"strewed" poems
Side by side, their faces blurred,
The earl and countess lie in stone,
Their proper habits vaguely shown
As jointed armour, stiffened pleat,
And that faint hint of the absurd -
The little dogs under their feet.
Such plainness of the pre-baroque
Hardly involves the eye, until
It meets his left-hand gauntlet, still
Clasped empty in the other; and
One sees, with a sharp tender shock,
His hand withdrawn, holding her hand.
They would not think to lie so long.
Such faithfulness in effigy
Was just a detail friends would see:
A sculptor's sweet commissioned grace
Thrown off in helping to prolong
The Latin names around the base.
They would no guess how early in
Their supine stationary voyage
The air would change to soundless damage,
Turn the old tenantry away;
How soon succeeding eyes begin
To look, not read. Rigidly they
Persisted, linked, through lengths and breadths
Of time. Snow fell, undated. Light
Each summer thronged the grass. A bright
Litter of birdcalls strewed the same
Bone-littered ground. And up the paths
The endless altered people came,
Washing at their identity.
Now, helpless in the hollow of
An unarmorial age, a trough
Of smoke in slow suspended skeins
Above their scrap of history,
Only an attitude remains:
Time has transfigures them into
Untruth. The stone fidelity
They hardly meant has come to be
Their final blazon, and to prove
Our almost-instinct almost true:
What will survive of us is love.
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as you gazed upon the roses, beautiful, blooming wide,
exposing themselves for your eyes alone, petals scattered,
you spoke to me. unsatisfied.
strewed their precious worth across the dull pavement,
i began to wonder.
if i truly burst open for you, would i suffer the same fate?
if each of my petals shed away, one by one, revealing a bare stem, would my beauty remain?
every rose wilts with time.
as you looked upon the sunset, magnificent, drooping low,
dipping beneath the horizon with a final display of light, heavens shimmering,
you spoke to me. unaffected.
swiped the bristles of a blackened brush across its fading glow,
i cannot help but wonder.
if i began to fade, would your starlight illuminate my beaten path?
or would you only cast a sheet of unforgiving darkness over my vibrant, faltering hues?
every sunset fades to night.
Sep 23, 2018
Sep 23, 2018 at 11:31 PM UTC
High up above the open, welcoming door
It hangs, a piece of wood with colours dim.
Once, long ago, it was a waving tree
And knew the sun and shadow through the leaves
Of forest trees, in a thick eastern wood.
The winter snows had bent its branches down,
The spring had swelled its buds with coming flowers,
Summer had run like fire through its veins,
While autumn pelted it with chestnut burrs,
And strewed the leafy ground with acorn cups.
Dark midnight storms had roared and crashed among
Its branches, breaking here and there a limb;
But every now and then broad sunlit days
Lovingly lingered, caught among the leaves.
Yes, it had known all this, and yet to us
It does not speak of mossy forest ways,
Of whispering pine trees or the shimmering birch;
But of quick winds, and the salt, stinging sea!
An artist once, with patient, careful knife,
Had fashioned it like to the untamed sea.
Here waves uprear themselves, their tops blown back
By the gay, sunny wind, which whips the blue
And breaks it into gleams and sparks of light.
Among the flashing waves are two white birds
Which swoop, and soar, and scream for very joy
At the wild sport. Now diving quickly in,
Questing some glistening fish. Now flying up,
Their dripping feathers shining in the sun,
While the wet drops like little glints of light,
Fall pattering backward to the parent sea.
Gliding along the green and foam-flecked hollows,
Or skimming some white crest about to break,
The spirits of the sky deigning to stoop
And play with ocean in a summer mood.
Hanging above the high, wide open door,
It brings to us in quiet, firelit room,
The freedom of the earth's vast solitudes,
Where heaping, sunny waves tumble and roll,
And seabirds scream in wanton happiness.
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October winds, they came at last
Across the hills and ponds, they passed
And strewed bright autumn leaves around
So wonderful, their stirring sound
Relentlessly, they lured my mind
Down ancient paths that ever wind
So forthwith I sped through my door
Toward Massapoag's long sandy shore
And to the windy beach, I came
As waters glowed with twilight's flame
I felt your love on me enfold
As I gazed out on waters gold
So movingly, our hearts were one
Neath crimson rays of setting sun
Though far across the land, you dwelt
Eternal was the love I felt
That spanned the mountains and the seas
And rode the wild Autumn breeze
Now Autumn days to Winter, turn
This vision will, in my heart, burn.
Jul 9, 2015
Jul 9, 2015 at 6:02 PM UTC
adjacent at my right,
your thoughts with you are,
strewed in opposition,
calling out my name,
i am the child,
you are the adult,
why wont i understand,
for i have no experience,
no life lived,
my intrigue provoked,
ideal foresight,
but that, all they are,
questions to actions,
tell me im wrong,
just an ignorant soul,
for i must see the world,
the way that you do,
and for the sake of the horse,
hope the legs can support,
the stead in which you ride,
for it must be cold,
one thousand jen high,
should i bow at your feet?
as my opinion indifferent,
blasphemer,
heathen,
tell me to seal my mouth,
say "I dont listen",
over again,
you never heard the words,
"your hurting my chest",
stepping on my lungs,
hearing one phrase of words,
"you dont listen",
but i heard every word,
whether i agree or not,
is another lore,
but ill admit im wrong,
will you do the same?,
now i'll hope you know,
i judge you not,
i love that you have opinion,
for you are only human,
even if the whip strikes my back,
ill never stop,
continue your attack,
for these are my thoughts,
you made me this way,
you cant change my brain.
May 21, 2010
May 21, 2010 at 6:32 PM UTC
Quite admirable , awe-inspiring , a divine piece of manufacture
It’s capriciousness is an equivalent of swooning of rapture
This carpet conveys itself as flawless , the fragrance is pleasant
The glossy finish generates a yearning to have it present
The blissful texture is mesmerizing , subject to perfect knitting
Not to mention it’s size is perfectly fitting
~
Though the alternative side seems worn and tattered
And the fabric surrounding is scattered
There are pockets and splits
There are strewed fiber bits
Along the edges are multicolored spots
And the yarn had formed knots
~
At that point the onlooker would become flustered helplessly
Were they to take it into their tenancy ?
Sure it was depleted
And maybe it was slightly untreated
Though it was equally handsome
Despite it’s opposing filthy expansion
~
Then the beholder would ponder a tad
And realize the flaws weren't so bad
They were to be contemplated abnormally
Though as well stood out morbidly
The allotment seemed now suitable
And each side was mutable
Feb 9, 2015
Feb 9, 2015 at 6:03 PM UTC
I tiptoe across the wooden floor avoiding all the creaks.
Moonlight streaming through open windows of a silent summer night,
casting shadows over rumpled sheets of a well-used king size bed.
I hear the water running in the bathroom across the hall,
grabbing clothing strewed around the room I move with ninja speed.
Hunting for the elusive pair of ******* I just can’t seem to find.
Forget it, time is almost running out, I need to leave before that door opens.
Rushing now I grab my stash and head for the front door,
lightly hopping, stealthily propping as I pull on piece by piece.
Last, my shoes, I grab as I unlock the front door,
grab my keys, leave the note and run out barefoot.
“It was fun, I had to run, see you again someday,”
get in my car, start the engine, drive, drive away.
Aug 1, 2013
Aug 1, 2013 at 10:55 PM UTC
They are thieves, and yet they walk in
"No forced entry." has been the told tale
"Oh, home sweet home." sighs the owner.
A stranger in his home, but his home all the same
He knows every cranny
He'll sit and watch them raid the cupboards,
they leave when full...Broken bottles, Cigarettes strewed
He was made for a 100 miles.
Born for The Chase
Gathering arms, declaring the hunt
All day I run with no end in sight
My gaze has weakened
So again I rise, and lift my head to stare down the horizon
I will run a 100 miles and even more,
Until exhaustion grips my foes, bringing them to the dirt
I tower over what once dominated,
And looking down
I see them...
Clawing at my feet for mercy.
Choking between sobs, they curse me.
Snot bubbles form, laced with dust.
Terror takes its grip.
They beg me, "lets us go, you must!"
Our eyes meet, and silence takes reign.
I stretch out my hand, wink, and say thanks for the pain.
May 5, 2019
May 5, 2019 at 11:48 PM UTC
the five days was a constant battle
between all the things
that ever existed
your thoughts were strewed
and your legs were too skinny
your arms can be measured
by your thumb and pinky
that stream of verbal consciousness
uttered nothing but prayers
between the dusky hours
i lost a limb on the fifth day
that empty hallway with dimmed lights
and the realizations with frustrations
the machines stopped working
it was more than tropical storms
and depressions, more than
mayhem, it scares me more than
the turbulence hundred miles
above the ground
it was an inestimable amount
of tragedy and heartaches
you begged for him to live
and yet it wasn't given to you
i cannot be angry at God
he wants you back
all i can really do
is wait for you
and still pray for you
Oct 18, 2016
Oct 18, 2016 at 11:26 AM UTC
Dear Florence,
I remember the day I first saw you. I swear that is the only time I ever believed in ‘love at first sight’. You were as calm as the meditating soul. Your passing wind soothed my beating heart.
In that first ride to my new house, I knew. I knew you were going to be my home. I knew you would mend all of my aching slits, stitch after stitch. Each day you bestowed me with a new beautiful day to inspire me, to metamorphose me, even more poetically than the phoenix rising from its ashes.
I knew, one day, I would say goodbye. Chasing your dreams can sometimes be a painful journey. I knew leaving you would shatter my soul into little pieces, strewed all around your streets and alleys and piazzas and bridges. But dear Florence, you deserve so much more than my little-scattered pieces.
As I say goodbye, pondering over the Santa Trinita bridge, I become forever yours. The joys you have given me, the memories of which will wander along through all my journeys. My sorrows, the memories of the flowing Arno river will always wash away.
So, as I leave this place, I request you to take care of me. For ‘the me as I know it’ has become ‘the me as I knew it’. I am leaving behind this version of me for it is only in your shadows did she glow bright. Let your pink skies continue to set away all my anxieties. Let your rising blues continue to give me hope. Let the shining gold, always guide my heart home, just like the Duomo always guides us in its warm embrace. Let your ringing bells, help me rise every time I stumble. Let your art, keep my imagination flowing and let your symmetry create order in my life. Let your changing skies give me strength and inspire me to never stop, come what may.
Take care of me when I am gone. Just like you have over the past year.
Forever yours,
The girl who never really left.
Oct 28, 2018
Oct 28, 2018 at 10:04 AM UTC
In melancholy moonless Acheron,
Farm for the goodly earth and joyous day
Where no spring ever buds, nor ripening sun
Weighs down the apple trees, nor flowery May
Chequers with chestnut blooms the grassy floor,
Where thrushes never sing, and piping linnets mate no more,
There by a dim and dark Lethaean well
Young Charmides was lying; wearily
He plucked the blossoms from the asphodel,
And with its little rifled treasury
Strewed the dull waters of the dusky stream,
And watched the white stars founder, and the land was like a dream,
When as he gazed into the watery glass
And through his brown hair’s curly tangles scanned
His own wan face, a shadow seemed to pass
Across the mirror, and a little hand
Stole into his, and warm lips timidly
Brushed his pale cheeks, and breathed their secret forth into a
sigh.
Then turned he round his weary eyes and saw,
And ever nigher still their faces came,
And nigher ever did their young mouths draw
Until they seemed one perfect rose of flame,
And longing arms around her neck he cast,
And felt her throbbing ***** and his breath came hot and fast,
And all his hoarded sweets were hers to kiss,
And all her maidenhood was his to slay,
And limb to limb in long and rapturous bliss
Their passion waxed and waned,—O why essay
To pipe again of love, too venturous reed!
Enough, enough that Eros laughed upon that flowerless mead.
Too venturous poesy, O why essay
To pipe again of passion! fold thy wings
O’er daring Icarus and bid thy lay
Sleep hidden in the lyre’s silent strings
Till thou hast found the old Castalian rill,
Or from the Lesbian waters plucked drowned Sappho’s golden quid!
Enough, enough that he whose life had been
A fiery pulse of sin, a splendid shame,
Could in the loveless land of Hades glean
One scorching harvest from those fields of flame
Where passion walks with naked unshod feet
And is not wounded,—ah! enough that once their lips could meet
In that wild throb when all existences
Seemed narrowed to one single ecstasy
Which dies through its own sweetness and the stress
Of too much pleasure, ere Persephone
Had bade them serve her by the ebon throne
Of the pale God who in the fields of Enna loosed her zone.
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Best and brightest, come away,
Fairer far than this fair day,
Which, like thee, to those in sorrow
Comes to bid a sweet good-morrow
To the rough year just awake
In its cradle on the brake.
The brightest hour of unborn Spring
Through the Winter wandering,
Found, it seems, the halcyon morn
To **** February born;
Bending from Heaven, in azure mirth,
It kissed the forehead of the earth,
And smiled upon the silent sea,
And bade the frozen streams be free,
And waked to music all their fountains,
And breathed upon the frozen mountains,
And like a prophetess of May
Strewed flowers upon the barren way,
Making the wintry world appear
Like one on whom thou smilest, dear.
Away, away, from men and towns,
To the wild wood and the downs -
To the silent wilderness
Where the soul need not repress
Its music, lest it should not find
An echo in another’s mind,
While the touch of Nature’s art
Harmonizes heart to heart.
Radiant Sister of the Day
Awake! arise! and come away!
To the wild woods and the plains,
To the pools where winter rains
Image all their roof of leaves,
Where the pine its garland weaves
Of sapless green, and ivy dun,
Round stems that never kiss the sun,
Where the lawns and pastures be
And the sandhills of the sea,
Where the melting hoar-frost wets
The daisy-star that never sets,
And wind-flowers and violets
Which yet join not scent to hue
Crown the pale year weak and new;
When the night is left behind
In the deep east, dim and blind,
And the blue noon is over us,
And the multitudinous
Billows murmur at our feet,
Where the earth and ocean meet,
And all things seem only one
In the universal Sun.
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Let me write you into a fantasy,
spin your fingertips through a maze,
weaving the freckles on your arms into
the things that you crave.
The frustration will shatter
like the plates you have always secretly wanted strewed
across the kitchen floor.
Glass dust rests
in the creases and,
though you warned me to wear shoes,
remain endlessly embedded in my heels.
I will lift up my legs and let you see,
to try to catch a glimpse of your own reflection,
the sparkle past your eyes that match the glint
of glass in my skin.
“See?” I would say,
arms tight around your chest, eyes
clenched shut buried
in the damp nape
of your neck.
Let me become your time vessel.
Rewind, two years,
you are still you and I am still me,
pressed up against the corner
of one of your kitchen counters.
Your ghost whisper lingers
in my ear,
“You’re giving me goose bumps.”
I will bring you through time,
jumping moment
to moment,
a rush of feeling settling in
the pit of your stomach.
You are blindsided,
tangled in the clutches of each second wasted
and ignited into gray ash.
When I am your time vessel, those seconds will be collected
and stored, so you can replay them over
and over and eventually
you will understand
the implications,
you will find the meaning,
you will learn to be happy again.
Let me count your bruises.
Red-faced and breathless,
you push the world away
only to fall back into the carpet again.
Each exhale jagged but controlled,
a bead of sweat forming like tears
against your wrinkled forehead.
An instant clouded by exertion, hearing nothing but
the sharp intake of breath.
I will lie next to you with my hair
above me, hands cupping ears.
And as you lift
your shoulders
off the ground, I will count for you.
Mar 5, 2013
Mar 5, 2013 at 10:58 PM UTC
He reminisced of storm-struck gilded sands
Where innocence was lost, upon the dunes
Where memory was drowned in golden strands
That faded to the fresh new autumn moon
*oh roiling sea, what angered thee that night?
how dreadful was the fury of thy might!*
Thin shredded fingers, torn by jagged cracks
In jagged rocks, were blessed by numbing cold;
Raw crimson eddies swirled and circled, sacks
And boxes strewed on tides that ebbed and flowed
*oh woeful sea, how bittersweet thy kiss
that dragged unwary souls to thy abyss!*
Behold! Did shadows play on weary eyes?
The hunters' moon revealed a pallid hand
Awash among the flotsam; hope denies
The wonted outcome of the seas command
*oh jealous sea, why make young widows weep?
their souls you take, their hearts you cannot keep!*
Alas! A lass as still as still is calm!
Her breathless lips as deadly as the sea
That knew the siren, knew her sailors charm,
That knew her song, her haunting melody
*oh wicked sea, why did thou birth a maid
for whom the debt of life was never paid?*
In evil things a beauty still prevails
And beauty is a poison to the wise;
The siren, borne on stretcher, born of sails,
Was dragged back to the depths of all her lies
*oh mother sea, take back thy child of grief!
though thou would steal my soul, I am no thief!*
Water filled her nose, her mouth, her lungs,
Convulsing her to sip a salted breath;
Her parting lips prepared to voice her songs
That fated those who heard to blissful death
*oh hungry sea, thy daughter does thy deed!
take then thy fill to satiate thy greed!*
Yet from her lips there came no haunting sound,
No siren song came forth from frothing sea;
Her saddened eyes beheld the soul she drowned,
And in her grief she chose to cease to be
*oh grieving sea, what loss thou must have known!
thou took the rest, yet could not keep thine own!*
A tale is told of storm-struck gilded sands
Where innocence was lost; upon the dunes,
A siren with her hair of golden strands
Stands with a sailor 'neath new autumn moon
Jan 18, 2015
Jan 18, 2015 at 7:35 AM UTC
A traveler on a dusty road
Strewed acorns on the lea;
And one took root and sprouted up,
And grew into a tree.
Love sought its shade at evening time,
To breathe its early vows;
And Age was pleased, in heights of noon,
To bask beneath its boughs.
The doormouse loved its dangling twigs,
The birds sweet music bore-
It stood a glory in its place,
A blessing evermore.
A little spring had lost its way
Amid the grass and fern;
A passing stranger scooped a well
Where weary men might turn.
He walled it in, and hung with care
A ladle on the brink;
He thought not of the deed he did,
But judged that Toil might drink.
He passed again; and lo! the well,
By summer never dried,
Had cooled a thousand parched tongues,
And saved a life beside.
A nameless man, amid the crowd
That thronged the daily mart,
Let fall a word of hope and love,
Unstudied from the heart,
A whisper on the tumult thrown,
A transitory breath,
It raised a brother from the dust,
It saved a soul from death.
O seed! O fount! O word of love!
O thought at random cast!
Ye were but little at first,
But mighty at the last.
Charles Mackay
May 16, 2013
May 16, 2013 at 7:39 PM UTC
Ten buttercup summers ago
sweet gilt strands spiraled above
dual attraction,
moments fanned friendship
into smoke of commitment and
passion strewed
petals on beginnings of romance.
Five lilac seasons back we
picked scented happiness when,
defences fallen,
meadows of floral nectar ended
aloneness and love
waltzed thru' former convention
without any note
of doubtful retreat or regret.
Two hollyhock years gone
seeds hidden in needy hearts
took root and bloomed
as we tended the scent of total
oneness until,
coffined in fathomless shock,
happenings flattened
hope's dreams of contentment.
A grief ago winter's cold
wilted growth, buried treasure
and brought an end
to love's beautiful garden, yet
rainbowed in memory
those flowers still hold colours
of our very specialness.
Aug 7, 2016
Aug 7, 2016 at 5:17 AM UTC
I joust myself into jovial life
Jocose tatterdemalion and stygian salaciousness
Umbrage abrogating merit like swamping locusts
The mammoth chip on shouldered kids starving for life
I'm waiting on purgatory, and I'll wait for you with knives out
Cemetry of the artist stubbed beards and pubescence in the Phoenician Lands
He said she should have left the house
Tomahawks can still cut the vineyard, make my loquacity into beer-tap poetry
Flowery, murmur, kumbaya, kalimba de la soul and all thoughts aside
You're hoping music brings the song to my speechless heart
Your dance sounds light the motionless night, only the tapping of starry footsteps
Hob-nobs, more and more, knobs of heaven's doors open to every hippie with angel hair
Crossing the wires of substrates
Sonatas and partitas can be lugubrious, yet, elegantly examined
Nocturnes, from the centuries
Of ten old centurions
Came down to the Colosseum
Gladiator enthralled the chariots of fire
I was with ten ants, burning under the microscope
Tenants of this Roman Empire
Fighting for your rights
Fighting for the people who cannot fight
For the weak, requires peace and understanding
Shiny, homeless people lost the soul to the drugs and marijuana smoke under streetlamps stretching to infinity
This earth is an orchard of flowers
Slightly plump in the middle, it's mother nature
Not zaftig, it has latitudes and longitudes
Lavish life, garish fiefdom, stretches across the bent imagination of perverse minds
Looking for a kiosk in the peak of red skies that do not know blood and aggravation
New Year's Day, the cyka cry Mother Russia and SOS
Shooting flares into the sky
To reach so low, and to reach so high
Shouting slogans, written by the poets
Passion, prejudice, sensibility, comradery these are metiers of poets
Secrets strewed across the bloodless sky
Wishful thinking tantamount to head in the clouds
The clouds have different shapes and size, the fire of the greater existence lends us words in thoughts
Aug 21, 2019
Aug 21, 2019 at 1:01 PM UTC
Plasma stains
beneath family portraits
Dust collects
on top of fingerprints
Bit’s of hair, fingernails
jammed in braided rugs
Just knowing
creates a foul stench
Oh, the spatter
that splattered when
Buckshot went off!
It’s been 8 years ago today
Claimed crazy residing
were once he had killed
And he always
plans to stay
Neighborhood strays
never sow to his lawn
They scurry by
whimpering in fear
For a body was missing
the law never saw,
Not even
the protruding ear
Grocers delivering food
strewed cross the yard
And the mailman
hasn’t stopped by in ages
It is said “who gets too close
to what rests inside,
Will be next posted
on the front pages
Jun 13, 2010
Jun 13, 2010 at 6:53 PM UTC
Today,
I walked back and forth
and tried to shrug off those memories
words
and promises dangling on my hair
like confetti strewed on our favourite park bench.
Apr 13, 2014
Apr 13, 2014 at 4:24 PM UTC
she said
"i'll teach you to love,
just draw nearer to me.
draw nearer to me
and i'll make you mine."
as she
laced up her best heels
put on her best face
and applied another coat
of liquid vanity.
as i
made an effort to
concoct a new way to say
"no"
and
ignore the
rotting
carcasses of
hearts
that strewed the floor.
i'd seen her kind before
"but losing you would be a chore
my darling detritivore"
i said
Sep 24, 2010
Sep 24, 2010 at 1:33 PM UTC
As I walk through the Poppy Fields
Watching the Red Flower glow
I pause, and reflect, on the men that fell
Men I didn’t even know.
Loved ones from a different time.
Taken from us in their prime
Bodies lying dead strewed all around
The grave stones of people from all different towns.
In the Poppy fields as I ponder
I sit and think and often wonder
What might have been all those
Nov 27, 2018
Nov 27, 2018 at 4:33 PM UTC
You know, friend,
the strangest occurrence came before me,
as I was walking under these auburn branches of birch just the other day.
I came across an old man
playing with marbles on a grassy verge, among the tumbling leaves.
So I asked of him,
'Surely there is a better terrain for such a game?'
to which he responded,
'The pleasure of completing the sensible endeavour,
was lost long ago.'
and so I but had to ask,
'Surely then pick a hobby that bears easier fruit?'
To which he said
'If a hobby lies on the praxis of habit, then any newfangled venture is necessarily improper.'
Quite perturbed, I could but reply;
'Is not the wholesale rejection of the erudition of change blinding?'
To which he smiled, and held up a marble
he'd found lost under a strewed leaf, to the light
it's smooth opal contours glistening in form,
and said,
'Babel, too, was built on a sphere.'
And so that was that.
But the days are getting shorter, aren't they?
Or rather, they're the same length, but the colours have faded round the edges
frayed dead leather
binding empty rusted old bones.
Isn't it funny? How something hollow and brittle is thought to be fragile,
while it's only after becoming hollow oneself
that one can drink from the cusp of influence and power.
Age is a wonderful thing; it lets one rationalise and contextualise all ones excesses,
that one felt so uncomfortable about
back when they were actually enjoyable.
But I am so tired of all the moralists;
where we thought we thought on what we ought to have fought,
instead we fought on what we ought to have thought.
Thats the thing about the absolutes,
be they Hegelian or Platonic,
is, if they're true to their namesake,
are scarcely a thing that needs defending.
Not that the opposite is any better;
To both the aged romantic
who sings praises to his mortality,
And the jejune one
the teenager drowning in lust and love,
I can but simply say;
'He who worships living flesh
has a fool for a god.'
for the illusion of form
has a conclusion forlorn.
But, ah no, don't go that way,
the traffic's terrible there..
Though, what way was it to where we live again?
Jul 12, 2014
Jul 12, 2014 at 7:48 PM UTC
There is something so superficial
About an art gallery
Strange pieces strewed about
For passers-by to see
Some people stare
With their nose in the air
And say:
“This piece is exquisite, what a lovely display!”
They’ll insist that it’s priceless but would not pay a cent
And others will question if it even makes sense
“How is this art? A stick glued to the wall,
I could do this myself, it means nothing at all!”
But though you think it’s insane
Your eyes still maintain
You’re respectful and quiet and do not make a peep.
Although you still think it’s a bit superficial,
You pretend to yourself that you get it to feel deep
And somehow it creates a vibe that’s… sort of beautiful
Some odd stokes of eloquence,
Mixed with trash on a shelf
But the piece with most elegance
Is the gallery itself
Feb 24, 2014
Feb 24, 2014 at 11:02 PM UTC
disconnect melded with malcontent
strewed through common intents
durable perishables
in spite of unmentionables
see if they care
to see if you care
if nothing else
at least you know the least
of the beast
in the shadow
of the teeth
the worst is seen
and never felt
and if it was
would you know it
when it happened?
Feb 5, 2016
Feb 5, 2016 at 2:14 PM UTC
A new patch of flowers is strewed
Toes damp from the days morning dew
A leap and a dash
In puddles we splash
The essence is freshly renewed
Feb 14, 2014
Feb 14, 2014 at 1:23 AM UTC