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Khoisan Aug 2018
Well after the wingman had left
I sang along to the seductive tune
that subtly fountained
A wanton void in my libido
Blindsided by the deceit of my own desires
I had succumbed
His passion was explicit
Mind blowing
Abandoned and exposed
I have fallen for a one night stand
And flailed upon quick sulking sand
You can't hurry love
Sacrelicious Apr 2012
I
don't want to
exist.
In
a
love-less
lust-lost
home either.

Let's run-run-run
run-away
to better
days.

Run away
from everything,
from everyone
to everywhere
and anywhere.

We deserve to look outside
the windows of a home,
not
a
half-orphan-orphanage.

The sun is shining somewhere.
Let's
go
sulking in the sunlight.
<3
English Jam Mar 2018
[Part the First]

There's some giddy, childish sensation
The hope of a new generation

Faceless cameras war for my voice
A flashing ocean of stomps and shoves
Taken from me is my choice
Given is a false sense of love
They smile too wide to be true
Contorted and stretched, like some plastic
But they're all I have before the blue
So deep breaths, and then come dramatics

People who pass me by
Don't seem to realise
The emptiness of the sky
When they look into my eyes

They ask:
Is it lonely up in space?
Is it a cold, abandoned place?
Is it bright amongst the stars?
Do you know who you really are?

[Part the Second]

My life has faded to drunken thoughts
Reality doesn't confirm what can't be bought

The multicoloured psychedelia
Of nebula turning to rainbows
Now looks more fake than ever
And so my sanity goes
There's a beast out there, lurking
I'm not sure if it wants me
But my hope is hiding, sulking
From the abyss that can hear and see

The worst way to die is alone
Where there's no one who can help me
As my punishment destroys my home
At least, from my memory

They screech:
It's so lonely up in space
It's a cold, abandoned place
It's too bright amongst the stars
I think I'm dreaming too far

[Part the Third]

The faintest echo of laughter
Presents itself as my only answer

It's distant, like someone drowning in ecstasy
But it rings from the walls to my ears
The effect of the starry-eyed seas
Has mutated into whimpering fears
I know I'm not amongst the stars anymore
But the damage cannot be undone
So I gave myself to the floor
I could lie here, and never see the sun

Space could've never actually existed
Just a vivid fantasy of escape
But my mind has been so twisted
It must've been the cruelty of fate

They wonder:
Was it lonely up in space?
Was it a cold, abandoned place?
Will the stars ever forgive?
Do I still have a life to live?
Michael DeVoe Nov 2009
Moments
Like ordering two mochas
Just to watch you make them
Forgetting your name five times
Before getting your phone number
Wiping chocolate off your shirt
Trying unsuccessfully to flirt my way
Out of spilling on you
Little moments
Like finally having the guts to ask you out
Running to the coffee shop full speed
Just to find out it was your day off
Sulking my way through my third cup of tea
Cursing the fates for their insolence
Right until you walked in to cover someone else's shift
And running out too scared again
Little moments like those
Remind me why I fight through
Big times like these
Little moments
Like driving over the mountains
To get to the first big storm
Just to be the first ones to kiss in the rain
After the summer sun chapped our lips so long
We forgot the taste of our kiss
Little moments
Like the first time I took you out in heels
And you spent the whole night
Whispering to yourself about not falling
Right up until I fell twice
Down a flight of stairs
And for you
Little moments
Like you running over to pick my head up
Off the concrete
Staring at me with this look
That made me want to ask you if you were okay
Little moments
Like that remind me
That the big times like these
Are worth fighting for
That the big fights like these
Are worth ending
If only for the shot to have one more
Little moment
Like
A movie perfect scene in the snow
With snow ball fights, snow angels
And a snow man with coal for buttons
Eyes, mouth, sticks for arms and a scarf
But we didn't have a carrot
So you ran upstairs, broke off one of your heels
And called him Stalleto-face for a week
Little moments
Like
Burning three attempts at chicken cord en bleu
And begging the old woman on the phone
To put in one more order before they closed
And tipping $100 just to have the chance
To eat midnight fried rice on the living room floor
Because the table was full of
Foiled attempts at cooking
Little moments
Like those
So dear to me
Remind me there is no fight too big
To give up little moments with you
A collection of poems by me is available on Amazon
Where She Left Me - Michael DeVoe
http://goo.gl/5x3Tae
Lou Jul 2017
4
At the Zoo

Patriots and faux exhibit and binge on synonyms of liberty printed on beer and underwear
Advertising what should be unspoken and inspired to pervert and romanticize
Preludes to the parades and finale above us all
Weeks of saturated irony
Cuckoo bird irony and BBQ
As they reform Phoenix, rebirth of distractions and thievery
Predators in ally ways pursing America's diamonds and legs

Then gunpowder
Gunpowder of colors and cuckoos
Layers of streets in gunpowder
Towns built of gunpowder
Sky is gunpowder
We are born addicted to led and gunpowder
Gunpowder ****** in the air
Success, display and diversion and more gunpowder to ingest.

The Grand Finale
The Volta of the evening
The hammer of the judge
*** appeal of death and nature flexing it's muscles-  
show us some skin!

Covering your ears
Eyes fastened-
Ready to burrow back to mothers womb
Binged and free
Chinese celebration hijacked
Red, White and Blue
And a moment of silence  

Orchestrated onomatopoeia in heaven
Chorus of arousal on Earth
Band marching war machines in hell

The showdown of 241 years!
This freedom we are all grateful to only talk about

Only free to battle shackling intoxication
Men and women tugging extra weighted offspring
Sulking for indoors and portable addiction  
Chanting three letter obedience
God being counted by his blessings
Fear and Statism in every breathe for salvation from our stick swatted enemies
Checkpoints that serve and protect asking for a toll;
liberty synonyms.
Arresting the too free

At the Zoo,

The cuckoos regaining reality.
The phoenix red eye and held under oath
To the next day where we are back
To hate each others freedom, again.
Written on the 4th of July.
Annie McLaughlin Sep 2015
Monday was terrible.
Horrific.
I spent the day sulking on my lonesome and went home ready to erupt.
I could feel the slight tingle of tears threatening their way through my eyelids
Ready to pour over the second they perched open
But due to my lack of sleep last night
I doubt I could even build up the strength to open my glossy eyes
Even if I wanted to

In a weird sense
I enjoyed the mere thought of Monday being able to make me cry
I almost laughed
Or screamed
Or both

A year ago today
Everyday was a Monday to me
Everyday went horribly
Everyday made me come home crying and lock myself in my room
I was so used to that constant repetitive torture
That Monday appeared to be no different than any other day
Monday was just... It.
Tuesday was "it"
Wednesday was "it"
Thursday was "it"
Friday was "it"
Even Saturday and Sunday were "it"

But now, today
Monday is distinct
In a horrifyingly gruesome way
And this tear-jerking unsatisfying Monday gave me hope

Monday made me cry
Tuesday did not
Wednesday did not
Thursday did not
Friday did not
Not even Saturday or Sunday made me cry
Only Monday made me cry
Only Monday

Just as Monday made 7 billion other humans cry
On this torturous inescapable earth
It also made me cry

And that gave me hope that maybe I really am normal
Or I can be
Or I will be

Because Monday is unbearable for everyone
And Monday is unbearable for me
And the rest of the week is alright for most people
And it was alright for me
And Saturday and Sunday are fun for most people
And Saturday and Sunday were fun for me

Somewhere
Deep inside my clouded, muddy mind
I caught a glimpse of hope
That maybe
There is hope for me
Maybe I am cured
Maybe I can be
Maybe I will be
Don Moore Feb 2016
Part one – The Hedgerow watcher.

He is almost obscured by the Elder branch, which laden with fragrant summer flower heads, casts a shadow on his cloudy features. Nearby, small birds chatter in a hawthorn bush, completely unaware of the figure sitting in quiet deliberation; only his eyes move beneath his darken brows, as he ponders the small animal traffic in the verdant river valley below.

And were you to be hurried, or impatient, and not look too carefully, you would never perceive him at all, so well hidden is he. You would have more chance, if you caught a glimpse of him sideways through the corner of your eye, and even then there is the possibility, you would not believe what you had seen...

His eyes light with golden flecks, as the late evening summer sun, ensnares sparkles off the languid river surface and directs them upwards into the unhurriedly darkening duck egg blue sky. He watches intently as a young female Fern bear snouts her way through and across the lush emerald green grasses just inches away from the river bank, where water voles play, creating tiny V shaped furrows across the shallow stream surface as they cruise the nearly mirror like silver face.

He notices’ that he can see the smoothly pebbled bottom and the rainbow spotted  coloured sides of the almost motionless trout as they hang fins fluttering awaiting the last daytime midges to perhaps drop down and furnish them with one last gulp of dinner.

Native birds flit from branch to branch on the overhanging trees o’er softly trickling water, their tiny songs much muted by the distance, and up above a Buzzard floats on browned wing his eyes trained downwards to impale a darting field vole, which seeks his own dinner of scurrying iridescent Beetle.

A flurry, as a black and red Moorhen jumps onto a small sandy beach at the corner of a turn, long wide toes and even longer legs, carry it up under the curve of bank, as it returns to its night time roost in haste.
A flash of instant Kingfisher cobalt blue and a small fisherwoman arrives upon a twig, her anxious beady eyes blackly spearing the dashing minnows, which with silver sides, play amongst the reeds and gently waving flags.

Part Two - Reynard the sly.

A ripple runs across his hairy back, as upon the delicious breeze, he catches hint of reddish skulking, sulking trickster near, and then from edge of pupil gold, catches merest glimpse of tail held low, as Reynard makes his courtly bow. Neither twitch nor tremor, the watcher makes as deviously this prince appears, his fetid stench announcing him to creatures far and near.

Then slowly as he cowers, the Fox glides by and down the steepest sides, to hope of careless rodent or of bird on nest, that might bring him windfall of instant feast that he may carry for his cubs that play at home beneath the staunchest tree, a woodland Oak of stout and height. They chase their tails in this perfect evening light, but learn of fear and flight, as horn does play upon a Sunday Morn, and colours bright which chase and catch them with some baying dog, not far removed from their much scary plight.

And all along the bottom of the wall, as laid by hand, a hedge pig snuffles for a slug or snail, his attention close upon the leafy mould, and then a surprising squeak as rippling back with reddish fur and chest of white, a family of the weasel exit stone built home and hurry for their evening hunt of beetle, vole or mouse. They disappear amongst the tallest grasses as a damp mound of freshly risen earth ejects the black velvet mole, which sniffs the air before he enters home and tracks the juicy worm back to his lair.

Little by little, so slow in fact, that you would not suspect, the watcher turns his face and looks with wonder to wooded river far, where branches bent create a vault, for shining, winding river run, and there in this, the darkest greenest place he spies a glint of hope as Dragonfly darts its wings a blur, and Mayfly dances beneath its many cathedral branches.
And further still above the trees a line of deepest blue meets lighter blue as sea and sky become no more than one, and smell of salt in distant climes come hither across this idyllic vista...

Part Three – Watcher revealed.

Dog Rose crawls its way across the bushes of the hedge, mixed with twinning convolvulus of purple hue, light green stalked, white capped cow parsley, groups in fading sun, with ragged Robin and dark pink Campion standing proud along with other flowers. Behind the silent Watcher lies a different guise of manmade meadow topped with crop of corn, which yellow in the fading sun, has bread like smell, significant of fresh warm loaves, and Man the farmer, is carrying all his toil, for the harvest of his many labours.

And in amongst this very yield, wild life is binding shoot and ear, as weeds are flourishing with the golden head, but make a pretty sight instead, for walking couple, who do not fear to tread, where woman glides as though a cloud, and pulled along upon her path, a little man who wishes he, was all alone, but must follow in his mother’s stately wake.

Towards the hedge she makes her way, and life goes still and much less vivid, but Watcher never makes his move, whilst beyond the wall the light is dropping further still, he rests his hand on object dear, but still refrains from moving forth.

And just before the barrier itself, she turns her stride and looking north, then moves away along a path, which chosen now will pass all sight, of secret ancient valley. The little man he cannot see what lies beyond his ken, and worries if he misses this, which might be very grand and maybe just beyond this very land. He tugs and pulls his Mother’s calloused palm, and as she continues on her elected special way, for she is old and cannot see, this wonder all around.

The lady now cuts back towards the way she came, and like a ship with boat in tow, she cuts a swathe through sea of golden grasses, and when perchance the little man would look behind to see, if there were aught that he had missed, of life beyond the that wall.

And then, as if on cue, the watcher stands, for he is proud with legs astride upon that hedge, no longer still but raising up, as he does stretch towards the sky, and then with no delay but still with yearning, he lifts up to his lips his instrument of all his learning.

The boy’s eyes are all of shock, for he has seen the Watcher well, half man, half goat, with shortest curling horns upon his almost woolly head, and listens in near rapture as Pan the woodland God, plays a merry breathy tune upon his pipes of river ****. The song is fierce and strong and as the boy pulls hard to stop his mother's walk; he looks away, in hope that he may, in attracting her closer assessment of the apparition, which he has spied in gay abandon, will be more than just a fancy of his dream.
But when he turns his head to take a further glimpse of this sudden ghost, who would be dancing, playing away along a valleys edge, he catches nothing, but the song of bird but which whilst trilling strong, is nowhere near as long as tune in moment gone.

Then in the middle distance church bells as the practice for the Sunday first begins, with peeling clap and stinging ring, and then as if he fears, that he shall never ever see again this horned guise of natural thing. He peers more closely yet again, but all is gone, and though he will return on summer nights, when man not boy he seeks a God, he never ever meets again, the edge to freedom and a God glorious not but never ever vain.
amrutha Feb 2014
You have seen those cheerful kids
Flying kites high up above
Bearing a happy heart, lighter than a feather
No worries, just innocent thoughts.
The kites feel like they've conquered the silver clouds
Though they fly many many layers beneath 'em
Their abstract vanity and enduring pride
got them strangled over tree tops.

You have seen those sulking self-haters
Flying kites high up above
With a hope to escape memories of the ghosts
To forget the evil they long ago bore.
The kites, they seem to refuse to speak
Owning souls too heavy to fly,
Urging to die.

You have seen those random kites
Stringless, wandering in the sky up above
Lost their way trying to discover themselves
Ending up somewhere and falling in love.
The kites, they feel they are way too different
To survive with the other ones in a normal world
Hungry souls, creative eyes
In a clear blue sky, they don't know where to hide.

Tangled strings, tired wings
Irritating distractions, infinite other things
Restless kites, not even sparing the dark nights
Worthy ones and unworthy ones
We all know one thing

Kites are meant to fly.
This poem talks about the kind of people and the kind of struggles they face. But in the end, everyone is worthy and capable.
"Kites are meant to fly".
always.
Aaliyah Jul 2015
I will sit in my sadness
as I drape it on like a mask
I'd even wear it to bed and alone
but never while sunlight hours pass

My sadness is often rooted in my chest
it's built to last
creating a storm
of anguish and despair
and outgrowing other emotions
in its path

My sadness looks like envy
and is filled with wrath
too much pride to subdue it
but easily broken like glass

My sadness looks like you
when your leaving

You,
when we're not speaking
You,
when you don't need me
You,
when your not near me.
Ghazal Mar 2014
Then there are days
When with a sulking face
I go through everyone's poems
Including my own
And wonder with bitter scorn
What kick do these people get
From all this rhyme-rhyme business
Just say it all in one line, no
Why coat it with metaphorical prettiness

Don't worry friends,
I hope to self-heal out of this strange daze
Probably just going through
A grumpy phase.
Bleh.
Julie Grenness Apr 2016
Why do men sit sulking alone?
Is it worse than Premenstrual Syndrome?
Is PFS far worse for men?
Indeed, by PFS, what is meant?
Why, it's Post Football Syndrome!
Don't say it's only a game, Oh no!
Round here, it's total blasphemy,
Or, let's say, utter heresy!
SSHHH...let's tiptoe away,
Dodging his tantrums today,
How does PFS affect you?
Find something else to do,
Preferably in another room,

Why do men sit sulking alone?
Easy, they have Post Football Syndrome...
SSSHHHHH......!!!!!
Have a laugh, feedback welcome.
Raj Arumugam Oct 2010
The ellipsis
was sulking and
in a pensive mood….

And so I said: Well?

And Ellipsis said: What?

I said: You’re sulking…


And Ellipsis erupted
like pimples on an adolescent’s face:
You wrote poems on every tribe of my race;
you wrote of the full stop and the comma and the dash
and about every other freak that jumps up
on a printed page…
And now you ask me, why I sulk!


So, I said cautiously,
what do you want me to do?

So, write me a freaking poem on me -
The Ellipsis!


And I scratched my head, and I said:
*A poem about the Ellipsis?
Hmmmm…
Mehul Sihra Nov 2014
He stand alone by the river
With his broken wings
Head bowed in shame
Tears carving its way through his face
Crying in the agony
With clothes tattered and knees scraped
Bruises and scars covering his visage
Blood splashing in water
In darken heaven
Seeing his own reflection
Soul wounded by rejection
Growing cold, sulking within
Drowning in river of own sin
No longer able to fly
Not completely
But losing his angelic side
Against his will
Unleashing his devil side
Blamed by fiend
Betrayed by loved ones
Who didn't even took time to know
In spite of being loyal
Destroyed and ignored
Now good person in him is lost
What you see a man in disguise
Is a devil
But remember that devil was once an angel
Rhiannon Oct 2016
Maybe I'm just tired?
I'll take a nap and be ok,
But I just can't forget the words,
You didn't even hesitate to say.

So as I lay here on my sofa sulking,
There's a war playing on in my mind,
Because on all of your words I'm choking,
As you think they're how I'm defined.
When I was a windy boy and a bit
And the black spit of the chapel fold,
(Sighed the old ram rod, dying of women),
I tiptoed shy in the gooseberry wood,
The rude owl cried like a tell-tale ***,
I skipped in a blush as the big girls rolled
Nine-pin down on donkey's common,
And on seesaw sunday nights I wooed
Whoever I would with my wicked eyes,
The whole of the moon I could love and leave
All the green leaved little weddings' wives
In the coal black bush and let them grieve.

When I was a gusty man and a half
And the black beast of the beetles' pews
(Sighed the old ram rod, dying of *******),
Not a boy and a bit in the wick-
Dipping moon and drunk as a new dropped calf,
I whistled all night in the twisted flues,
Midwives grew in the midnight ditches,
And the sizzling sheets of the town cried, Quick!-
Whenever I dove in a breast high shoal,
Wherever I ramped in the clover quilts,
Whatsoever I did in the coal-
Black night, I left my quivering prints.

When I was a man you could call a man
And the black cross of the holy house,
(Sighed the old ram rod, dying of welcome),
Brandy and ripe in my bright, bass prime,
No springtailed tom in the red hot town
With every simmering woman his mouse
But a hillocky bull in the swelter
Of summer come in his great good time
To the sultry, biding herds, I said,
Oh, time enough when the blood runs cold,
And I lie down but to sleep in bed,
For my sulking, skulking, coal black soul!

When I was half the man I was
And serve me right as the preachers warn,
(Sighed the old ram rod, dying of downfall),
No flailing calf or cat in a flame
Or hickory bull in milky grass
But a black sheep with a crumpled horn,
At last the soul from its foul mousehole
Slunk pouting out when the limp time came;
And I gave my soul a blind, slashed eye,
Gristle and rind, and a roarers' life,
And I shoved it into the coal black sky
To find a woman's soul for a wife.

Now I am a man no more no more
And a black reward for a roaring life,
(Sighed the old ram rod, dying of strangers),
Tidy and cursed in my dove cooed room
I lie down thin and hear the good bells jaw--
For, oh, my soul found a sunday wife
In the coal black sky and she bore angels!
Harpies around me out of her womb!
Chastity prays for me, piety sings,
Innocence sweetens my last black breath,
Modesty hides my thighs in her wings,
And all the deadly virtues plague my death!
as I am numbed in euphoria by
the closeness of his embrace,
the eclipse which held me in paralysis
slowly bleeds in the sky
as it anchors a crescent light of passion.

oh, he has held the disaster of my body
in his palm and has laid me naked upon him.

tucked neatly among the webbings of his fingers
is a whispering lily that sings me to sleep.

the sphere of black,
fixated upon the sky,
is melting...

I weep to see his loving eyes
pour over the deprived valley
that is the entirety of my being.

yet...
It is as if this man,
and his exposed nakedness encompassing me,
is the coming season of warmth
which teaches me nourishment...
blood poetry
L A Lamb Sep 2014
On hindsight, I realize the true meaning of love comes from my siblings. Nineteen years old, when I came out of the closet and realized me and my siblings were “flawed”, or human. Seventeen year old sister—***. Twenty-one year old brother—rehab.

“Do you think it’s ironic that we’re doing this on a playground?” called a voice from the assorted group of friends sitting on the sea of pebbles under the monkey bars. Another voice replied, after a quick cough and croaked, “No, I’m pretty sure everybody does this.”

“I bet the teachers do it too,” agreed the voice of an eighteen year-old boy.

“I’m going to be a teacher one day,” spoke the philosopher girl, who drifted from the conversation into the fog of her thoughts. As a junior in college and an ambitious girl, she lived her life in paranoia and curiosity from the outside world.

As the college students rose from the pebbled area of jungle-gyms, swings and slides, they approached a basketball court in passing to return to the neighborhood.

“Look!” yelled the philosopher girl. “There’s a ball over there, we should play.”

Their evening plans were determined when one boy concluded “We can’t play. The ball is flat.”

Rather than attempting to relive the innocence of childhood, the students under the influence of marijuana watched the possibility of recapturing pure childhood memories diminish through their loss of interest in what was once a childhood gratification of positive reinforcement. Recess was very important to any child in elementary school. My earliest memory of recess consisted of the earliest bonding time with my sister. It was my fifth birthday, and back before my parents divorced my mother was very involved with the community at our schools. My mom set up a birthday party for me in first grade, and my two year-old sister was brought along. My sister, the adorable baby that she was, received all of the attention. On my fifth birthday I wanted everyone to pay attention to me, but my sister was stealing my thunder. I resented her very much for always being the more beautiful of us two, and she always had the most grace. I’ve always felt awkward, quirky, and possibly weird, but it never seemed to distance my sister from loving me.

On that day at recess, while everyone was cooing over how adorable my sister was, I was off sulking on the swing set. I was always the one ignored of my siblings; my brother was the oldest of us three and the only male, and my sister was the youngest and most beautiful baby girl. I was always awkward, alone and blending in with the background. This being said, I made myself solitary from those neglecting my absence and looked up at the clouds. Five years-old and alone on a swing, I watched the cloud pass in the sky and morph from what looked like a snail, to a tomato. Before my very eyes approached a wide-eyes toddler with brand-new teeth and smiling eyes.

Everyone was following her, but she was following me. When she was the one of us preferred, she never failed to love me and remind me she was there.

When recognized as attractive for the first time, I was eager to be wanted so I threw away my virginity.

My sister, always so beautiful and classy didn’t need to put out to be well-liked, desired or noticed. Classy like my mother, my sister determined my fate as the black sheep in my adolescent ****** rebellion.

When my sister and I smoked with work friends, playing on the swing-set together like we had fourteen years earlier, I found out that she was a ******. The illusion of the pristine, classy and virginal sister shattered, but welded back together with love. My sister was not perfect, and my insecurity to being the un-unique, unnoticed and boring middle-child had ended. My older brother always considered the most-intelligent and most-successful was sent to rehab after 4 months of turning twenty one. The self mutilation was concerned as a big issue, and a mental illness could have him removed from the military.

Flawed sibling relationships brings closer bonding and relatable experiences, so exploring life together builds a unique and covalent bond between siblings witnessing life together, having difficulties and disappointments with family. While fulfilling the all-time question of mankind for “the meaning of life”, life interrupts with irony.
When I was a windy boy and a bit
And the black spit of the chapel fold,
(Sighed the old ram rod, dying of women),
I tiptoed shy in the gooseberry wood,
The rude owl cried like a tell-tale ***,
I skipped in a blush as the big girls rolled
Nine-pin down on donkey's common,
And on seesaw sunday nights I wooed
Whoever I would with my wicked eyes,
The whole of the moon I could love and leave
All the green leaved little weddings' wives
In the coal black bush and let them grieve.

When I was a gusty man and a half
And the black beast of the beetles' pews
(Sighed the old ram rod, dying of *******),
Not a boy and a bit in the wick-
Dipping moon and drunk as a new dropped calf,
I whistled all night in the twisted flues,
Midwives grew in the midnight ditches,
And the sizzling sheets of the town cried, Quick!-
Whenever I dove in a breast high shoal,
Wherever I ramped in the clover quilts,
Whatsoever I did in the coal-
Black night, I left my quivering prints.

When I was a man you could call a man
And the black cross of the holy house,
(Sighed the old ram rod, dying of welcome),
Brandy and ripe in my bright, bass prime,
No springtailed tom in the red hot town
With every simmering woman his mouse
But a hillocky bull in the swelter
Of summer come in his great good time
To the sultry, biding herds, I said,
Oh, time enough when the blood runs cold,
And I lie down but to sleep in bed,
For my sulking, skulking, coal black soul!

When I was half the man I was
And serve me right as the preachers warn,
(Sighed the old ram rod, dying of downfall),
No flailing calf or cat in a flame
Or hickory bull in milky grass
But a black sheep with a crumpled horn,
At last the soul from its foul mousehole
Slunk pouting out when the limp time came;
And I gave my soul a blind, slashed eye,
Gristle and rind, and a roarers' life,
And I shoved it into the coal black sky
To find a woman's soul for a wife.

Now I am a man no more no more
And a black reward for a roaring life,
(Sighed the old ram rod, dying of strangers),
Tidy and cursed in my dove cooed room
I lie down thin and hear the good bells jaw--
For, oh, my soul found a sunday wife
In the coal black sky and she bore angels!
Harpies around me out of her womb!
Chastity prays for me, piety sings,
Innocence sweetens my last black breath,
Modesty hides my thighs in her wings,
And all the deadly virtues plague my death!
I should go to sleep but the mind wants to keep me awake
it is shunting along and I tell it
it's wrong to go on,
but go on it will until the still of the night and the absence of light weighs down my eyes.

Tomorrow lies heavy upon this old man and today can do as it likes,and it likes to harass me with memory upon memory and if I close my eyes is it then that I can't see?
can't be still
got no will to resist that look through the gather of mist that is hemming me in.

The needles and pins that stick where nobody wins and they always seem to be sticking in me,
or perhaps that's just a memory.

Either way
today has to go
I know I need sleep
I need to keep myself well and as the ref rings the bell for the third and final round.
I've finally found
a rest
Sharina Saad May 2013
Black is your coffee
Toasted and buttered your bread
Half past seven,
A quick peck on the cheek
off you go to the bank
one solid day you spend at the bank
a loyal servant of the bank of commerce
Your lover number one,
the bank..always the bank...

you'd be at the bank till all workers gone home
you'd be at your desk checking the accounts
making it balance , counting the profits
recovering the loss...
If there is an award for the banker of the year
The outstanding achievement
and the bla... bla... bla...
The winner is you, without a doubt...

While you're making your accounts pretty
Perfecting your financial reports
The dinner is getting too cold
The kids are growing up so fast  
Your cat is getting too old
Your wife is sulking too long
Your house is getting too far
Your family is slowly vanishing...
not physically of course...
the souls of love and life
is  disappearing little by little...

Dear banker,
If you happen to listen to this
banker's wife blues...today
Hope you'd throw the balance sheets in the basket
and sit with your wife and kids
in a garden,
drinking a cup of English tea  
Eating some home made biscuits...
How much bonus is more worthwhile
than watching your kids growing up
before your eyes...
kissing your wife good night
tasting the love doses...
Tell me, after listening to all these?
Will you still worry about your imbalance bank accounts?
Banker's wife blues...
Thieving through the multiple strains
Of voices in the room,
Eavesdrops that one conversation with relish.
Looks out the corner of his eye,
Winces at the eye contact.
Curbs his laughter at the
Joke for he wasn’t expecting it.
They gesture to him
With a frantic wave of the hand,
He lets out a curt smile to/at them,
Walks on,
While they wondered
Why he was smiling to himself?
Context? Just describing a situation I feel we all might have been in, once. Say, you're miffed with someone, you're giving someone the cold shoulder, for you'll wait till eternity till that person 'realises' that she/he must come to you and apologize, and you'll be the better of the two souls for you'll forgive him rightaway. Only, you must act like you don't know or like him for things you always did, being on your guard. I wonder why we do it. Yet I might catch myself in a similar situation someday, years later.
adele horn Jan 2010
we share this space
we share this union
but i cannot be further away from you.
your faults make me cringe
your dependancy on praise exhausts me.
the narcissist is in you
feeds the bitterness in me.

i had hoped that you would come to take me away
and now i am sailing this boat alone.
i hate it when people ask
how i am.
cause i cant tell them,
the infinity of depair
you bring upon me.

they all bask in your glorious smile,
and your casual demeanor.
but they never see
the insecurity
the neediness
the demands
the dissapointments
the sulking
the depression
the anger
the violence
the fear i feel around you.

so i fight against a ghost,
lash out at the wind.
and i grow ever more lonely.
cause you are too stuck in your own pain,
to see me slipping away.
Carlo C Gomez Apr 2021
~
In her sulking-place
alone and naked

framed in soft sepia
—the vintage, harlequin hue

at this supposed faded hour
she sits looking back on memory

she sits and stares
into the boudoir mirror

at herself
at her embonpoint

yes, at these *******
—at their landscape

how they fall
(like Niagara)

where they point
(like a compass)

what they tell (so fondly)
when pressed together

about their time
—their work and play

towers on the precipice
of judgment

both callous and
uncharitable

if the mirror
truly be her reflection

her vision is turned around
as illusion

—a study of tonality and tolerance
for one's own flesh

the room
an invitation

or perhaps
a lockaway

where she even keeps secrets
from herself

~
avenoir - n. the desire that memory could flow backward
Jessica May 2019
About a month ago I cried because I couldn't find my favourite pair of socks. Last week I cried because I forgot my AP books in my locker, and I couldn't do the homework that I wouldn't have been able to bring myself to do in the first place. Yesterday I cried because my cookies didn't come out just right.

I cry. A lot. About everything.

I have been called everything from oversensitive to a baby to overdramatic. I
mean, haha, I clearly really wanted to wear those socks because now my whole day is ruined. I am extremely good at making something out of nothing.

Being this kind of sad is funny that way, no inconvenience is a minor inconvenience, it's all the end of the world or might as well be.

But I go with it. I joke about my tears and their daily visits.

I also joke about my anger and the chair I kicked resulting in a dislocated toe. I joke about the things I've thrown and the people that make my hands clench at my sides. I joke about it because it's easier than explaining it. I don't like my anger.

So, I've learnt how to turn my angry into lonely and my lonely into busy.
How do I explain that when I say I've been super busy lately, I mean I've been too busy falling asleep because drowning my pillow is tiring.

Depression is a monologue shot underwater, depression is sulking because I won't talk about it anymore.

How can I explain to my friends what is happening inside of my head when I can't even figure it out myself? How do I explain to them that I have been hit by too many people with "how dare you hurt me with your hurt" to not be convinced that I will accidentally do that to them? So we've grown accustomed to sulking. It has become a routine, joking about those ridiculous mood swings of mine.

My depression is a coat disguised as depersonalisation tendencies, "laziness,"
cries for attention and closed bedroom doors behind which continuous music
plays, harmonised with the sound of dripping cries of loneliness.

Of which the belt is anxiety. My psychologist has given it a name: John. Its
supposed to make me feel like anxiety is some exterior force and not something fogging up my entire inside. But he's better known as:

"Sorry.”

“Are you sure?”

“Sorry.”

“I know I'm being annoying."

"Sorry.”

I try not to acknowledge it. So, I leave my pen clicking. hair fidgeting, periods of breathlessness and restless tendencies as just that; inconvenient tendencies. Sorry.

I've been told to pray and trust in faith, but I only wear a religious necklace because if I don't, I go home with a neck scratched raw by John.

I wrap myself in this coat for comfort, which seems ironic. But really, comfort is found in familiar places and it seems I keep losing my jackets of happiness and liveliness, so this coat is all I know.

There are some days I am so sad I don't remember what it's like not to be. Like when you're really sick and you forget how to breathe through your nose and you're so sure you'll never breathe through your nose again and I'm so sure I'll never feel joy again.

Except when you're sick, you can go and get a doctor's note to explain why you couldn't go to school and didn't write that test. I can't tell my coach I missed yesterday's practice because I got hit with a wave of sad. I can't tell you that my homework wasn't done because depression kept me tied to my bed for the better part of the day

My psychologist once told me I was brave to seek her help. I didn't feel brave. I felt scared. And desperate. And lonely. And tired. I am so tired of trying to take care of this terrible body that refuses to take care of me.

My depression doesn't ask for much but when it does it is something I cannot give and that is the joke. It is just me asking for something I cannot give. My friends get mad when I don't give them pieces of me. I can't give them something I'm not sure is there anymore.
Jessica
OnlyEggy Feb 2011
Hello, Hello
You avenger of the dark
I see you sulking, waiting
Are you hunting or do you fear the light,
Vampire?

Vampire, Vampire
This place is your temple
Your victim the lamb
Are those fangs for blood or romantic
Desire?

Desire, Desire
Hearts pumping life
Lovers hunting lovers hauntings
Do you fear the cross or the sun's
Fire?

Fire, Fire
Set to burn
Sent to blaze
Shall I burn your world or show you the
Empire?

Empire, Empire
Watch it grow
'Till it crashes and falls
Will you save yourself, or feed on the ******,
Vampire?
(AIP)
Cathyy Dec 2015
Don't press pause on real life..
Cause in just a blink of an eye..
Everything changes,
In front of you.
It's so wonderful.

And don't spend your days angry
Just spend a moment sulking :')
Cause every-thing right now is temporary..
..I'll too, just be a memory.

So won't you live a little,
And remember me?
Bump into me 5 years later,
With a different hair colour;
Oh go out there, and live your dream
Send me messages now and then,
And i'll get a pen and some paper
Oh won't you live life, cause there will never be another..
At least not one like this,
Oh you are beautiful I must,
Admit.

Clocks are turning,
Earth spins..
My mind wakes up to the thought
Of "are you okay?"
.. Almost everyday.

But next year I'll care for me too
I'm 18, hey, lets get a tattoo-
Of an Ed Sheeran song..
That'll be a memorable one,
For sure.

Oh won't you promise,
To stay so strong?
I know that sounds patronising
But in the poems i've been writing,
I've found strength in this place here between my lungs;
Yeah these words from the heart;
I hope they light up the dark,
For you
I promise I'll never fade.
I'll still be annoying as hell
And maybe sappy as well
And will I ever move on?
Only time can tell.
But for now darling just live
Oh everyday is beautiful,
I must admit.
Proudest achievement of my year is possibly this poem actually.

Hope you like it.
Keep your eyes out on Sunday for new stuff.. X
Sacrelicious May 2012
Can't catch me in
pink.
Bubble
gum
goth.

I be
honey bee.

Or maybe

The Prince Of Darkness,
just watered down.

You know.
Diluted,
with glitter.

Sparkling.
Sulking in the
Sunlight.

Going to bed at
breakfast.
&
Waking up at
dinner.

I'm runnin'
on
******'s time
these days.
Who's that I hear?—It's me—Who?—Your heart
Hanging on by the thinnest thread
I lose all my strength, substance, and fluid
When I see you withdrawn this way all alone
Like a whipped cur sulking in the corner
Is it due to your mad hedonism?—
What's it to you?—I have to suffer for it—
Leave me alone—Why?—I'll think about it—
When will you do that?—When I've grown up—
I've nothing more to tell you—I'll survive without it—

What's your idea?—To be a good man—
You're thirty, for a mule that's a lifetime
You call that childhood?—No—Madness
Must have hold of you—By what, the halter?—
You don't know a thing—Yes I do—What?—Flies in milk
One's white, one's black, they're opposites—
That's all?—How can I say it better?
If that doesn't suit you I'll start over—
You're lost—Well I'll go down fighting—
I've nothing more to tell you—I'll survive without it—

I get the heartache, you the injury and pain
If you were just some poor crazy idiot
I'd be able to make excuses for you
You don't even care, all's one to you, foul or fair
Either your head's harder than a rock
Or you actually prefer misery to honor
Now what do you say to that?—
Once I'm dead I'll rise above it—
God, what comfort—What wise eloquence—
I've nothing more to tell you—I'll survive without it—

Why are you miserable?—Because of my miseries
When Saturn packed my satchel I think
He put in these troubles—That's mad
You're his lord and you talk like his slave
Look what Solomon wrote in his book
"A wise man" he says "has authority
Over the planets and their influence"—
I don't believe it, as they made me I'll be—
What are you saying?—Yes that's what I think—
I've nothing more to tell you—I'll survive without it—

Want to live?—God give me the strength—
It's necessary...—What is?—To feel remorse
Lots of reading—What kind?—Read for knowledge
Leave fools alone—I'll take your advice—
Or will you forget?—I've got it fixed in mind—
Now act before things go from bad to worse
I've nothing more to tell you—I'll survive without it.
bones Jun 2016
The Slow Starter (1958) - poem by Louis Macneice.


A watched clock never moves, they said;
Leave it alone and you'll grow up.
Nor will the sulking holiday train
Start sooner if you stamp your feet.
  He left the clock to go its way;
  The whistle blew, the train went gay.

Do not press me so, she said;
Leave me alone and I will write
But not just yet, I am sure you know
The problem. Do not count the days.
  He left the calender alone;
  The postman knocked, no letter came.

O never force the pace, they said;
Leave it alone, you have lots of time,
Your kind of work is none the worse
For slow maturing. Do not rush.
  He took their tip, he took his time,
  And found his time and talent gone.

Oh you have had your chance, it said;
Left it alone and it was one.
Who said a watched clock never moves?
Look at it now. Your chance was I.
  He turned and saw the accusing clock
  Race like a torrent round a rock.



Louis Macneice
I looked for Louis MacNeice on HP but couldn't find him, so have posted some of his poetry in case someone else comes looking too..
Matt Geary Aug 2011
The problem with hedgehogs is the universal one.
It's the struggle of every man lying on his back, staring at the stars,
of every woman from mars, trying to appear from venus.
It's the distance between two lovers,
and the pain of the sulking man on the bus.
The problem with the hedgehog is the problem with us.
The binding of every heart that's too large for its chest,
and the worry of the mother who can't rest because her child has not come home.
It's that we feel like we are alone when surrounded by our friends,
and that the feeling of love ends when you hang up the phone.
The problem with hedgehogs is that when times get cold and rough
they can't seem to get warm and soft enough to love.
It's the push you're always giving to keep her away,
and the words you can't find to get him to stay the night.
It's the constant fights that wear you down every day.
It's the talent wasted in pursuit of pretty words
that won't be heard by the ones we care for most,
and the ghosts in the rain of yesterday, that won't leave us be.
The problem with hedgehogs is the problem with me.
David Hilburn Oct 2022
Fickle
Done in mentioned light...
Through and due the common, the still
Notice of compliment, a comment of right

None
The more we save, from the proof of simplicity
Story's and a sulking tree, the seldom of fun in the sun
Turned to universality, with the eyes of anarchy

Amend
Sour and refined, refrain from the beauty of compel?
The pout of another gift and the choice of feeling's substance
Over the quiet since, that has become ours to weal...

Things
And the duty of a desire in worthing heaven, the hell of unity
Given me, and the role of synchronicity a resolve, to sweeten
Time is a daring host, to assure even the tiniest of needs, vicinity

Arduous
Threshold in the lime, the boding of every else, in the book
Staid and remembering decorum, like a hell is every cause
When we are the understanding home, to a willing look...

Force
Are we a stir of responsibility in the arms of voice, or its cope?
Timid as we are, the calling of it all, is a wisdom's source?
Look hard for a nature? when you can have a friend for it's love...

Caring
True to mellower stares, the throe of uncanny light
Made from the none, are we to survive a decision, so faring
The response of decency, that a swim with the devil, is also right...

Liberty
Loan the call, to me for a universe's song
Trust is a walking might of the deed, asking the seldom, evil's
Is it me, or the shade in a wishes stir, the tout we held all along?
What if a fish gave you something besides dread and mercy, ur, ****...
Now when Morning, clad in her robe of saffron, had begun to suffuse
light over the earth, Jove called the gods in council on the topmost
crest of serrated Olympus. Then he spoke and all the other gods gave
ear. “Hear me,” said he, “gods and goddesses, that I may speak even as
I am minded. Let none of you neither goddess nor god try to cross
me, but obey me every one of you that I may bring this matter to an
end. If I see anyone acting apart and helping either Trojans or
Danaans, he shall be beaten inordinately ere he come back again to
Olympus; or I will hurl him down into dark Tartarus far into the
deepest pit under the earth, where the gates are iron and the floor
bronze, as far beneath Hades as heaven is high above the earth, that
you may learn how much the mightiest I am among you. Try me and find
out for yourselves. Hangs me a golden chain from heaven, and lay
hold of it all of you, gods and goddesses together—tug as you will,
you will not drag Jove the supreme counsellor from heaven to earth;
but were I to pull at it myself I should draw you up with earth and
sea into the bargain, then would I bind the chain about some
pinnacle of Olympus and leave you all dangling in the mid firmament.
So far am I above all others either of gods or men.”
  They were frightened and all of them of held their peace, for he had
spoken masterfully; but at last Minerva answered, “Father, son of
Saturn, king of kings, we all know that your might is not to be
gainsaid, but we are also sorry for the Danaan warriors, who are
perishing and coming to a bad end. We will, however, since you so
bid us, refrain from actual fighting, but we will make serviceable
suggestions to the Argives that they may not all of them perish in
your displeasure.”
  Jove smiled at her and answered, “Take heart, my child,
Trito-born; I am not really in earnest, and I wish to be kind to you.”
  With this he yoked his fleet horses, with hoofs of bronze and
manes of glittering gold. He girded himself also with gold about the
body, seized his gold whip and took his seat in his chariot. Thereon
he lashed his horses and they flew forward nothing loth midway twixt
earth and starry heaven. After a while he reached many-fountained Ida,
mother of wild beasts, and Gargarus, where are his grove and
fragrant altar. There the father of gods and men stayed his horses,
took them from the chariot, and hid them in a thick cloud; then he
took his seat all glorious upon the topmost crests, looking down
upon the city of Troy and the ships of the Achaeans.
  The Achaeans took their morning meal hastily at the ships, and
afterwards put on their armour. The Trojans on the other hand likewise
armed themselves throughout the city, fewer in numbers but
nevertheless eager perforce to do battle for their wives and children.
All the gates were flung wide open, and horse and foot sallied forth
with the ***** as of a great multitude.
  When they were got together in one place, shield clashed with
shield, and spear with spear, in the conflict of mail-clad men. Mighty
was the din as the bossed shields pressed ******* one another-
death—cry and shout of triumph of slain and slayers, and the earth
ran red with blood.
  Now so long as the day waxed and it was still morning their
weapons beat against one another, and the people fell, but when the
sun had reached mid-heaven, the sire of all balanced his golden
scales, and put two fates of death within them, one for the Trojans
and the other for the Achaeans. He took the balance by the middle, and
when he lifted it up the day of the Achaeans sank; the death-fraught
scale of the Achaeans settled down upon the ground, while that of
the Trojans rose heavenwards. Then he thundered aloud from Ida, and
sent the glare of his lightning upon the Achaeans; when they saw this,
pale fear fell upon them and they were sore afraid.
  Idomeneus dared not stay nor yet Agamemnon, nor did the two
Ajaxes, servants of Mars, hold their ground. Nestor knight of Gerene
alone stood firm, bulwark of the Achaeans, not of his own will, but
one of his horses was disabled. Alexandrus husband of lovely Helen had
hit it with an arrow just on the top of its head where the mane begins
to grow away from the skull, a very deadly place. The horse bounded in
his anguish as the arrow pierced his brain, and his struggles threw
others into confusion. The old man instantly began cutting the
traces with his sword, but Hector’s fleet horses bore down upon him
through the rout with their bold charioteer, even Hector himself,
and the old man would have perished there and then had not Diomed been
quick to mark, and with a loud cry called Ulysses to help him.
  “Ulysses,” he cried, “noble son of Laertes where are you flying
to, with your back turned like a coward? See that you are not struck
with a spear between the shoulders. Stay here and help me to defend
Nestor from this man’s furious onset.”
  Ulysses would not give ear, but sped onward to the ships of the
Achaeans, and the son of Tydeus flinging himself alone into the
thick of the fight took his stand before the horses of the son of
Neleus. “Sir,” said he, “these young warriors are pressing you hard,
your force is spent, and age is heavy upon you, your squire is naught,
and your horses are slow to move. Mount my chariot and see what the
horses of Tros can do—how cleverly they can scud hither and thither
over the plain either in flight or in pursuit. I took them from the
hero Aeneas. Let our squires attend to your own steeds, but let us
drive mine straight at the Trojans, that Hector may learn how
furiously I too can wield my spear.”
  Nestor knight of Gerene hearkened to his words. Thereon the
doughty squires, Sthenelus and kind-hearted Eurymedon, saw to Nestor’s
horses, while the two both mounted Diomed’s chariot. Nestor took the
reins in his hands and lashed the horses on; they were soon close up
with Hector, and the son of Tydeus aimed a spear at him as he was
charging full speed towards them. He missed him, but struck his
charioteer and squire Eniopeus son of noble Thebaeus in the breast
by the ****** while the reins were in his hands, so that he died there
and then, and the horses swerved as he fell headlong from the chariot.
Hector was greatly grieved at the loss of his charioteer, but let
him lie for all his sorrow, while he went in quest of another
driver; nor did his steeds have to go long without one, for he
presently found brave Archeptolemus the son of Iphitus, and made him
get up behind the horses, giving the reins into his hand.
  All had then been lost and no help for it, for they would have
been penned up in Ilius like sheep, had not the sire of gods and men
been quick to mark, and hurled a fiery flaming thunderbolt which
fell just in front of Diomed’s horses with a flare of burning
brimstone. The horses were frightened and tried to back beneath the
car, while the reins dropped from Nestor’s hands. Then he was afraid
and said to Diomed, “Son of Tydeus, turn your horses in flight; see
you not that the hand of Jove is against you? To-day he vouchsafes
victory to Hector; to-morrow, if it so please him, he will again grant
it to ourselves; no man, however brave, may thwart the purpose of
Jove, for he is far stronger than any.”
  Diomed answered, “All that you have said is true; there is a grief
however which pierces me to the very heart, for Hector will talk among
the Trojans and say, ‘The son of Tydeus fled before me to the
ships.’ This is the vaunt he will make, and may earth then swallow
me.”
  “Son of Tydeus,” replied Nestor, “what mean you? Though Hector say
that you are a coward the Trojans and Dardanians will not believe him,
nor yet the wives of the mighty warriors whom you have laid low.”
  So saying he turned the horses back through the thick of the battle,
and with a cry that rent the air the Trojans and Hector rained their
darts after them. Hector shouted to him and said, “Son of Tydeus,
the Danaans have done you honour hitherto as regards your place at
table, the meals they give you, and the filling of your cup with wine.
Henceforth they will despise you, for you are become no better than
a woman. Be off, girl and coward that you are, you shall not scale our
walls through any Hinching upon my part; neither shall you carry off
our wives in your ships, for I shall **** you with my own hand.”
  The son of Tydeus was in two minds whether or no to turn his
horses round again and fight him. Thrice did he doubt, and thrice
did Jove thunder from the heights of. Ida in token to the Trojans that
he would turn the battle in their favour. Hector then shouted to
them and said, “Trojans, Lycians, and Dardanians, lovers of close
fighting, be men, my friends, and fight with might and with main; I
see that Jove is minded to vouchsafe victory and great glory to
myself, while he will deal destruction upon the Danaans. Fools, for
having thought of building this weak and worthless wall. It shall
not stay my fury; my horses will spring lightly over their trench, and
when I am BOOK at their ships forget not to bring me fire that I may
burn them, while I slaughter the Argives who will be all dazed and
bewildered by the smoke.”
  Then he cried to his horses, “Xanthus and Podargus, and you Aethon
and goodly Lampus, pay me for your keep now and for all the
honey-sweet corn with which Andromache daughter of great Eetion has
fed you, and for she has mixed wine and water for you to drink
whenever you would, before doing so even for me who am her own
husband. Haste in pursuit, that we may take the shield of Nestor,
the fame of which ascends to heaven, for it is of solid gold, arm-rods
and all, and that we may strip from the shoulders of Diomed. the
cuirass which Vulcan made him. Could we take these two things, the
Achaeans would set sail in their ships this self-same night.”
  Thus did he vaunt, but Queen Juno made high Olympus quake as she
shook with rage upon her throne. Then said she to the mighty god of
Neptune, “What now, wide ruling lord of the earthquake? Can you find
no compassion in your heart for the dying Danaans, who bring you
many a welcome offering to Helice and to Aegae? Wish them well then.
If all of us who are with the Danaans were to drive the Trojans back
and keep Jove from helping them, he would have to sit there sulking
alone on Ida.”
  King Neptune was greatly troubled and answered, “Juno, rash of
tongue, what are you talking about? We other gods must not set
ourselves against Jove, for he is far stronger than we are.”
  Thus did they converse; but the whole space enclosed by the ditch,
from the ships even to the wall, was filled with horses and
warriors, who were pent up there by Hector son of Priam, now that
the hand of Jove was with him. He would even have set fire to the
ships and burned them, had not Queen Juno put it into the mind of
Agamemnon, to bestir himself and to encourage the Achaeans. To this
end he went round the ships and tents carrying a great purple cloak,
and took his stand by the huge black hull of Ulysses’ ship, which
was middlemost of all; it was from this place that his voice would
carry farthest, on the one hand towards the tents of Ajax son of
Telamon, and on the other towards those of Achilles—for these two
heroes, well assured of their own strength, had valorously drawn up
their ships at the two ends of the line. From this spot then, with a
voice that could be heard afar, he shouted to the Danaans, saying,
“Argives, shame on you cowardly creatures, brave in semblance only;
where are now our vaunts that we should prove victorious—the vaunts
we made so vaingloriously in Lemnos, when we ate the flesh of horned
cattle and filled our mixing-bowls to the brim? You vowed that you
would each of you stand against a hundred or two hundred men, and
now you prove no match even for one—for Hector, who will be ere
long setting our ships in a blaze. Father Jove, did you ever so ruin a
great king and rob him so utterly of his greatness? yet, when to my
sorrow I was coming hither, I never let my ship pass your altars
without offering the fat and thigh-bones of heifers upon every one
of them, so eager was I to sack the city of Troy. Vouchsafe me then
this prayer—suffer us to escape at any rate with our lives, and let
not the Achaeans be so utterly vanquished by the Trojans.”
  Thus did he pray, and father Jove pitying his tears vouchsafed him
that his people should live, not die; forthwith he sent them an eagle,
most unfailingly portentous of all birds, with a young fawn in its
talons; the eagle dropped the fawn by the altar on which the
Achaeans sacrificed to Jove the lord of omens; When, therefore, the
people saw that the bird had come from Jove, they sprang more fiercely
upon the Trojans and fought more boldly.
  There was no man of all the many Danaans who could then boast that
he had driven his horses over the trench and gone forth to fight
sooner than the son of Tydeus; long before any one else could do so he
slew an armed warrior of the Trojans, Agelaus the son of Phradmon.
He had turned his horses in flight, but the spear struck him in the
back midway between his shoulders and went right through his chest,
and his armour rang rattling round him as he fell forward from his
chariot.
  After him came Agamemnon and Menelaus, sons of Atreus, the two
Ajaxes clothed in valour as with a garment, Idomeneus and his
companion in arms Meriones, peer of murderous Mars, and Eurypylus
the brave son of Euaemon. Ninth came Teucer with his bow, and took his
place under cover of the shield of Ajax son of Telamon. When Ajax
lifted his shield Teucer would peer round, and when he had hit any one
in the throng, the man would fall dead; then Teucer would hie back
to Ajax as a child to its mother, and again duck down under his
shield.
  Which of the Trojans did brave Teucer first ****? Orsilochus, and
then Ormenus and Ophelestes, Daetor, Chromius, and godlike
Lycophontes, Amopaon son of Polyaemon, and Melanippus. these in turn
did he lay low upon the earth, and King Agamemnon was glad when he saw
him making havoc of the Trojans with his mighty bow. He went up to him
and said, “Teucer, man after my own heart, son of Telamon, captain
among the host, shoot on, and be at once the saving of the Danaans and
the glory of your father Telamon, who brought you up and took care
of you in his own house when you were a child, ******* though you
were. Cover him with glory though he is far off; I will promise and
I will assuredly perform; if aegis-bearing Jove and Minerva grant me
to sack the city of Ilius, you shall have the next best meed of honour
after my own—a tripod, or two horses with their chariot, or a woman
who shall go up into your bed.”
  And Teucer answered, “Most noble son of Atreus, you need not urge
me; from the moment we began to drive them back to Ilius, I have never
ceased so far as in me lies to look out for men whom I can shoot and
****; I have shot eight barbed shafts, and all of them have been
buried in the flesh of warlike youths, but this mad dog I cannot hit.”
  As he spoke he aimed another arrow straight at Hector, for he was
bent on hitting him; nevertheless he missed him, and the arrow hit
Priam’s brave son Gorgythion in the breast. His mother, fair
Castianeira, lovely as a goddess, had been married from Aesyme, and
now he bowed his head as a garden poppy in full bloom when it is
weighed down by showers in spring—even thus heavy bowed his head
beneath the weight of his helmet.
  Again he aimed at Hector, for he was longing to hit him, and again
his arrow missed, for Apollo turned it aside; but he hit Hector’s
brave charioteer Archeptolemus in the breast, by the ******, as he was
driving furiously into the fight. The horses swerved aside as he
fell headlong from the chariot, and there was no life left in him.
Hector was greatly grieved at the loss of his charioteer, but for
all his sorrow he let him lie where he fell, and bade his brother
Cebriones, who was hard by, take the reins. Cebriones did as he had
said. Hector thereon with a loud cry sprang from his chariot to the
ground, and seizing a great stone made straigh
Eloisa Feb 2019
The winter fairy has again knocked on my door with a lovely gift of today
With a little sunshine hue
this morning she arrived with tiny friends
Still sulking in darkness and in my melancholic silence
I got up and tried to peek
A little smile then curved my lips
happily singing their winter songs
on a frail tree branch were birds with tiny feet

The gift of laughter that I heard suddenly gave me hope
Winter is not only a season of gloom, of tears and of despair
Its beauty is also a season for peace,  for thinking and for memories
Because of my new feathered friends
a reminder so I write today
That for any season that we have
to feel untroubled or miserable is our choice to make
JaxSpade Aug 2019
The triangle ate himself into a circle
Because people told him he was too square
And they meant the informal definition
So he kept eating to change his shape
He added a few pounds that multiplied his weight
But that didn't help
He wanted to be wondrous
Why couldn't he have been a rhombus
Why couldn't he have been born into a parallelogram family
I saw him sulking in the fact he was half the diagram
I told him he needed to go on a diet
And strengthen himself  into a pyramid
And only then would his base be the foundation
Of the family
He has always wanted
In the broken kitchen chair he sits
Weeping the tears of a killer
Face buried into the palms of his grisly hands
He sobs uncontrollably for he knows what these hands have done
He cries as a child might having seen his parents murdered
Gasping and struggling to draw in a full breath
Snot running from his nose, curling over the stubble of his upper lip
With a clenched fist he wipes this away
Rage building in his veins, hatred, and remorse
His face grows red as he shakes uncontrollably with anger
Unsure of what to do with himself he rises quickly to his feet
His chair crashing back to the floor behind him
He paces the kitchen back and forth
Feet padding monotonously over checkered linoleum
Suddenly, abruptly, he stops, his gaze drifting to the counter top
As he catches sight of the skinless corpse he screams
A blood curdling scream that chills to the bone
Unable to bare the sight of his disembodied victim any longer
He barrels out of the kitchen
Crashing through doors, splinters of wood marking his trail
In the bathroom he now stands
Sulking in shame before a ***** mirror, staring down at his bare feet
Slowly, he raises his head, eyes squeezed shut
Fearing to find what he might see when he opens them
He pauses here for several moments, collecting his thoughts
Breathing deeply, hoarsely, sporadically huffing
Mustering all of his courage, he makes this final leap, opening his eyes
In the mirror before him he sees all too clearly himself
Wearing a skin that is not his own
Face, hands, feet, all that are exposed
His own pale skin standing out in bold contradiction
To the beautifully bronzed hollow man that he wears
His pale and bony knuckles crash repeatedly into the face of the mirror
Over and over again the thud and the crunch
Broken skin and shattered glass
Blood now smeared across what little reflective surface remains
At last he can see himself no more
Slumping down into a ball on the floor
He sits alone and rocks
The mere shell of a man remains
With dripping hands he tears away a patch of flesh from his thigh
Groping the floor blindly his hand closes over a shard of glass
He is now far too numb to feel pain, dead inside
Gripping tightly to the broken glass this broken man begins to write
Carving his apology into his thigh
Part #2; see "Permanent Press" for Part #1. http://hellopoetry.com/poem/permanent-press-pt-1/
The mind it yells ‘imposter’
Each time I find the time to write
Never telling who I am, only telling who I am not.

Squawking, sulking in my ear
Drives the pen, the words to veer,
Drives the mind to that of Lears,
Into the sullenness of my volition.
Imposter, Imposter - not a syndrome but a title;

The title of my biography, the world’s class joke
The worlds least known, the worlds last hope.

I have a Saviour but I am my own,
Rather, I insist to be my own.

Hypnotized by the shadow, or not a shadow but a void,
A black void, not empty but falling,
Falling deep and a miss, falling, falling to my abyss -

Imposter Void Imposter, write your sweet nothingness,
I pity myself but I go on, Imposter Void Imposter -
Sympathetic, the abyss lends it’s kiss.
Imposter syndrome hitting hard
Lou Dec 2017
I sought satisfaction in stupid sheepishly and shallow strides.
Scared subconsciously, I swallow and sustain substance for pseudo self esteem strengthening.
I seemed of in service to slumber and stinging sadness, shots sank like ships, submerging into the sea of my swarthy stomach in seconds.
I somewhat sympathies as a sailor, sweating, struggling and swimming in slipping sobriety saturated in my sulking style.
Scanning swarms of serial swindlers, striking sculptures stances of self-doubt.
I stammer in a storm of slurs, ******* down my safety, stopping myself at the stoop of the saloon I see a seductive silhouette staging the space.
She stroke my sight, standing sanguine in scarlet, soul sold in high heels.
The smoothest sculptures in seven square miles were subjugated into scree and I was ****** in submission.
Stubborn staggering suitors, stand shaking silently as she is stopped by sharks stalking and snarling sycophantics.
So straightforward in suggesting their secret starvation to strip sensations, seem by seem, like a sub-par **** cinema scene.
They step and speak short.
She smokes off, stranding the scree in smoldering slaughter.
Its sad this soul-less sanctuary soaking up sorrows.
So self inflicting, and so satisfyingly side splitting.
She sported her spurned, scorned off into sadistic solitude and stained sticky stigma, sobbing to sleep.
So spent from simple stocked, stored and supported senescence of ceremonial subjection of ****** status.
I savior my sincerity, and stretched out of this strange stadium of stooges.
So long scarlet sanguine I sang softly, as she stole my sight suspiciously in sync with hers.
Sacrificial seconds split from smearing stolidity to sharing a smile.
That's simple satisfaction, so I seen scripted in sitcoms and shows.
Supporting sapiens in stasis to see sappy stunners on screen, to stare snoopy, as stabs and slashes strike socially into socialites of so called sanity and sovereignty.
To sweetly pay salvage as slaves of soppy studio slander.
Such is this sorry Saturday night, I am solidified in sedation.
I wrote this over a year ago, took me a few months to put it together properly but I wanted to share this fun time. Its about this bar I use to go to when I was in my early 20's and I use to watch people a lot act like savages, trying to pick up women, usual bar stuff. I hope this isn't too much of a mouthful, enjoy.

— The End —