"succour" poems
THE FLOWERS
What I told
you about the
flowers
no one probably
won't tell you.
Is it not
about their fragrance
and how amazing
it is that
they share their
life with you.
They hang around
your garden and
patiently wait on
you with their
perfume of love.
To make you
happy with the
fragrance of their
healing presence,
they share their
fragrance and working
tirelessly in gladness
they gracefully grace
your life with grace.
They lay down
at our feet
always ready to
bring pleasure
to our leisure.
To please you
they share lavishly
and are generous
about it.
They bring pleasure
back into our
homes by spreading
their fragrance.
Even when bruised
they give out
their best fragrance
out of love
to soothe and bring
succour to our
tired mind.
They also help
decorate our world
with their beautiful
flowers to make
our lives lovely.
How can we
not appreciate
their presence
in our homes,
garden and environment.
They are divinely
precious beautiful treasure
with an alluring
power to help us heal.
Little beautiful gifts
from heaven with
such an unforgettable
sublime and divine fragrance.
Spreading their love
they reach out
to us even
from miles away
adorning our weddings
and other events
with their fragrance
and presence and
speaking to us
in the language
only the heart
can understand.
Nature gave us
fragrance in flowers
so lovely and
endearing that no
one can resist
their friendship.
To walk with
them is unbelievably sweet.
©2018,Emeka Mokeme. All Rights Reserved
Jul 3, 2018
Jul 3, 2018 at 7:21 PM UTC
Whirlpool of whirling quaint
Inequality brewing in the
Winepress of smithereens
Fragile polity.
Voices of weariness cried
Out from the wasteyard of
Waste for succour,
Pointing fingers of
Recrimination towards
The abyss of drouth ,
Entangled in conflicts
Of interest.
Winds of improvised emblem
Bearing hunchback of
Woes,
Raising hands from the
Drowning deep sea
For rescue like
A dejected beautiful
Vigaro in a
Turbulent ocean of quarrel
With her spouse.
Whereas reddish fluids of life
Runs across the same veins
And arteries of haves
And haves-not but
Cottage of interests
Hoisting avalanche of
Rainbow-coloured flags
Standing aloof on the
Pole of misrule,
Demarcating their interests.
No accommodation for wants
In the corridor of affluence.
Wants on a trade mission
With wealthy but caged in
The confinement of wealth.
Winds of inequality blew
Whirler of wants into
The marrow of the
Haves-not.
Rains of inequality passing
Through a lockage of lack
Into the improvised,
Doling-out poverty to
Gain the control of
Wealth.
Alas! Blindness sees inner
Vision of darkness from
The households of political
lamia.
Alas! Deafness hears
Discordant vague voices
Of failure from the forest
of frustration.
Alas! Dumbness speaks
Language of gnomes out
Of the vale of forgotten
treasures.
Alas! A four year tenancy
turning into decades
of challenges.
But we shall revive our hope
and raise our voices
tomorrow.
Feb 22, 2019
Feb 22, 2019 at 8:19 AM UTC
Ebola! Ebola! Ebola!
you are only hunting in the exhausted fields,
you predecessors have done evil marvel in this land
Africa's sons and daughter were heavily taken away
in slave raid, colonial rampage two world wars, cancer
and *** aids, Ebola you must be ashamed to come here,
are you as foolish as lioness that must follow the path
initially taken by her husband the lion?
Ebola Africa is dead tired and lain forlorn
by strange diseases not known by it
but only named in the land of their cradle
where *** was born in the Irish Laboratory
on trial and error to decimate Africa's populations
in the racially biased arsenal you have also come
you fangled teeth a bare menace to each of us
you make us bleed from out body holes,
blood oozing out like Nile water from lake Victoria
Ebola! Ebola! sympathy is not a vice, but heavenly
virtue, only protege of the Godly please be sympathetic
to Africa the orphan of the classic times with no succour
her wounds of Cancer are fresh and fresh as those obnoxites
from the nasty Aids aka *** kindly empathize with Africa
you have eaten Mali and Nigeria after Congo Kinshasa
you are now in Kenya the neighbor of Sudan
the last born of Africa already rendered forlorn
by the AK 47 and AK 74, shot in the tribal tremors
O! Ebola Ebola! my prayer to you is as brief
as that; forgive me for my weird mourning
of my brothers and sister in death mongering
mandibles so ugly and Abysmal like
Gehenna of Jesus Christ, Amen!
Oct 22, 2014
Oct 22, 2014 at 7:47 PM UTC
Ebola
Ebola! Ebola! Ebola!
you are only hunting in the exhausted fields,
you predecessors have done evil marvel in this land
Africa's sons and daughter were heavily taken away
in slave raid, colonial rampage two world wars ,cancer
and *** aids, Ebola you must be ashamed to come here,
are you as foolish as lioness that must follow the path
initially taken by her husband the lion?
Ebola Africa is dead tired and lain forlorn
by strange diseases not known by it
but only named in the land of their cradle
where *** was born in the Irish Laboratory
on trial and error to decimate Africa's populations
in the racially biased arsenal you have also come
you fangled teeth a bare menace to each of us
you make us bleed from out body holes,
blood oozing out like Nile water from lake Victoria
Ebola ! Ebola ! sympathy is not a vice , but heavenly
virtue, only protege of the Godly please be sympathetic
to Africa the orphan of the classic times with no succour
her wounds of Cancer are fresh and fresh as those obnoxites
from the nasty Aids aka *** kindly empathize with Africa
you have eaten Mali and Nigeria after Congo Kinshasa
you are now in Kenya the neighbor of Sudan
the last born of Africa already rendered forlorn
by the AK 47 and AK 74 , shot in the tribal tremors
O! Ebola Ebola ! my prayer to you is as brief
as that; forgive me for my weird mourning
of my brothers and sister in death mongering
mandibles so ugly and Abysmal like
Gehenna of Jesus Christ, Amen !
Aug 13, 2014
Aug 13, 2014 at 4:59 AM UTC
Life is so funny in its
uncanny and unpredictable
ways.
It reaches out to us
with powerful grip,
yet allows us to make decisions
about what we think we want
without interference
but with consequences
of our actions.
Molded in our favour,
fashioned to bring succour
and comfort to ameliorate
the pains to be encountered.
This helps to do things
the right way the first time,
allowing things to manifest
and work the way they should,
not the other way around.
It’s like when we brush
our teeth before we go to
the dentist to have
a teeth cleaning or
when we wash the dishes before
we put them in the dishwasher
or when we clean up the house
before the maid arrives.
These are not following
the natural order of things.
Yield to the kindness of nature.
Listen to the rhythm it beats
into your consciousness,
it's wisdom is of superior quality.
Accept whatever it gives you,
for the miraculous is woven
and hidden inside it.
The notion is to take you to the apex
of your mountain if patience is excellently
exercised and not be distracted.
©2018,Emeka Mokeme. All Rights Reserved.
Aug 8, 2018
Aug 8, 2018 at 12:36 PM UTC
Doe eyed, staring, steaming.
Chocolate, toffee and coffee,
Cream and buttermilk
Or black and white.
Roused at dawn
To yield the warm succour
meant for their long dead offspring
Morning, mourning for natures call of motherhood.
Nov 15, 2012
Nov 15, 2012 at 3:56 PM UTC
J'ai goute' des 'etoiles,
I'm tasting stars,
Pour them unto me
milk and honey not enough
Succour me with love
not well worn phrases,
intoxicated
I drink of you,
J'ai goute' des 'etoiles...
Aug 3, 2013
Aug 3, 2013 at 2:28 AM UTC
.
I love her many faces,
they swim in my dreams eternal,
tantalising, playing, and held within,
breaking the shell to find the kernel.
The source of beauty beholden there,
brings succour to an aching heart,
chanting, singing, a pretty lullaby,
straight as an arrow, swift as a dart.
A veil of Wisdom hangs loose,
showing me the way with herbs,
aromatic, evocative, a hazy swoon,
a tranquil lake, a thrown stone disturbs.
I adore her seductive curves,
they dance in my time and space,
rhythmic, ****** and shown external,
a Wiccans kiss and a Womans grace.
© Pagan Paul (08/08/16)
Mar 25, 2017
Mar 25, 2017 at 6:24 AM UTC
Listen soldier to the tale of tendor nightingale
Tis a charm that soon will ease your wounds so cruel,
Singing medicine for your pain in a sympathetic strain
with a jug, jug, jug of lemonade or gruel.
Singing bandages and lint; salve and stearate without stint
Singing plenty both of liniment and lotion.
And your mixtures pushes about
And the pills for you served out
With alacrity and promptitute of motion
Singing light and gentle hands, and a nurse who understands
How to manage every sort of application.
From a poultice to leach, whom you haven't got to teach,
The way to make a poppy fomentation.
Singing pillow for you smoothed; smart and anguish smoothed,
By the rediness of feminine invention.
Singing fever thirst allayed, and the bed you've tumbled made
With a cheerful and considerate attention.
Singing succour to the brave and a rescue from the grave,
Hear the nightingale that's come to the crimea.
Tis a nightingale as strong in her heart as in her song,
To carry out so gallant an idea.
Nov 23, 2010
Nov 23, 2010 at 12:06 AM UTC
at anchor
now
anchored
shifting sands
moving
with tides
tied to
a moon
for love
and succour
wrapped around
a sun
too hot
to touch
up anchor
move on
sail into
space
May 22, 2014
May 22, 2014 at 1:33 PM UTC
Simple pleasures
in complex living.
Love is squandered
of faults unforgiving.
Seeking succour
in flesh and loving.
Run to his arms
needing and wanting.
Rejected, unloved
start at the beginning.
Had enough, don't know
if I'm coming or going.
Desire mounts to be
part of the unliving
Jun 3, 2010
Jun 3, 2010 at 8:23 AM UTC
Obscurest night involv'd the sky,
Th' Atlantic billows roar'd,
When such a destin'd wretch as I,
Wash'd headlong from on board,
Of friends, of hope, of all bereft,
His floating home for ever left.
No braver chief could Albion boast
Than he with whom he went,
Nor ever ship left Albion's coast,
With warmer wishes sent.
He lov'd them both, but both in vain,
Nor him beheld, nor her again.
Not long beneath the whelming brine,
Expert to swim, he lay;
Nor soon he felt his strength decline,
Or courage die away;
But wag'd with death a lasting strife,
Supported by despair of life.
He shouted: nor his friends had fail'd
To check the vessel's course,
But so the furious blast prevail'd,
That, pitiless perforce,
They left their outcast mate behind,
And scudded still before the wind.
Some succour yet they could afford;
And, such as storms allow,
The cask, the coop, the floated cord,
Delay'd not to bestow.
But he (they knew) nor ship, nor shore,
Whate'er they gave, should visit more.
Nor, cruel as it seem'd, could he
Their haste himself condemn,
Aware that flight, in such a sea,
Alone could rescue them;
Yet bitter felt it still to die
Deserted, and his friends so nigh.
He long survives, who lives an hour
In ocean, self-upheld;
And so long he, with unspent pow'r,
His destiny repell'd;
And ever, as the minutes flew,
Entreated help, or cried--Adieu!
At length, his transient respite past,
His comrades, who before
Had heard his voice in ev'ry blast,
Could catch the sound no more.
For then, by toil subdued, he drank
The stifling wave, and then he sank.
No poet wept him: but the page
Of narrative sincere;
Is wet with Anson's tear.
And tears by bards or heroes shed
Alike immortalize the dead.
I therefore purpose not, or dream,
Descanting on his fate,
To give the melancholy theme
A more enduring date:
But misery still delights to trace
No voice divine the storm allay'd,
No light propitious shone;
When, snatch'd from all effectual aid,
We perish'd, each alone:
But I beneath a rougher sea,
And whelm'd in deeper gulfs than he.
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I threaten’d to observe the strict decree
Of my dear God with all my power and might;
But I was told by one it could not be;
Yet I might trust in God to be my light.
“Then will I trust,” said I, “in Him alone.”
“Nay, e’en to trust in Him was also His:
We must confess that nothing is our own.”
“Then I confess that He my succour is.”
“But to have nought is ours, not to confess
That we have nought.” I stood amaz’d at this,
Much troubled, till I heard a friend express
That all things were more ours by being His;
What Adam had, and forfeited for all,
Christ keepeth now, who cannot fail or fall.
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Beside me, in this unforgiving November’s winter, is she…
My queen beside me, amidst this rotting debris gifted to me.
Daphne, the comforter sent from the highest skies of Elysia
And Daphne, my love, you put a stopper… on my withering
Never did the sounding of a name, here, blossom a magnolia
Daphne, yours made my hell, the eternal orchards of Elysia.
We were betrothed to each other in here, in this wasteland
I await; you at our wedding, in your wedding gown, oh…
‘Tis her, the beau sky wrapped around your gentle frame
In your adornments, gifted from the agents of light, oh…
They are sapphire stars plucked from that midnight blue
On the edge of the Aegean sea, we await, in this wasteland
I await; you at our wedding, in your veil and crown, oh…
‘Tis her, the clouds and her raindrops, adorning your face
I await our wedding waltz, in our deserted fields, oh…
Without our kin, persecuted and orphaned by the world
Alone we shall dance, on the edge of Ymos, our dwelling
Alone we shall be in our vows when our eyes rain in joy
I await your grand advent, beaming gleefully, towards me
Bringing me, serenity; being my succour, with your smile
I await your silhouette, irradiating the wide evening blue
Bringing me, release; being my soother, now I live anew
Daphne, your midnight blue eyes, your voice of mead…
My pen fervently gallops for words, as I just gaze in awe
Let the sands of time tick away in joy, ticking, grain by grain
The heavens merry till the penultimate hours of our union
Now, in these salty Aegean waters, I taste honey and wine
I await our pristine union; as your hand knots with mine.
Beside me, in this unforgiving November’s winter, is you…
Daphne…
Nov 30, 2020
Nov 30, 2020 at 5:35 AM UTC
1.
your words are oft like sweet-sour packages in the post
excitement mounts to rend strings yet dread too, peeps in.
songs you play are wrought from famished strips of liquid love
that my wretched soul with face upward, so wanting, laps up.
2.
oh, let me be that tree for your succour
come into me shade
oh, let me be that wave for your restlessness
come ride upon me swell
oh, let me be that light for your needing
come meld within me core
and take what you need.
(and please be mine, too)
3.
I am so in awe of you that I'm angry!
can you just come upon this landing, already?
let me lay you down, beside me . . .
this garden awaits
tomorrow never knows
of what wondrous delights we spake
mine eye seeks thee, always.
let me . . .
stroke your disheveled mind
and allow me to slow-spill into obdurate you
soft and gentle, sweet and kind
your destroyed words
to hear how swift and sudden they really are.
let us fall headlong . . .
4.
when, once every millennium
the tale doth go:
the time-eagle returns
to that diamond-mountain
so far away
to sharpen its beak
and when, it finally wears down
that haughty hill
then one mere second of eternity will have passed
yes, the hour-glass of eternity will run its full course.
despite time and distance
forever is a wicked charm that I must wait for . . .
and forsooth
the weight of it, I will bear.
S T, 14 May 2013
May 14, 2013
May 14, 2013 at 6:34 AM UTC
O! for this dark terrestrial ball
Forsakes his azure-paved hall
A prince of heav’nly birth!
Divine Humanity behold,
What wonders rise, what charms unfold
At his descent to earth!
II.
The bosoms of the great and good
With wonder and delight he view’d,
And fix’d his empire there:
Him, close compressing to his breast,
The sire of gods and men address’d,
“My son, my heav’nly fair!
III.
“Descend to earth, there place thy throne;
“To succour man’s afflicted son
“Each human heart inspire:
“To act in bounties unconfin’d
“Enlarge the close contracted mind,
“And fill it with thy fire.”
IV.
Quick as the word, with swift career
He wings his course from star to star,
And leaves the bright abode.
The Virtue did his charms impart;
Their G——! then thy raptur’d heart
Perceiv’d the rushing God:
V.
For when thy pitying eye did see
The languid muse in low degree,
Then, then at thy desire
Descended the celestial nine;
O’er me methought they deign’d to shine,
And deign’d to string my lyre.
VI.
Can Afric’s muse forgetful prove?
Or can such friendship fail to move
A tender human heart?
Immortal Friendship laurel-crown’d
The smiling Graces all surround
With ev’ry heav’nly Art.
1.7k
Because you have thrown of your Prelate Lord,
And with stiff Vowes renounc’d his Liturgie
To seise the widdow’d ***** Pluralitie
From them whose sin ye envi’d, not abhor’d,
Dare ye for this adjure the Civill Sword
To force our Consciences that Christ set free,
And ride us with a classic Hierarchy
Taught ye by meer A. S. and Rotherford?
Men whose Life, Learning, Faith and pure intent
Would have been held in high esteem with Paul
Must now he nam’d and printed Hereticks
By shallow Edwards and Scotch what d’ye call:
But we do hope to find out all your tricks,
Your plots and packing wors then those of Trent,
That so the Parliament
May with their wholsom and preventive Shears
Clip your Phylacteries, though bauk your Ears,
And succour our just Fears
When they shall read this clearly in your charge
New Presbyter is but Old Priest Writ Large.
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It was a Victorian night where the streets were alight with braziers and gas lamps,when out of the shadows a man rose, in the sight of those poor waifs who were waiting for succour and a bowl full of supper from the sisters, and mercy they were,for the man wouldn't dare to buy favours from females,not in front of the saviours who went among poor men, whose behaviour was suspect and where the language was ripe.
The man sunk back into the blackness of night out of sight but in mind,a kind of reminder to those in the raggety clothes,that the streets were unsafe,and
a place fit for weirdos and those who looked through you and you looked for safety in the arms of the stately,but those homes were all shut,tut ,tut
The old Queens on the throne and you're thrown to the hounds and evil abounds in this Victorian night.
The morning breaks wind as you sniff at the air and wonder, just wonder why life's so unfair,
lice in your hair and you don't smell that good,a bath would be nice and if you could you would take one to relax in,but the morning backs into your face and let's face it,the life that you're living is not good enough to **** in,and we both know these oaths that pop out now and then are not spoken by you but are written by the pen,
and another page
an Edwardian age
but the rage carries on and Victoria's gone but it matters not
you've got what you've got and there's not much you can do about that.
Oct 16, 2013
Oct 16, 2013 at 8:20 PM UTC
A physician to me is what thou art
yet all of this is unbeknown to thee,
and if to prove all true where should I start
in truth to pay such an exquisite fee.
For upon none I call to intercede
for succour to cure such a sweet sick state
for no physician's counsel do I heed
as Eros stands by and scoffs at mine fate.
O, but to be with thee for just one hour
would ease mine fever'd brow and calm mine mind
for being in thy presence thou hast such pow'r
but when apart a paradox to find ⎯
it seems mine fate perforce I must endure
finding in thee my sickness and my cure.
Apr 10, 2015
Apr 10, 2015 at 10:14 AM UTC
What worth is a flow’r to a bunch; and its hidden message?
Or if ev’n a cherry; to a box of chocolates indulged in, and gild’d?
As ev’n what worth is a drop to a summer’ rain in fall.
Or the autumn zephyr to a winter wind unceasing?
Its essence, finesse untold; undervalued.
Quantity; is it not what our hearts seeks, unabashed, unrelenting.
When it must, it should instead quality.
So as the sole dewdrops, from the ***** of the heavens descend
And, that seeks refuge in a flow’r bud silent, and tacit
So too does a tear drop, from the jewel of the eye
In a hearts element, succour.
Aug 5, 2014
Aug 5, 2014 at 10:33 AM UTC
Some peaks of dark fall these monsters learn to ebb.
I wonder where they go or will they ever draw.
And what I hanker for is hear from them no more.
As blankets do not succour,
Even pecks,
or sweet ***** holds,
Dispatch or scuttle
Dingy veil these ghastly voices love to warble.
Jun 3, 2015
Jun 3, 2015 at 7:10 AM UTC
I lay there silent, beneath the soil,
A seed awaiting your sweet shower,
And in you came with moist and succour,
To shape my love into a flower...
(C) [email protected] 2019
May 27, 2019
May 27, 2019 at 10:09 AM UTC
A man old beyond his years
Mourns his son who’s not dead but gone.
He
simply
loved
that child.
Thrown into competition for custody
He’s frozen out.
An unselfish man, mild in nature
Who gave love
and kept the peace
and his counsel.
Anger subdued, repressed, burns behind the eyes that weep.
He’s impotent.
The mother manipulates man and boy to bend their wills to her command.
They are cowed but not broken.
Slowly, slowly the fire builds and gives succour to resolve.
The gentle man battles on,
step by step
His will strengthened by love.
The law is on his side.
Mar 4, 2010
Mar 4, 2010 at 12:29 AM UTC
November is a month
i dread, all the marking...
all the words ..... ideas
clutter up in my head....
all the hopes and ambitions
weigh heavily on my back.
the first day, my birthday
hip hip hooray!!!
then a rushing, pell mell
downward track
of red pens and meetings
going on and on and on
planning, prepping, late night stressing
then, when not at work,
not shirking, just not working
hoping to give the brain a rest
am bombarded...
like i am ******** in cheer
...continual messages of
christmas is near....
coffee and carols,
shopping and angels
harking, harking,
joy to the world, fa al lalala...
Santa queues
truly not an Ebeneezer
but Christmas teasers
in November make me grey
around the gills
fish out of water
lamb to the slaughter
and running on empty,
always empty,
just want one day...
when the world
would stop hassling
and just go away
no end of year parties...
prentending to be hale and hearty
with all sorts of colleagues
and academic smarties
no presentations of budgets..
thinner than last
no we could not fast
this area, to be on line
no it's alright, it will be just fine
while sculling copious amounts
of cheap, cheap, nasty red wine.
no hangover from said feast...
no, you be the one to corner the beast.
no more standing with mothers and others
watching children in a god awful christmas play
and clapping and chatting while little bettsy
recieves an award for knitting a sleeve
and george gets one for adding fourhundred and forty
please, please show me the door.....
not to mention hayfever,
daylight savings and more
but all this seems trivial...
when I consider
the blight of my life...
in the stakes of annuity.
the month of November has a great heart
Movember...a charity of moustache art
has an fanatic in my big, bluff,bloke
for a month he curries and cares for the
caterpillar that grows on his lip...
a fuzzy flecked monstrosity
with the mange and a weird flip.
November a month of avoiding
the succour of contact....
with that thing,
my toes curl now
thinking of it....
tho I try not to react
(after all charity begins at home)
november november
truly you are the ***
last year he bought
the ****** thing a comb
yet in the end
you are but a month
and it seems I survive you
year after year
thank god for take away meals
and long cold beers....
Apr 4, 2016
Apr 4, 2016 at 5:32 AM UTC
No excess drink of beer and wine
Which sparkle and taste verily fine,
Thou my quaffing mouth,
Neither of whiskey nor of brandy
That does make feelings randy
And turns a gent to a lager lout.
Altogether
Transient merriment it giveth and succour
To the soaked jolly soul--much liquor--
I do, my goblet, gather.
Oct 21, 2011
Oct 21, 2011 at 3:18 AM UTC