   by barnoahMike         Mike Ham
Anais Vionet Jan 2022
I woke up late this morning, my phone was dead. I guess I never plugged it in, I found it buried under my pillow (erah!). I barely had time for anything, just managing to cover the basics as the “Whoop” sound signaled my first virtual classroom opening. A pop-up announced that the class would be recorded and available later. “Yessss!” I thought, as I put in my airpods.

My room is surprisingly full of houseplants. There’s a ponytail palm, an anthurium and philodendrons sending down tendrils of heart-shaped leaves from shelves and tables. I drew open my curtains and the room bloomed, morning sunny. It was 22° but my windows are almost always cracked open to let in some real air.

I’m dressed in an unstylish, black school hoodie, short pajama pants, long socks and fluffy, pink slippers for my virtual class. My still-wet hair looked attractively mop-like. I began brushing it out while arranging the colored gel-pens and highlighters I use to take notes.

Was I ever starving, but I could only imagine breakfast. Ever notice how the sun looks like a giant egg-yolk? At least my Keurig was on the job - burping, whirring and dripping like a malfunctioning steam engine as it rendered lifesaving French Vanilla coffee that smelled like caffeinated heaven.

As the professor started talking about the syllabus, outlining the types of problems we’ll be working on this semester and reminding us of things we learned in our intro to econ class, a teaching assistant, in another window, asked us to press the roll-call icon and reminded us we had a paper due (this is why we read our syllabus, people). Then the assistant's window became a countdown timer showing what remained of the ten minutes we’d been given to upload the first-day’s homework.

Twenty minutes into the class, I was combed out and ponytailed, coffeed-up and positively vibrating with pleasure - I LOVE this stuff - strategies, actions, outcomes and payoffs. Student life is unnatural, stressful and myopic - but it can be thrilling too.

There was a knock on my door frame (the door to my room is almost always open), and one of my roommates, Sunny, was there. “Morning, Princess Anesthesia,” she said, teasing me about over-sleeping.

I pointed to my pink-M1-iMac screen, to indicate I was in class and she tossed me a bag. I knew, at once, that it was breakfast from the cafeteria. “I love you,” I mouthed, before turning back to the screen.

Spring Semester has begun.
BLT word of the day challenge: Myopic: a narrow perspective
Nigel Morgan Feb 2013
Is there anything more lonely than the sound of boy playing a banjo on a spring afternoon? Oh yes, yes, it’s the sound of girl playing a banjo on a spring afternoon. A boy would lean back on the porch chair and let the instrument fall and rest on his chest to feel the raindrop-plucked vibrations, one by one. This girl, she sits on a kitchen chair, but not in the kitchen, and folds herself over her Daddy’s 5-string. The banjo rests on her blue-cottoned thigh, the lower metal edge firm against her stomach, her slight ******* pressed against the upper wooden rim. If you were standing in the doorway of the workshop you’d see her blond hair falling, falling over her face. There would be that dead-centre parting and just visible the edge of her wire-rimmed glasses.  Then, the denim jacket worn over the kind of summer-blue flowered frock pulled from her Mummy’s clothes that with her passing have now migrated into her bedroom. The thought of clothes is what there is close to hand at the break of day.

When Kath woke this morning, when the morning woke Kath, the valley air was already as sweet, as fresh as any April morning could possibly be in this green hollow of her home. She had lain there feeling the air caress her forehead. The window, always open beside her tangled bed, let in the ringing song of the waterthrush. Newly returned this handsome brown migrant warbler, his whitish breast streaked with brown, more thrush than warbler, she’d watched in the stream yesterday wading on his long, pink legs bobbing his tail like a spotted sandpiper. Soon there would be a nest somewhere in the beech and hemlock hollow along by the stream in the interstices of some fallen tree.

Ellen was due home this morning. She’d hear the Toyota from way up the track, driven overnight from Philadelphia she’d have stopped and stopped. Tired and so tired, she’d go from truck stop to truck stop, the radio her only company and the thought of Joel between her legs arching into her to keep her warm. But she’d drive with the windows down swallowing the night air as the ***** brown car swallowed the miles. Kath would have the coffee waiting, potato cakes on the stove, she’d have a fresh towel placed on her bed, underwear warm from the dryer, spring flowers bunched in mug on the window sill.

Ellen would never come right in when she arrived home, but sit down with the dogs on the porch step and gather herself, watch the mist rise down in the valley, drink in the bird-ringing silence. Kath would steal open the door and crouch beside her with Mummy’s coffee cup thrown, glazed and fired at Plummer’s Fold. Head resting against the porch supports Ellen would allow the cup to be placed between her hands, her fingers uncurled then curled by Kath around its rough circumference. There would be a kiss on the back of the neck and she’d be gone back upstairs to sit with her notebook, those new lyrics she’d been fashioning, her Plummer’s Fold diary – yesterday had been a rich day as she’d walked the bounds of Brush Mountain on the Big Tree Trail singing and plucking an invisible banjo all the while. Those songs of her great-great uncle she’d discovered in a pile of Library of Congress recordings just echoed through her, had become part of her. They were as much a part of the hinterland of Brush Mountain as the stones on the trail. Garth Watson’s voice, well she knew every turn and breath. She’d been listening to them since she was thirteen. She saw herself at the old Victrola blowing off the dust, placing the forgotten disk on the central spindle, scratching the needle with her finger to test the machine, gauge its volume. Then, that voice surrounding her, entering her, as lonesome as the scrawny girl just out of junior high that she had been, the dumb silent girl from the backwoods with that cute clever sister who played guitar and was everybody’s friend, who the boys rushed to fill the empty seat next to her on the school bus.

They’d recorded this song on their Lonesome Pine album. Kath had it all arranged, had it all imagined, brought it to that session at One-Two Records. She had been so scared Ellen would smile gently and say ‘Kath, not this ol’ thing surely. Why I remember Daddy singing this song into the night over and over.’ But no. When Kath had sung it through, looking into the bowl of her denim skirt, she’d raise her eyes to see tears running down Ellen's face. Everything between them changed at that moment. The location studio in The Farm House disappeared and they were girls on their home porch. In an hour they had it down and Larry had said. ‘My God, Holy Jesus, where did that come from’. So they went straight home and listened to those old records all night and most of the next day. They rewrote the album they’d spent a year planning (and saving for).

So now when they came together on those country fair stages, in the cafes in Baltimore or Philly it was that haunting Appalachian music that ran through their songs. Kath still shy as a blushing bean, hiding in the hair and glasses, reluctantly singing harmony vocals, Ellen– well, that girl had only to look wistfully into the audience and they were hers.  

And so they were living this life holed up in their family place, keeping faith with Plummer’s Fold. Daddy was in a home in Lewis now. He’d taken himself there before his dementia had taken him. He played his girls’ CDs all day long on his Walkman, had their pictures in his near to empty room – just a rocker, a table, a pile of books by his bed with Dora’s wedding quilt.

This music, this oh so heart-breaking music, the loping banjo, the tinkling, springing, glancing accidental guitar and their innocent valley voices. They’d exhausted the old records now and, their education in the old ways done, were back with new songs and Kath’s ideas to only record in the Fold and build songs with soundtracks of the world around them. She’d been laying down tracks day after day whilst Ellen was on the road with the Williams Band and often solo, support for the Minna Peel as ‘an outsider folk artist from deepest Appalachia.’

Kath wouldn’t travel more than a day away from the farm. Every show was an agony, except for the time they were performing. She couldn’t bear all that stuff that surrounded it – all that waiting, the sound check, more waiting, that networking **** One-Two constantly wanted her to be part of. She’d ***** off as the guys gathered around Ellen. She’d take a book and sit in the Toyota. She couldn’t do people, though she loved her folks, she loved her sister like she loved the trees and stones, the birds and flowers on Brush Mountain. Always shy, always afraid of herself ‘Too sensitive for your own good, Kathy girl’, her Daddy had said. Never been kissed in passion, never allowed herself to fall for love, though her body drove her to feelings she had read about, and thus fuelled had succumbed to. There was a boy she’d see in Lewis just from time to time who she thought about, and thought about. She imagined him kissing her and holding her gently in the night . . .
1 My white canoe, like the silvery air
2 O'er the River of Death that darkly rolls
3 When the moons of the world are round and fair,
4 I paddle back from the "Camp of Souls."
5 When the wishton-wish in the low swamp grieves
6 Come the dark plumes of red "Singing Leaves."

7 Two hundred times have the moons of spring
8 Rolled over the bright bay's azure breath
9 Since they decked me with plumes of an eagle's wing,
10 And painted my face with the "paint of death,"
11 And from their pipes o'er my corpse there broke
12 The solemn rings of the blue "last smoke."

13 Two hundred times have the wintry moons
14 Wrapped the dead earth in a blanket white;
15 Two hundred times have the wild sky loons
16 Shrieked in the flush of the golden light
17 Of the first sweet dawn, when the summer weaves
18 Her dusky wigwam of perfect leaves.

19 Two hundred moons of the falling leaf
20 Since they laid my bow in my dead right hand
21 And chanted above me the "song of grief"
22 As I took my way to the spirit land;
23 Yet when the swallow the blue air cleaves
24 Come the dark plumes of red "Singing Leaves."

25 White are the wigwams in that far camp,
26 And the star-eyed deer on the plains are found;
27 No bitter marshes or tangled swamp
28 In the Manitou's happy hunting-ground!
29 And the moon of summer forever rolls
30 Above the red men in their "Camp of Souls."

31 Blue are its lakes as the wild dove's breast,
32 And their murmurs soft as her gentle note;
33 As the calm, large stars in the deep sky rest,
34 The yellow lilies upon them float;
35 And canoes, like flakes of the silvery snow,
36 Thro' the tall, rustling rice-beds come and go.

37 Green are its forests; no warrior wind
38 Rushes on war trail the dusk grove through,
39 With leaf-scalps of tall trees mourning behind;
40 But South Wind, heart friend of Great Manitou,
41 When ferns and leaves with cool dews are wet,
42 Bows flowery breaths from his red calumet.

43 Never upon them the white frosts lie,
44 Nor glow their green boughs with the "paint of death";
45 Manitou smiles in the crystal sky,
46 Close breathing above them His life-strong breath;
47 And He speaks no more in fierce thunder sound,
48 So near is His happy hunting-ground.

49 Yet often I love, in my white canoe,
50 To come to the forests and camps of earth:
51 'Twas there death's black arrow pierced me through;
52 'Twas there my red-browed mother gave me birth;
53 There I, in the light of a young man's dawn,
54 Won the lily heart of dusk "Springing Fawn."

55 And love is a cord woven out of life,
56 And dyed in the red of the living heart;
57 And time is the hunter's rusty knife,
58 That cannot cut the red strands apart:
59 And I sail from the spirit shore to scan
60 Where the weaving of that strong cord began.

61 But I may not come with a giftless hand,
62 So richly I pile, in my white canoe,
63 Flowers that bloom in the spirit land,
64 Immortal smiles of Great Manitou.
65 When I paddle back to the shores of earth
66 I scatter them over the white man's hearth.

67 For love is the breath of the soul set free;
68 So I cross the river that darkly rolls,
69 That my spirit may whisper soft to thee
70 Of thine who wait in the "Camp of Souls."
71 When the bright day laughs, or the wan night grieves,
72 Come the dusky plumes of red "Singing Leaves."
Maggie Emmett Nov 2016
You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may trod me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I’ll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
‘Cause I walk like I’ve got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.

Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I’ll rise.

Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops,
Weakened by my soulful cries?

Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don’t you take it awful hard
‘Cause I laugh like I’ve got gold mines
Diggin’ in my own backyard.

You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may **** me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I’ll rise.

Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I’ve got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?

Out of the huts of history’s shame
I rise
Up from a past that’s rooted in pain
I rise
I’m a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.

Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that’s wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise.
From And Still I Rise by Maya Angelou. Copyright © 1978 by Maya Angelou.
Having seen the dreadful remarks made on Social Media about USA President's wife, Michelle Obama I think this poem is worth re-reading
Robin Carretti Jul 2018
The beauty summons us to see
But it pushes us back to where
we want to be
So let it be I don't think so?
And if its just so why are you
dropping a hint

It's my call falling for him
Stairway to Brain heaven
The Godly lights epic picks
Start to  dim

Conquering him
The Christopher Columbus
The brains of America going out
of my mind

But falling for someone
please have a decent loving
heart humankind

I hear two people calling
Two brains are far apart

Our brain the happening
Your awakening to stretch
Play it smart
One drop falling

Two waterfalls
The Seasons summer
Your brain is
Springing eyes emerging
and falling in love
In the fall

New love calls
Sometimes the relationship
falls
The brain of the throne
All you see are dead head clones
Frankenstein met the blind man
His brain was wicked and strange
But changed to a kind man
The brain is governed by madness
Like your falling stars

Like the last laugh the class clown
Even you feel like your falling
In another outer- limit town
The brain is over your limit
something to fight off the
bad memories
  Or the enemies and the fight
Something you feel in your brain
Kicked the daylights out of you
And at night the moon is spinning
You don't know where it's turning
You're under the cusp fighting

Your arm wrestling but your mind is
Scarlet falling (Gone with the Wind) in
another direction
There is something in the way
With your brain needs
more affection
Like the endorphin

Reproduce repair damage
We need more fuel to kick start it
And gasoline it up
With the right outlook, it could be years
to understand but don't give up
I got a brain my (Cafe) shock full of brains
on my intellectual cup

  The sword up to experiment like
the sorcerer keeping some distance
to his lover
Your brain is an experience
like no other
The world is a brain
relationship it
needs to be worked on
My fuel is my Coffee
Welcome Hi  Chai Tea join me

The spiritual connection
feeding you
Staying healthy  looking up
All the greens kale or broccoli
The super brain women her
Superman
vitamins
The better balance
of life and good company
Your spiritual awareness
Somehow over thinking
got you careless
Don't let your brain
fall into a ditch
We are the world opens up
to everyone

And show your kindness from the
ridiculous to the sublime just ****
on a lemon or lime

Goes timber tree watch out you
were close enough to see it fall
Being selective this is not about
Taking electives starting to fail
Or falling he sees you high up on the
cliff
The beach-tropics more brain wired
topics taking a sniff
Your brain waves flooding your
vacation

Niagara Falls looking out the big
Mr. Anderson window hands
perfectly fall together
He had such a Fall-out with the
The manager he did fall for her
That heavy smoke the cigarette bud
Needed to be put out
You sneeze a wrong time to say
(God Bless you) you felt timeout
And what about the world
They must mean something
there all not
computer dummies

The barbecue nightmare
Did you go brain dead
But falling torrential rain
over bodies to be wed
The rarity of the mind fuse
has been
blown out
Like he saw falling stars so intricate
out of blown glass

( Florence Italy) a wedding started
to fall right
into place

The Royce Royce was as
white as her skin and wedding gown

But your used car needed a tune-up
All sounds of the motor clunk junkyard
Her brain was the volcano her mouth was
as loud
as the falling rocks
By the high up docks, where was her brains
no one heard you
On the deserted Island, the bird was
flying in flocks

The cortex of her brain rocks on
the  house drink

We love to watch the falling leaves
something you saw
On her white sheer blouse,
your teardrops
falling on her heart sleeve
Endless lifeless, loveliness,
All streams
But not your girl Brook_*

In October remember the falling
red fire the mass between the
Einstein brain of words
you got hired blinded by stars
Leaves were mixed the brown
warm cocoa
hot desire the  terra cotta-gold
The Villa seashore was sold
What we put in our brain is endless
We need to tightly hold

Our  kitten mittens her nose tip of the snow
So cold but someone is there to
pick you up when you fall
Do you believe falling in love is timeless
The brain can be many things like a drug perky more awake than others your brain can change your thinking like an engine in your car blinking the brain is everyone's fuel we are not in school this is more serious how the brain works
Zak Krug Dec 2012
Sitting in a bar.
A beer with perspiration.
Its raining outside.
Hear the shuffleboard shuffle.
Intoxicated poetics.
Sober state of mind.

Stools shrouded in mystery.
Double doors leading in.
Bartender’s creations. (chemical concoctions)
Saloon of slumlords and hipsters
Open mic night.
Hippie Howls.

Don’t worry we got this under control.
Malboro reds, cowboy killers.
Don’t spend you life wishing,
Spend it living.
Better yet, spend it drinking.
Liquid courage. (men becoming beasts)

Awkward rages.
The best is coming.
Shielding secret shame in this scene.
Hidden in a pint of pilsner.
Free thinkers in a haze of hops.
Lets get drunk.

Make shift graveyards on the walls.
Honoring the dead.
Rest in peace.
Nothing less, nothing more.

Old Heidelberg.
Before my time.

The stalls scrawled with graffiti.
For a good time call.
Scratched onto the stall.
“Spread love like butter on a hot bun”
Sherlock and Watson.
Bromance.
This is a bar of friends.

What is this bar?
Drunk off this atmosphere.
Window panes with neon signs.
Disillusioned.
Concealed.
Unfinished.
The moves fast and goes right by.
Springing forward without a shadow of a doubt.
Members of the Great Unwashed.
The signs of our time.
I think we’re going to split.

Can I get another drink?
One for the road.

Don’t cut me off quite yet.
The vivid grass with visible delight
Springing triumphant from the pregnant earth,
The butterflies, and sparrows in brief flight
Chirping and dancing for the season's birth,
The dandelions and rare daffodils
That touch the deep-stirred heart with hands of gold,
The thrushes sending forth their joyous trills,--
Not these, not these did I at first behold!
But seated on the benches daubed with green,
The castaways of life, a few asleep,
Some withered women desolate and mean,
And over all, life's shadows dark and deep.
Moaning I turned away, for misery
I have the strength to bear but not to see.
Then Pallas Minerva put valour into the heart of Diomed, son of
Tydeus, that he might excel all the other Argives, and cover himself
with glory. She made a stream of fire flare from his shield and helmet
like the star that shines most brilliantly in summer after its bath in
the waters of Oceanus—even such a fire did she kindle upon his head
and shoulders as she bade him speed into the thickest hurly-burly of
the fight.
  Now there was a certain rich and honourable man among the Trojans,
priest of Vulcan, and his name was Dares. He had two sons, Phegeus and
Idaeus, both of them skilled in all the arts of war. These two came
forward from the main body of Trojans, and set upon Diomed, he being
on foot, while they fought from their chariot. When they were close up
to one another, Phegeus took aim first, but his spear went over
Diomed’s left shoulder without hitting him. Diomed then threw, and his
spear sped not in vain, for it hit Phegeus on the breast near the
******, and he fell from his chariot. Idaeus did not dare to
bestride his brother’s body, but sprang from the chariot and took to
flight, or he would have shared his brother’s fate; whereon Vulcan
saved him by wrapping him in a cloud of darkness, that his old
father might not be utterly overwhelmed with grief; but the son of
Tydeus drove off with the horses, and bade his followers take them
to the ships. The Trojans were scared when they saw the two sons of
Dares, one of them in fright and the other lying dead by his
chariot. Minerva, therefore, took Mars by the hand and said, “Mars,
Mars, bane of men, bloodstained stormer of cities, may we not now
leave the Trojans and Achaeans to fight it out, and see to which of
the two Jove will vouchsafe the victory? Let us go away, and thus
avoid his anger.”
  So saying, she drew Mars out of the battle, and set him down upon
the steep banks of the Scamander. Upon this the Danaans drove the
Trojans back, and each one of their chieftains killed his man. First
King Agamemnon flung mighty Odius, captain of the Halizoni, from his
chariot. The spear of Agamemnon caught him on the broad of his back,
just as he was turning in flight; it struck him between the
shoulders and went right through his chest, and his armour rang
rattling round him as he fell heavily to the ground.
  Then Idomeneus killed Phaesus, son of Borus the Meonian, who had
come from Varne. Mighty Idomeneus speared him on the right shoulder as
he was mounting his chariot, and the darkness of death enshrouded
him as he fell heavily from the car.
  The squires of Idomeneus spoiled him of his armour, while
Menelaus, son of Atreus, killed Scamandrius the son of Strophius, a
mighty huntsman and keen lover of the chase. Diana herself had
taught him ******* every kind of wild creature that is bred in
mountain forests, but neither she nor his famed skill in archery could
now save him, for the spear of Menelaus struck him in the back as he
was flying; it struck him between the shoulders and went right through
his chest, so that he fell headlong and his armour rang rattling round
him.
  Meriones then killed Phereclus the son of Tecton, who was the son of
Hermon, a man whose hand was skilled in all manner of cunning
workmanship, for Pallas Minerva had dearly loved him. He it was that
made the ships for Alexandrus, which were the beginning of all
mischief, and brought evil alike both on the Trojans and on Alexandrus
himself; for he heeded not the decrees of heaven. Meriones overtook
him as he was flying, and struck him on the right buttock. The point
of the spear went through the bone into the bladder, and death came
upon him as he cried aloud and fell forward on his knees.
  Meges, moreover, slew Pedaeus, son of Antenor, who, though he was
a *******, had been brought up by Theano as one of her own children,
for the love she bore her husband. The son of Phyleus got close up
to him and drove a spear into the nape of his neck: it went under
his tongue all among his teeth, so he bit the cold bronze, and fell
dead in the dust.
  And Eurypylus, son of Euaemon, killed Hypsenor, the son of noble
Dolopion, who had been made priest of the river Scamander, and was
honoured among the people as though he were a god. Eurypylus gave
him chase as he was flying before him, smote him with his sword upon
the arm, and lopped his strong hand from off it. The ****** hand
fell to the ground, and the shades of death, with fate that no man can
withstand, came over his eyes.
  Thus furiously did the battle rage between them. As for the son of
Tydeus, you could not say whether he was more among the Achaeans or
the Trojans. He rushed across the plain like a winter torrent that has
burst its barrier in full flood; no *****, no walls of fruitful
vineyards can embank it when it is swollen with rain from heaven,
but in a moment it comes tearing onward, and lays many a field waste
that many a strong man hand has reclaimed—even so were the dense
phalanxes of the Trojans driven in rout by the son of Tydeus, and many
though they were, they dared not abide his onslaught.
  Now when the son of Lycaon saw him scouring the plain and driving
the Trojans pell-mell before him, he aimed an arrow and hit the
front part of his cuirass near the shoulder: the arrow went right
through the metal and pierced the flesh, so that the cuirass was
covered with blood. On this the son of Lycaon shouted in triumph,
“Knights Trojans, come on; the bravest of the Achaeans is wounded, and
he will not hold out much longer if King Apollo was indeed with me
when I sped from Lycia hither.”
  Thus did he vaunt; but his arrow had not killed Diomed, who withdrew
and made for the chariot and horses of Sthenelus, the son of Capaneus.
“Dear son of Capaneus,” said he, “come down from your chariot, and
draw the arrow out of my shoulder.”
  Sthenelus sprang from his chariot, and drew the arrow from the
wound, whereon the blood came spouting out through the hole that had
been made in his shirt. Then Diomed prayed, saying, “Hear me, daughter
of aegis-bearing Jove, unweariable, if ever you loved my father well
and stood by him in the thick of a fight, do the like now by me; grant
me to come within a spear’s throw of that man and **** him. He has
been too quick for me and has wounded me; and now he is boasting
that I shall not see the light of the sun much longer.”
  Thus he prayed, and Pallas Minerva heard him; she made his limbs
supple and quickened his hands and his feet. Then she went up close to
him and said, “Fear not, Diomed, to do battle with the Trojans, for
I have set in your heart the spirit of your knightly father Tydeus.
Moreover, I have withdrawn the veil from your eyes, that you know gods
and men apart. If, then, any other god comes here and offers you
battle, do not fight him; but should Jove’s daughter Venus come,
strike her with your spear and wound her.”
  When she had said this Minerva went away, and the son of Tydeus
again took his place among the foremost fighters, three times more
fierce even than he had been before. He was like a lion that some
mountain shepherd has wounded, but not killed, as he is springing over
the wall of a sheep-yard to attack the sheep. The shepherd has
roused the brute to fury but cannot defend his flock, so he takes
shelter under cover of the buildings, while the sheep,
panic-stricken on being deserted, are smothered in heaps one on top of
the other, and the angry lion leaps out over the sheep-yard wall. Even
thus did Diomed go furiously about among the Trojans.
  He killed Astynous, and shepherd of his people, the one with a
****** of his spear, which struck him above the ******, the other with
a sword—cut on the collar-bone, that severed his shoulder from his
neck and back. He let both of them lie, and went in pursuit of Abas
and Polyidus, sons of the old reader of dreams Eurydamas: they never
came back for him to read them any more dreams, for mighty Diomed made
an end of them. He then gave chase to Xanthus and Thoon, the two
sons of Phaenops, both of them very dear to him, for he was now worn
out with age, and begat no more sons to inherit his possessions. But
Diomed took both their lives and left their father sorrowing bitterly,
for he nevermore saw them come home from battle alive, and his kinsmen
divided his wealth among themselves.
  Then he came upon two sons of Priam, Echemmon and Chromius, as
they were both in one chariot. He sprang upon them as a lion fastens
on the neck of some cow or heifer when the herd is feeding in a
coppice. For all their vain struggles he flung them both from their
chariot and stripped the armour from their bodies. Then he gave
their horses to his comrades to take them back to the ships.
  When Aeneas saw him thus making havoc among the ranks, he went
through the fight amid the rain of spears to see if he could find
Pandarus. When he had found the brave son of Lycaon he said,
“Pandarus, where is now your bow, your winged arrows, and your
renown as an archer, in respect of which no man here can rival you nor
is there any in Lycia that can beat you? Lift then your hands to
Jove and send an arrow at this fellow who is going so masterfully
about, and has done such deadly work among the Trojans. He has
killed many a brave man—unless indeed he is some god who is angry
with the Trojans about their sacrifices, and and has set his hand
against them in his displeasure.”
  And the son of Lycaon answered, “Aeneas, I take him for none other
than the son of Tydeus. I know him by his shield, the visor of his
helmet, and by his horses. It is possible that he may be a god, but if
he is the man I say he is, he is not making all this havoc without
heaven’s help, but has some god by his side who is shrouded in a cloud
of darkness, and who turned my arrow aside when it had hit him. I have
taken aim at him already and hit him on the right shoulder; my arrow
went through the breastpiece of his cuirass; and I made sure I
should send him hurrying to the world below, but it seems that I
have not killed him. There must be a god who is angry with me.
Moreover I have neither horse nor chariot. In my father’s stables
there are eleven excellent chariots, fresh from the builder, quite
new, with cloths spread over them; and by each of them there stand a
pair of horses, champing barley and rye; my old father Lycaon urged me
again and again when I was at home and on the point of starting, to
take chariots and horses with me that I might lead the Trojans in
battle, but I would not listen to him; it would have been much
better if I had done so, but I was thinking about the horses, which
had been used to eat their fill, and I was afraid that in such a great
gathering of men they might be ill-fed, so I left them at home and
came on foot to Ilius armed only with my bow and arrows. These it
seems, are of no use, for I have already hit two chieftains, the
sons of Atreus and of Tydeus, and though I drew blood surely enough, I
have only made them still more furious. I did ill to take my bow
down from its peg on the day I led my band of Trojans to Ilius in
Hector’s service, and if ever I get home again to set eyes on my
native place, my wife, and the greatness of my house, may some one cut
my head off then and there if I do not break the bow and set it on a
hot fire—such pranks as it plays me.”
  Aeneas answered, “Say no more. Things will not mend till we two go
against this man with chariot and horses and bring him to a trial of
arms. Mount my chariot, and note how cleverly the horses of Tros can
speed hither and thither over the plain in pursuit or flight. If
Jove again vouchsafes glory to the son of Tydeus they will carry us
safely back to the city. Take hold, then, of the whip and reins
while I stand upon the car to fight, or else do you wait this man’s
onset while I look after the horses.”
  “Aeneas.” replied the son of Lycaon, “take the reins and drive; if
we have to fly before the son of Tydeus the horses will go better
for their own driver. If they miss the sound of your voice when they
expect it they may be frightened, and refuse to take us out of the
fight. The son of Tydeus will then **** both of us and take the
horses. Therefore drive them yourself and I will be ready for him with
my spear.”
  They then mounted the chariot and drove full-speed towards the son
of Tydeus. Sthenelus, son of Capaneus, saw them coming and said to
Diomed, “Diomed, son of Tydeus, man after my own heart, I see two
heroes speeding towards you, both of them men of might the one a
skilful archer, Pandarus son of Lycaon, the other, Aeneas, whose
sire is Anchises, while his mother is Venus. Mount the chariot and let
us retreat. Do not, I pray you, press so furiously forward, or you may
get killed.”
  Diomed looked angrily at him and answered: “Talk not of flight,
for I shall not listen to you: I am of a race that knows neither
flight nor fear, and my limbs are as yet unwearied. I am in no mind to
mount, but will go against them even as I am; Pallas Minerva bids me
be afraid of no man, and even though one of them escape, their
steeds shall not take both back again. I say further, and lay my
saying to your heart—if Minerva sees fit to vouchsafe me the glory of
killing both, stay your horses here and make the reins fast to the rim
of the chariot; then be sure you spring Aeneas’ horses and drive
them from the Trojan to the Achaean ranks. They are of the stock
that great Jove gave to Tros in payment for his son Ganymede, and
are the finest that live and move under the sun. King Anchises stole
the blood by putting his mares to them without Laomedon’s knowledge,
and they bore him six foals. Four are still in his stables, but he
gave the other two to Aeneas. We shall win great glory if we can
take them.”
  Thus did they converse, but the other two had now driven close up to
them, and the son of Lycaon spoke first. “Great and mighty son,”
said he, “of noble Tydeus, my arrow failed to lay you low, so I will
now try with my spear.”
  He poised his spear as he spoke and hurled it from him. It struck
the shield of the son of Tydeus; the bronze point pierced it and
passed on till it reached the breastplate. Thereon the son of Lycaon
shouted out and said, “You are hit clean through the belly; you will
not stand out for long, and the glory of the fight is mine.”
  But Diomed all undismayed made answer, “You have missed, not hit,
and before you two see the end of this matter one or other of you
shall glut tough-shielded Mars with his blood.”
  With this he hurled his spear, and Minerva guided it on to
Pandarus’s nose near the eye. It went crashing in among his white
teeth; the bronze point cut through the root of his to tongue,
coming out under his chin, and his glistening armour rang rattling
round him as he fell heavily to the ground. The horses started aside
for fear, and he was reft of life and strength.
  Aeneas sprang from his chariot armed with shield and spear,
fearing lest the Achaeans should carry off the body. He bestrode it as
a lion in the pride of strength, with shield and on spear before him
and a cry of battle on his lips resolute to **** the first that should
dare face him. But the son of Tydeus caught up a mighty stone, so huge
and great that as men now are it would take two to lift it;
nevertheless he bore it aloft with ease unaided, and with this he
struck Aeneas on the groin where the hip turns in the joint that is
called the “cup-bone.” The stone crushed this joint, and broke both
the sinews, while its jagged edges tore away all the flesh. The hero
fell on his knees, and propped himself with his hand resting on the
ground till the darkness of night fell upon his eyes. And now
Aeneas, king of men, would have perished then and there, had not his
mother, Jove’s daughter Venus, who had conceived him by Anchises
when he was herding cattle, been quick to mark, and thrown her two
white arms about the body of her dear son. She protected him by
covering him with a fold of her own fair garment, lest some Danaan
should drive a spear into his breast and **** him.
  Thus, then, did she bear her dear son out of the fight. But
Owen Phillips Jan 2011
……Now
With springing force
I was shot out into the future
And with needle to the suture
Sewed together what I could

Lo, the spring sprung back into
The autumn
Found my porthole at the bottom
Into all I understood

Yet,
An equal opposite reaction
Fueled combustibly by action
From believing things that I was told to read
Found
Me far beyond what I
had seen
Cross dystopian ravine
Though in spite of any betterment, still brought to you by greed

Now from safely at the station
In the cold and condensation
I can see with clearest vision
The successes of my mission
Here, within, the multitudinous expanse of tears and laughs
Will be difficult to honor with a proper epitaph
Anton Kooistra Feb 2016
a
a
A
a
A

agony

and
and
and
and

are

arms
arms.

at
at

baby

beaten

beating
beating

birth,

body

border
border.

breast
breast,

consciousness.

death?

deep
deep

despondency,

distance

early

East

eternity.

feel

for

From
from
from

go

going

happiness

has
has

Have

He
he

hear
heard

heart
heart

him
him

I
I
I
I
I

if

in
In
in
in
in

infinity

is
Is
is

It
it
it
It

laid

little

love,

man,

mine,
mine.

morning.

my
my
my

ocean

of
Of
of
of
of
of
of
of
of

on

pain

passed

passes

rocked
Rocked

rumbling

sky?

sleep

small
small
small

some

sorrow?

springing
Springing

stop.
stop.

stopped.

Such

that

the
the
the
the
the
the
the
the
the
the

Then
Then
then.

time.

to

too.
too.

train

up

very
very

wake

was

waters

waves,

we

well

What

When

white

will
will
will

with

wonder

you
Alphabetical sorting of the words from the poem "From the Deep Waters of Sleep" by Johanna Adriana Ader-Appels. (Recording: https://soundcloud.com/anton-kooistra/alphabetical-sorting-01)
A big clock stood tall in the center of a park
With long hands and wood that was carved with much care
The carvings so detailed yet adding a spark
To the trees that surrounded it's great wood frame there

I noticed and awed at the effort at work
For it's hands seemed to reach out to the skies as they search
And i noticed that the hands were all lined in thick gold
The beauty mesmerizing although it was old

As i came up closer to view the great clock
I noticed a problem which came as a shock
The hands were not moving as they lay still and bear
What a shame as this clock was a beauty standing there

But when i looked down to the base of the clock
I could see a gold glimmer as if writing were there
So with curiosity springing in me i immediately flocked
To it's base were i then read aloud with much flair

"Time is but a moment in the span of a life
And a second only the beginning of a minutes ending strike
And forever only the equal to an eternity's one night
So with care every second use wisely for might
As a second is as precious as a minute of time"

As i read out the words more than once in my mind,
And still trying to grasp what intentions did write
A footstep so faint yet my ears could not lie
Approaching me softly ever slowly behind

And turning around an old man met my eye
A man full of years many a season he did mark
His hair white as snow and his face worn and dry
A worried and troubled reflection from his empty glassy eyes

He then said "The big clock's tick
Many a day i privileged saw
The chime of that bell thick
When a child i would awe
Those days were my young years
My body then strong
A lad who with honest fear
Was taught right and the wrong

My parents had raised me
As best as they could
Love, respect and show kindness
Were the things that were good

Back then i despised men who i'd see in our town
How they ruined their lives so freely
It made me shiver, made me frown

I would then tell myself
That i'd never drink or smoke
Vices would not be on my shelf
That my life was no joke

The years went by and i was eighteen
A boy fresh out of school
The excitement of college awaiting
Freedom from home seemed so cool

So i packed my bags and clothes
And bade my parents goodbye
I was now alone to roam the roads
So excited i felt i could fly

So i then got settled in the big city
And studied my wanted degree
First year passed yet oh so quickly
Time passed with the feeling "im free"

I headed straight home on vacation
My family i now longed to see
And spent those days in anticipation
What could next year have in store for me

Vacation ended even more quickly
I almost couldn't leave
But determined to push through this so sickly
My degree ever my goal to achieve

I then met one lad jason
A schoolmate of the same age
Although he from the city's inner mason
Was someone i readily engaged

He then became my room mate
And that is when it began
Jason was different a drinker
My sleep oft disturbed i did hate

Although he tried to lure me
To try even just one
Yet i so promptly rejected
As my conscience no evil had done

I was taught that evil be feared
But then doubtfull thoughts filled my small mind
Had my parents been too strict and weird?
Was there danger i curiously whined


So i thought and i thought and decided
It won't hurt it's just once i confided

So i drank my first beer
And i puffed my first smoke
Then i tried my first stronger drink
This is great though i thought
Not too bad i revoked
As my conscience now beginning to shrink

So i added another exemption
Saying just a little more's fine
Till the alcohol turned into drugs and addiction
I was now pushing it to the line

I would mock at the holy scriptures
And curse God when drunken or high
I would sometimes try and picture
How cruel my family's lies

A year passing by i still loved it
I free and now unrefined
But my vices eventually my health hit
I  was forced then to pause and recline

My body was racked with a fever
And i bound to the bed where i lay
I was sick and now not a believer
I'd forgotten how to pray

My life continued on this way
For years with no restraint
My friends all left but didn't say
Their reason or complaint

I went into depression
My pain and guilt remorse
I needed intervention
Twas time i changed my course

And as i in my darkest hour
Was sinking in despair
My heart's once fresh and lively flowers
Now crushed down burnt and bear

And as i lay in bed that night
For the first time in 3 years
I prayed dear lord please save my life
This pushed me into tears

And while i now was sleeping
I dreamt about that clock
And God as i was still there weeping
Approached me and we talked

He said that life is fragile
That time is not a joke
And day by day time's counting down
Convicted i awoke

And then God said to me what if he
For one day made time still
And on that day i would be free
To clean my life and will

Right then the clock stopped ticking
 Long hands eleven lay
I shocked jumped up heart beating
But i just didn't know what to say

Then HE said my child this is your chance now
To redo the wrongs you've done
And the chance now to change as you have vowed
Will soon be late my son

Live your life while imparting life giving
Love to all the poor one's who need love
With your hands now undo evil's giving
And remind of their Father's great love

Feed the poor and be eyes to the blind one
Give your strength to the crippled and the old
Bring the dying man good news of salvation, my son
For in heaven he shall walk streets of gold

As the time will soon end now forever
And your chance for redemption no more
It's the time now for sins to be severed
As heaven's gates soon open their door
Once the clock is at twelve you will know that,
Tis the end and we're now going home

As his words hit my heart i then waited
I would check how much time i had now
But as i fixed my eyes it all slowly faded
And my bed was what pressed on my brow

I awoke realising that i was sleeping
And the dream was my life counting down
And the more that my sins i'm committing
All the more my head won't wear that crown

See the clock was not there just to tell time
But to also guide ones on their way
Like the man who was lost and ran out of line
The clock was placed there as a sign

Today is the day that we must choose
If today is the day that we will start
To change our life and become true
And learn from our mistakes but move on and do our part

And you keep saying to yourself "ah yes tomorrow"
But again you commit the same wrong
We never know how many more days can be borrowed
As the clock keeps its ticking all along
This poem was inspired by my own life experience...
anne collins Jan 2013
Neon Stella Artois lights and sly hellos
It commenced as we were flew spinning
Ticket stubs and ink -stains
Oh, as our love flirted we both were seeking
Brooklyn Subway stops and ***** clothes
We perched by the equator but only when beginning
Backwards flasks and *******
Then winter solstice was challenged by spring’s springing
Strands of soft pearls and wishing wells
We shivered the anxious touch of a faux July summer’s evening
Empty bar stools and firelight
It was still bitterly February but with the mockery of songbirds floating
Two Thirty Seven A.M. and sea shells
How can the world deceive us in this fashion: fools, we accept ever-knowing
Buttered bread and hindsight
Dawn will crash with frostbite and these daisies will pay the price of their beauty’s sinning
Wine before noon and payphone bills
Wind will eviscerate this moment for once you have touched the sun the ice is more than suffocating
Dry heaving and ribbons
We were only waiting then at the heart of a train station for the stretches of shadows to lengthen
First drags of cigarettes and blue diet pills
The glitter within the dew drops stolen from our tired eyes when our first summer was stolen
Cheap motels and kitchens
We could barely exchange syllables, our melodies quarreling, our blood had thinned
Calendar pages and black lace *******
The euthanasia of the spring would have hung us too if we had breathed it in
The Last calls and lollipops
One can repose more gently in the absence of color than in the theft of sin
Bitten manicured hands and autumn leaves
We used to sleep in a room with wonders, windows, and blankets within
Midnight whispers and rooftops
It was the only place that could soften the swords in all this ruin
****** wrappers and painting supplies
Today is cruel, it cannot be summer if the world doesn’t spin
Happy hour cocktails and goodbyes
KNOWER Nov 2014
We're all just a massive mess of energy
A beautiful, massive mess
And that's just the brilliance of it!

Times and times retold of our divinity,
Of our ancestors painted by the stars,
Of glory untold
And oh the glory!
That you may see it
Or even hear the echoes of its glorious memory resound across the heavens
And the loftiest of them all being our mind
Singular, not plural
For we have but the same mind
That we are moved by the same passions
That we are subtly subject to change
Oh, our malleable souls!

That we aspire for the Heavens
So we may get to soar freely
And yet dance to tunes of a heathen kind
Such is the hypocrisy that we've been raised to uphold as daily norm
None being the lesser!

For had it not been so, then with God you'd be this very moment
As Master, nature springing to your tunes
That you'll master all as Did SoloMon
Tense just being one of our many creations

So through this wake up call,
I beg all of you to arise from your deep slumbers
Your virtual realities whose bounds you artfully set with decided deliberation upon your mind
Wake up and see that you are infinite!
Wake up and see that you are divine!
Wake up and see that you are gods!
Who was there had seen us
  Wouldn't bid him run?
Heavy lay between us
  All our sires had done.

There he was, a-springing
  Of a pious race,
Setting hags a-swinging
  In a market-place;

Sowing turnips over
  Where the poppies lay;
Looking past the clover,
  Adding up the hay;

Shouting through the Spring song,
  Clumping down the sod;
Toadying, in sing-song,
  To a crabbed god.

There I was, that came of
  Folk of mud and name--
I that had my name of
  Them without a name.

Up and down a mountain
  Streeled my silly stock;
Passing by a fountain,
  Wringing at a rock;

Devil-gotten sinners,
  Throwing back their heads,
Fiddling for their dinners,
  Kissing for their beds.

Not a one had seen us
  Wouldn't help him flee.
Angry ran between us
  Blood of him and me.

How shall I be mating
  Who have looked above--
Living for a hating,
  Dying of a love?
SassyJ Mar 2016
The daffodils are springing
In the bloom, the pollen toss
The bird sway as they sing
I sense your touch in my all

Take a little longer ahhh
Take a little time
Just forget to forge
The gorge you left whole

The pavement I step, rolling stones
Each pierce my heart, the yesterday
I am not a magician neither a mystic
To foretell your heart strained desires

Cascading motions or emotions
Anticipated notions and collusions
Erosion of the past demolish solutions
Fainted resolution my contradiction
Having a terrible flu!... but still recorded!
Follow Link:
https://soundcloud.com/user-367453778/sounds-from-friday-morning
Who shall declare the joy of the running!
Who shall tell of the pleasures of flight!
Springing and spurning the tufts of wild heather,
Sweeping, wide-winged, through the blue dome of light.
Everything mortal has moments immortal,
Swift and God-gifted, immeasurably bright.

So with the stretch of the white road before me,
Shining snowcrystals rainbowed by the sun,
Fields that are white, stained with long, cool, blue shadows,
Strong with the strength of my horse as we run.
Joy in the touch of the wind and the sunlight!
Joy! With the vigorous earth I am one.
Bad Luck Sep 2018
I've been trying to see the in-between;
The overlap in separation...
                            I want to see what can't be seen.
                            I want to embody imagination.

"That's a tough way to go." They say,
                    "You shouldn't try so hard to know."
But a river is a tough thing to stop,
                                   So I just let the water flow.

Because you don't come upon an idea...
You always start from within it,
Both springing forth and unfolding,
From their inception, until it's finished.

Your ideas, as you are, are intricately connected
To a place where no thing exists without a purpose...
No answer without a question.

The question and answer, you see, exist in simultaneity...
Born from the same concept; they are stuck together, forever, genetically.
"Bad Luck: In a Wakeful Contradiction" is now available on Amazon in paperback!

Link: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1691941182
Sa Sa Ra Nov 2012
As your presence was near and truer dearer, my heart pouring the torrential of the ever loving giving,
so I was just allowing this wherefore, by this Ocean can refuse no River; Sheila Chandra's Shore surely, enduring endearingly but essentially perfectly so, so in this poem I had called 'IDK if you read my poems but' and true to the spirit there; Eye God gifting the clear dearest of omissions, I could simply touch in this touching all interactive endeavors with spirits true truer to their beings to with and of the highest intentions, though oft so tough for the steering on these slopes we know, so and steer from than into; I bear trying, for I am zero of why but here there, we are all of what creation be, spoke with and much for our poverty's yes so possessive indeed but again true to spirit and words fairly clear I try to back into or is it as should it better understood said get back into hahaha; when and if something moves and I don't care, no fear more here if it's some temporal spiritual possession; you, me, we were all there our projections made better servants than excuses; hard sometimes finding true love helpful with dear near warm blood bearing beings; no matter what 'dey's sayin' thinking believing and or even feeling sometimes we just know there's just some overly too, close to home thing about our deceptions; so is how, why Solomon could simply just ask and or say demon do what I ask, and do what I say, and much the 'Temple of God' was built such a way; and oh the kicker they were happily at it doing God's love; not mans ***** excuses; and sure I understand 'House of God' a structure still and again, the blasphemous need of the place of Jerusalem yet stolen more charades of crusades hmmm holy wars; well I like to think you know I speak directly with whom I see hear clearly, not what I hear and see not by any book and any mouth speaking those horrors of deception even reading 'Holy Books'; then what I found beyond the stigma of X's for maybe x,y and z reasons, to hard to see through or past or to hard to believe why, they are there truly, or it is perhaps more straighter to say what they mean really; 'nuff said 'bout what I understand truly, don't make much less work, but more truly again, then too all too compelling; no matter falling's, failings; I've been cooked and stewed well enough; how many bodies have paid overly the price for any single one's innocence's worth, whom indeed did, does deserve love care, protection; as all seven billion now still, are we all here again and still now not rightly;
what should would could be it, to love one another truly,
Would be; all judgement on; all judgmentalness off;

Okay,
End of poem beforehand read 'His Trees';
then for your presence being too emoting presences felt with all of creation, too also all presences essences emoting; and truer to my feeling believing seeing and what my heart is about, in effort bringing into creation creative forces already more so, less the issue; and more about X'-ing out or off our X' destructive of one another and as our failings of stewardship here, those X'-factors factoring off; off of hating and on more with X' of loving, without the all we are so still confusing yet, within knowing better still;
For as this too was said much took it into their own deluding; but here, hear again truly;
'I did not come to make peace; but with sword to divide'
But and oh well yes, for once upon a time it was prelude this way;
'for those that have Ears to Hear'
But watch woolla,
see who you are,
how far we have come and what your
Ears Hear Clearly Now;
but what
'He'
Said simply truly was not
'come with a sword to divide you
from me or any other one another;
but, with a 'S-Word' to truly help
steer clear and clear the 'air'
about what we do that is of love
and that is of hate,
that is all simple, you hear well enough I know so much;
but more than that what you will for, work with your willingness this way;
the things only we have made seemingly into impossibilities
can be more easily had in love joy and fun with abundance certainly;
albeit with Emergence more Heaven Earthen Grounded Bonded Breathing Tantra Feng Shui,
kinda maybe, but kinder sweeter more beautifully lovingly all will do be see within without all about Truly;  
but see Love knows not bound in any way or dimension; all there is I say;

So it is willing giving springing sharing seeking witness witnessing need;
can not will not omit a bit any part of thy very self, simply indeed;
so only our willingness or willingness-less, much more than we will or any other deceptive short coming pill;
you see understand like all there is I could go on and never stop as ever never will;
though for the very dear near of your being here today;
with all creations loving help seeking need;
just two words in much the potent place;
I was able to feel find about;
and between within exactly as is
'His Trees' befell 'Her's Is'
And now so better spelled out casting
more clear and less doubt there is;
"His Her's Is Trees";
And so Holier the breeze now, lighter freer yet;
more so potent indeed and in like kind;
~indeed of need~

~~She Breathes!!~~

~And certainly;
Yay for the Trees!!!!~

~~His Her's Indeed~~
~~~Breathes!!!~~~
In Out
With
His
H
E
R
'
S
!
.
.
.

Sa Sa!!!

~~BREATHE~~
Very Special Thanks to DAW,
In this all inclusive of all creation creative heart loving fun production!!! <3 <3 :) :)!!! R

The upper section and ultimately was an inbox discussion much needed!!
DAW, we worked deep in spirit together consciously invoking as much spiritual assistance as need to get through this!!!
Hats off and Heart on to DAW, again!!! Sa Sa Ra!!!

Sheila Chandra - Ever so Lonely

Ever so lonely
Ever so lonely without you
Ever so lonely

Sinking into your eyes
And all I see
Love is an ocean and you for me

Sinking into your eyes
Your eyes
Are all I see
Your love is an ocean

An ocean refuses no river
Ever so lonely
An ocean refuses no river
Waiting for the time
When we can be
Alone together
Alone together eternally

The ocean, the ocean refuses no river
The ocean, your ocean refuses no river
Ever so lonely
Ever so lonely without you
Your ocean
Your ocean refuses no river

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bbcKO92OGNI
Thin are the night-skirts left behind
      By daybreak hours that onward creep,
      And thin, alas! the shred of sleep
That wavers with the spirit’s wind:
But in half-dreams that shift and roll
      And still remember and forget,
My soul this hour has drawn your soul
           A little nearer yet.

Our lives, most dear, are never near,
      Our thoughts are never far apart,
      Though all that draws us heart to heart
Seems fainter now and now more clear.
To-night Love claims his full control,
      And with desire and with regret
My soul this hour has drawn your soul
           A little nearer yet.

Is there a home where heavy earth
      Melts to bright air that breathes no pain,
      Where water leaves no thirst again
And springing fire is Love’s new birth?
If faith long bound to one true goal
      May there at length its hope beget,
My soul that hour shall draw your soul
           For ever nearer yet.
I love to rise in a summer morn,
When the birds sing on every tree;
The distant huntsman winds his horn,
And the sky-lark sings with me.
O! what sweet company.

But to go to school in a summer morn,
O! it drives all joy away;
Under a cruel eye outworn.
The little ones spend the day,
In sighing and dismay.

Ah! then at times I drooping sit,
And spend many an anxious hour,
Nor in my book can I take delight,
Nor sit in learnings bower,
Worn thro’ with the dreary shower.

How can the bird that is born for joy,
Sit in a cage and sing.
How can a child when fears annoy.
But droop his tender wing.
And forget his youthful spring.

O! father & mother. if buds are nip’d,
And blossoms blown away,
And if the tender plants are strip’d
Of their joy in the springing day,
By sorrow and care’s dismay.

How shall the summer arise in joy.
Or the summer fruits appear.
Or how shall we gather what griefs destroy
Or bless the mellowing year.
When the blasts of winter appear.
ShowYouLove Sep 2017
Hope alights like a new dawn
Springing forth on young legs like a fawn.
We are yet in darkness and despair
So, unseeing, we are not yet aware
Of the light that lies just beyond.
Before too long a new day has dawned.
Hope flies on the wings of tomorrow
Where we begin to let go of our pain and sorrow.
A single ray of light in the darkest night can pierce,
And a single small flame can burn all the more fierce.
Like a river will eventually find its way to the sea,
We follow our hope to the source that makes our hearts free.
Brighter days are soon to come;
Spreading hope to everyone.
I

I, in my intricate image, stride on two levels,
Forged in man's minerals, the brassy orator
Laying my ghost in metal,
The scales of this twin world tread on the double,
My half ghost in armour hold hard in death's corridor,
To my man-iron sidle.

Beginning with doom in the bulb, the spring unravels,
Bright as her spinning-wheels, the colic season
Worked on a world of petals;
She threads off the sap and needles, blood and bubble
Casts to the pine roots, raising man like a mountain
Out of the naked entrail.

Beginning with doom in the ghost, and the springing marvels,
Image of images, my metal phantom
Forcing forth through the harebell,
My man of leaves and the bronze root, mortal, unmortal,
I, in my fusion of rose and male motion,
Create this twin miracle.

This is the fortune of manhood: the natural peril,
A steeplejack tower, bonerailed and masterless,
No death more natural;
Thus the shadowless man or ox, and the pictured devil,
In seizure of silence commit the dead nuisance.
The natural parallel.

My images stalk the trees and the slant sap's tunnel,
No tread more perilous, the green steps and spire
Mount on man's footfall,
I with the wooden insect in the tree of nettles,
In the glass bed of grapes with snail and flower,
Hearing the weather fall.

Intricate manhood of ending, the invalid rivals,
Voyaging clockwise off the symboled harbour,
Finding the water final,
On the consumptives' terrace taking their two farewells,
Sail on the level, the departing adventure,
To the sea-blown arrival.

II

They climb the country pinnacle,
Twelve winds encounter by the white host at pasture,
Corner the mounted meadows in the hill corral;
They see the squirrel stumble,
The haring snail go giddily round the flower,
A quarrel of weathers and trees in the windy spiral.

As they dive, the dust settles,
The cadaverous gravels, falls thick and steadily,
The highroad of water where the seabear and mackerel
Turn the long sea arterial
Turning a petrol face blind to the enemy
Turning the riderless dead by the channel wall.

(Death instrumental,
Splitting the long eye open, and the spiral turnkey,
Your corkscrew grave centred in navel and ******,
The neck of the nostril,
Under the mask and the ether, they making ******
The tray of knives, the antiseptic funeral;

Bring out the black patrol,
Your monstrous officers and the decaying army,
The sexton sentinel, garrisoned under thistles,
A ****-on-a-dunghill
Crowing to Lazarus the morning is vanity,
Dust be your saviour under the conjured soil.)

As they drown, the chime travels,
Sweetly the diver's bell in the steeple of spindrift
Rings out the Dead Sea scale;
And, clapped in water till the triton dangles,
Strung by the flaxen whale-****, from the hangman's raft,
Hear they the salt glass breakers and the tongues of burial.

(Turn the sea-spindle lateral,
The grooved land rotating, that the stylus of lightning
Dazzle this face of voices on the moon-turned table,
Let the wax disk babble
Shames and the damp dishonours, the relic scraping.
These are your years' recorders. The circular world stands still.)

III

They suffer the undead water where the turtle nibbles,
Come unto sea-stuck towers, at the fibre scaling,
The flight of the carnal skull
And the cell-stepped thimble;
Suffer, my topsy-turvies, that a double angel
Sprout from the stony lockers like a tree on Aran.

Be by your one ghost pierced, his pointed ferrule,
Brass and the bodiless image, on a stick of folly
Star-set at Jacob's angle,
Smoke hill and hophead's valley,
And the five-fathomed Hamlet on his father's coral
Thrusting the tom-thumb vision up the iron mile.

Suffer the slash of vision by the fin-green stubble,
Be by the ships' sea broken at the manstring anchored
The stoved bones' voyage downward
In the shipwreck of muscle;
Give over, lovers, locking, and the seawax struggle,
Love like a mist or fire through the bed of eels.

And in the pincers of the boiling circle,
The sea and instrument, nicked in the locks of time,
My great blood's iron single
In the pouring town,
I, in a wind on fire, from green Adam's cradle,
No man more magical, clawed out the crocodile.

Man was the scales, the death birds on enamel,
Tail, Nile, and snout, a saddler of the rushes,
Time in the hourless houses
Shaking the sea-hatched skull,
And, as for oils and ointments on the flying grail,
All-hollowed man wept for his white apparel.

Man was Cadaver's masker, the harnessing mantle,
Windily master of man was the rotten fathom,
My ghost in his metal neptune
Forged in man's mineral.
This was the god of beginning in the intricate seawhirl,
And my images roared and rose on heaven's hill.
Ivie Nov 2013
I hold the negative feeling closer; I hold them like a bag filled with candy on the night of Halloween in a little boy’s arms,
I haven’t learnt that they give you cavities yet, my brain wrapped up in folds and folds of sheets made up of envy
Envy is like an old tree roots, springing from everywhere trying to get to the surface, the surface prone to erosion, is ****** into the black hole of envy
I can’t deny that I don’t like you talking to her, no I don’t, and I don’t even who I am anymore
This is not the person that I used to be, you have changed me so much, I worsen and worsen like a sapling left without sunlight
They say I run, away from feelings, oh I have tried to run away from you for so long but I fail like the ant trying to climb the 18th floor building,
                                     And all this time I have kept my inhaler closer to my lips than ever
You hold me close like bag full of lyrics that are going to numb your burning slashes, that’s what I am, the medicine,
But I am never the lover or the girl who speaks of things that make you laugh, like the way the poppies laugh in the soft breeze or sunflowers in the meadows
I have said goodbye more times, than the no of times, the oranges have bled their citrus in my eyes while peeling and onions have made my cry while slicing
I need to slice all my feelings, dissect them, write the formulas and theories on the white sheets and paste them on my wall,
                                         For everytime I am on the “running back to you” stage of separation
I will hold the negative feelings as far as possible; his dentist just gave him a root canal and filled up 8 cavities,
I think he has had enough of candies without brushing twice for a while and I think I have had enough of you for a lifetime.

— The End —