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"sundering" poems
The leaves were long, the grass was green, The hemlock-umbels tall and fair, And in the glade a light was seen Of stars in shadow shimmering. Tinuviel was dancing there To music of a pipe unseen, And light of stars was in her hair, And in her raiment glimmering. There Beren came from mountains cold, And lost he wandered under leaves, And where the Elven-river rolled He walked alone and sorrowing. He peered between the hemlock-leaves And saw in wonder flowers of gold Upon her mantle and her sleeves, And her hair like shadow following. Enchantment healed his weary feet That over hills were doomed to roam; And forth he hastened, strong and fleet, And grasped at moonbeams glistening. Through woven woods in Elvenhome She lightly fled on dancing feet, And left him lonely still to roam In the silent forest listening. He heard there oft the flying sound Of feet as light as linden-leaves, Or music welling underground, In hidden hollows quavering. Now withered lay the hemlock-sheaves, And one by one with sighing sound Whispering fell the beechen leaves In the wintry woodland wavering. He sought her ever, wandering far Where leaves of years were thickly strewn, By light of moon and ray of star In frosty heavens shivering. Her mantle glinted in the moon, As on a hill-top high and far She danced, and at her feet was strewn A mist of silver quivering. When winter passed, she came again, And her song released the sudden spring, Like rising lark, and falling rain, And melting water-bubbling. He saw the elven-flowers spring About her feet, and healed again He longed by her to dance and sing Upon the grass untroubling. Again she fled, but swift he came, Tinuviel! Tinuviel! He called her by her elvish name; And there she halted listening. One moment stood she, and a spell, His voice laid on her: Beren came, And doom fell on Tinuviel That in his arms lay glistening. As Beren looked into her eyes Within the shadows of her hair, The trembling starlight of the skies He saw there mirrored shimmering. Tinuviel the elven-fair Immortal maiden elven-wise, About him cast her shadowy hair And arms like silver glimmering. Long was the way that fate them bore O'er stony mountains cold and grey Through halls of iron and darkling door And woods of nightshade morrowless. The Sundering Seas between them lay, And yet at last they met once more, And log ago they passed away In the forest singing sorrowless.
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7.1k
Tinuviel
The leaves were long, the grass was green, The hemlock-umbels tall and fair, And in the glade a light was seen Of stars in shadow shimmering. Tinuviel was dancing there To music of a pipe unseen, And light of stars was in her hair, And in her raiment glimmering. There Beren came from mountains cold, And lost he wandered under leaves, And where the Elven-river rolled He walked alone and sorrowing. He peered between the hemlock-leaves And saw in wonder flowers of gold Upon her mantle and her sleeves, And her hair like shadow following. Enchantment healed his weary feet That over hills were doomed to roam; And forth he hastened, strong and fleet, And grasped at moonbeams glistening. Through woven woods in Elvenhome She lightly fled on dancing feet, And left him lonely still to roam In the silent forest listening. He heard there oft the flying sound Of feet as light as linden-leaves, Or music welling underground, In hidden hollows quavering. Now withered lay the hemlock-sheaves, And one by one with sighing sound Whispering fell the beechen leaves In the wintry woodland wavering. He sought her ever, wandering far Where leaves of years were thickly strewn, By light of moon and ray of star In frosty heavens shivering. Her mantle glinted in the moon, As on a hill-top high and far She danced, and at her feet was strewn A mist of silver quivering. When winter passed, she came again, And her song released the sudden spring, Like rising lark, and falling rain, And melting water-bubbling. He saw the elven-flowers spring About her feet, and healed again He longed by her to dance and sing Upon the grass untroubling. Again she fled, but swift he came, Tinuviel! Tinuviel! He called her by her elvish name; And there she halted listening. One moment stood she, and a spell, His voice laid on her: Beren came, And doom fell on Tinuviel That in his arms lay glistening. As Beren looked into her eyes Within the shadows of her hair, The trembling starlight of the skies He saw there mirrored shimmering. Tinuviel the elven-fair Immortal maiden elven-wise, About him cast her shadowy hair And arms like silver glimmering. Long was the way that fate them bore O'er stony mountains cold and grey Through halls of iron and darkling door And woods of nightshade morrowless. The Sundering Seas between them lay, And yet at last they met once more, And log ago they passed away In the forest singing sorrowless.
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72
we are bound by the electric tape of music, poetry, dance, a binding that only the rough cut of a blade can sever. rings, each of us have worn, gold bands, for me three, which I wore about my neck, reminder, rings are easy removed, but bind us in love, of the pleasure of, all things beautiful, and our boundaries become one and the same, there is no sundering as long as we can read, listen and dance to the art of us.
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Jan 26, 2014
Jan 26, 2014 at 10:14 AM UTC
For my beloved: Better than wedding rings
Two separate divided silences, Which, brought together, would find loving voice; Two glances which together would rejoice In love, now lost like stars beyond dark trees; Two hands apart whose touch alone gives ease; Two bosoms which, heart-shrined with mutual flame, Would, meeting in one clasp, be made the same; Two souls, the shores wave-mocked of sundering seas:— Such are we now. Ah! may our hope forecast Indeed one hour again, when on this stream Of darkened love once more the light shall gleam? An hour how slow to come, how quickly past, Which blooms and fades, and only leaves at last, Faint as shed flowers, the attenuated dream.
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3.6k
Severed Selves
An irrefutable dream, fulfilled tenfold in the illusion made imperfect by dreamers' oblivion, sought by the delver of selves. Rejection of messengers, the hive of deluded apathy that saturates the air thick with the droning of silent hesitation hexagonal compartmentalization, sundering your cedar carapace, which cancerous excess shatters, and only cracks remain; the afterthoughts of paradise and undiscovered paths of depression, an anxious exodus of life-force. Part thine red sea, lest plate tectonics make waves, that cause molecules of hemoglobin to disperse in light, the crimson tears of a soul, sweeter than the lips coveted.
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Dec 25, 2012
Dec 25, 2012 at 2:10 AM UTC
Reconcile Me
Even a scrooge, In his castle keep, A lone fire burning While he drifts out to sleep, Once wondered In fright, Amid the sundering night, If he was worthy Of either judgement or bribe.
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Dec 24, 2013
Dec 24, 2013 at 8:58 AM UTC
Yule
he told too many lies that man of mine he lied and lied all the time he said he loved me and that he'd be true but he was out last night fraternizing with Sue he told too many lies that man of mine he lied and lied all the time he thought he wouldn't get caught out with his latest escort but he didn't figure that I'd have him tailed he told too many lies that man of mine he lied and lied all the time they were making a secret meeting he was kissing her with a passionate greeting he told too many lies that man of mine he lied and lied all the time I gave him the mail I told him to vacate I wasn't going to tolerate a sundering mate he told too many lies that man of mine he lied and lied all the time
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Dec 26, 2013
Dec 26, 2013 at 6:27 AM UTC
He Told Too Many Lies (Lyric Poem)
Flummoxed, In labyrinths of Baleful forests with eyes of gibbet makers and buried undertakers through gloaming sights, hobbling towards the light. The silver teeth of obeisance sundering will, plundering peace, blazoning smiles of malicious beings.
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Mar 19, 2015
Mar 19, 2015 at 12:37 PM UTC
ROAMING IN MORTALITY
we stroll the orchard where grapes prune and apples dutch the burgeoning **** of our memories... we remain shimmering in true dusk. there on the cusp of inscrutable lust and the chaste rabies of a sliver of first bone with tornado lips and cotton random. we cajole our misfortune, and rise at noon; without laughing - we ****** our hags from the raven that feathered our cap. we elapse with the dead in the basement of our rendering. a little ahead of ourselves or dead, no matter what. the orchard glooms a demise in the calm tourettes of our syndrome... both alone in the teeming all-spark of our glorious sundering... our Mondays say less than our Present Day - and a yarn of plight and sunstroke gropes at the  barb of our bee stung innocence we chide the withering for all the Withering - and all the good it does.... besides. we wrath glide the plum then have at Life.
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Feb 28, 2013
Feb 28, 2013 at 11:28 AM UTC
A LITTLE AHEAD OF OURSELVES
stealing other poet's poems is so rampant and rife looters will attest to the works being of their original life with a swag of online poetry sites used by plagiarists plundering no poet's heart and soul efforts are dismissed from the sundering pilfers of verse ever busy themselves they're such industrious thieving elves should they take a fond liking for what you've written they'll stow your wonderful lines in a crook's mitten copyright and true possession of materials you've produced get no attention from they who've a penchant for something re-produced under our radar they do the wicked deed could be said they are so unethical of creed
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Feb 21, 2017
Feb 21, 2017 at 7:05 PM UTC
Unethical Of Creed
A lone gray bird, Dim-dipping, far-flying, Alone in the shadows and grandeurs and tumults Of night and the sea And the stars and storms. Out over the darkness it wavers and hovers, Out into the gloom it swings and batters, Out into the wind and the rain and the vast, Out into the pit of a great black world, Where fogs are at battle, sky-driven, sea-blown, Love of mist and rapture of flight, Glories of chance and hazards of death On its eager and palpitant wings. Out into the deep of the great dark world, Beyond the long borders where foam and drift Of the sundering waves are lost and gone On the tides that plunge and rear and crumble.
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1.4k
From The Shore
he told too many lies that man of mine he lied and lied all the time he said he'd love me and that he'd be true but he was out last night fraternizing with Sue he told too many lies that man of mine he lied and lied all the time he thought he'd not get caught out with his latest escort but he didn't figure that I was onto his  fraudulent rort he told too many lies that man of mine he lied and lied all the time there they were making an undercover meeting he was kissing her with a passionate greeting he told too many lies that man of mine he lied and lied all the time I gave him the mail I told him to vacate I wasn't going to tolerate no sundering mate he told too many lies that man of mine he lied and lied all the time
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Nov 14, 2014
Nov 14, 2014 at 10:36 PM UTC
He Told Too Many Lies
Unimposing to the objects around. Visualizing each item with vivid detail. Haunting the forgotten sleeping synapse. Hidden deep within the fiber. Feeling lungs cascading violently. Sundering pops of adrenaline punctuate. Shadows cast doubt over courage. Crossed eyes seeing double vision. Tranquility forbid the beating heart. Shaken steadily upon each migraine. Broken toe acting subtle. Windows eviscerating the light. Dimming color and pigments alike. Dancing brave the wildly fire. Black and blue, mildly haze. Images of demon and ghoul take the hour. Sickened sunken skeletal room. White tiles caress coldly as ice. Air circulates with grim agenda. Hands riddled with obnoxious arthritis. Brooming the dust, sweeping the fear. The beautiful black steed champions it away. Red are the hoofs painting the scene. Vaporizing the light by any means. Delegating everything entirely serene. Shootingstar, throttling deemed. Brilliant cloud looming so high. Setting the Sun into the sky. Benevolent brother opposing shy. Sorcering wisdom allowing to fly. Devilish the Moon, waking my eye.
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Aug 16, 2016
Aug 16, 2016 at 11:20 PM UTC
Dark Room
Temporal Fugue (Skull with clock eyes) The darkness is a metaphor, for all we cannot see or know like a foreboding open door, causing fear to grow Traveler (Suited up stick figure) When the Poet becomes one with both mind and heart Such fear shall be reflective within Ones art Temporal Fugue Gazing deep into the night, dark abyss, or devil's crack knowing when to fight, and when to turn your back Traveler It is cold here and my words are merely steam Turning in to droplets of less than they mean Temporal Fugue Ice gathers where it will, it denies all define a sundering of stone, or vertebrae in spine Traveler Reluctantly we push that stone up an eternal hill of misplaced wells, only to tumble Temporal Fugue Picking up all the pieces, assembling it, like new casting many pennies in, withdrawing, but a few
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Dec 12, 2016
Dec 12, 2016 at 7:29 AM UTC
A Conversation Between Avatars (Collaboration with Traveler)
Traces you left on my skin I can measure them inch by inch Words or it was a spill of ink Time and again, I hear them ringing So sweet was your voice Just made me dreaming   I look at you and a memory haunts me You are not the same person that once used to love me Was our love so fragile??? That anything can break it Or was I to fool? What was my fault? I couldn’t make it Melancholy keeps me drowning Broken promises, dreams sundering What you had really made out of me, i keep wondering :( :(
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Sep 2, 2015
Sep 2, 2015 at 7:57 AM UTC
Memories
hollow pointed flowers litter, the war torn fields, watered, by the blood from human carcass's left, after the battle. now, become mulch and food to toxic soil's greed the children play among the dry, white bones building clacking, castles high and scavenging the metal petals  and kahki cloth for with which, they haggle, for food to buy. their world of decrepit decay, exsists..... under a cloud of grey and with only the memory of parents, they make their own way... what once was green is now brown and what was was steel is now rust, upon the ground. but not the hollow flowers, somehow, they retain their gleam and they glitter, like diamonds, in the harsh daylight. they, the children, the keepers of this world, know not how to smile or cry. they live to survive to them simple things, like joy and laughter are myths. they have no time to ask why... but they love, the little flowers, that sit upon the sands. the hollow pointed flowers that feel right, within small hands. and the songs they sing, are murky as to the prayers they say, before bedtime.... just, undefined mantras. taken from the before. when the gods, were advertisements and everybody suceeded. everybody was needed, everybody was blind, to creed and colour and the world was fine and dandy. and mothers loved their children, fathers walked beside. this, before the sundering before the parents, fought and fought and died. leaving just dusty bones in toxic fields and bullet blossomed flowers to mark the loss of life... to mark the loss of living... to mark the end of fighting.... to mark the end of destruction... after the dying was done
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Oct 3, 2014
Oct 3, 2014 at 6:57 PM UTC
after the dying was done
hollow pointed flowers litter, the war torn fields, watered, by the blood from human carcass's left, after the battle. now, become mulch and food to toxic soil's greed the children play among the dry, white bones building clacking, castles high and scavenging the metal petals  and kahki cloth for with which, they haggle, for food to buy. their world of decrepit decay, exsists..... under a cloud of grey and with only the memory of parents, they make their own way... what once was green is now brown and what was was steel is now rust, upon the ground. but not the hollow flowers, somehow, they retain their gleam and they glitter, like diamonds, in the harsh daylight. they, the children, the keepers of this world, know not how to smile or cry. they live to survive to them simple things, like joy and laughter are myths. they have no time to ask why... but they love, the little flowers, that sit upon the sands. the hollow pointed flowers that feel right, within small hands. and the songs they sing, are murky as to the prayers they say, before bedtime.... just, undefined mantras. taken from the before. when the gods, were advertisements and everybody suceeded. everybody was needed, everybody was blind, to creed and colour and the world was fine and dandy. and mothers loved their children, fathers walked beside. this, before the sundering before the parents, fought and fought and died. leaving just dusty bones in toxic fields and bullet blossomed flowers to mark the loss of life... to mark the loss of living... to mark the end of fighting.... to mark the end of destruction... after the dying was done
Continue reading...
88
Secret spells of the gutter weeds The crash of echoes in the cavern of your ratifications Shapeless memories plucked from the rotting lace Melting the crash of your hollow ways Your reflection is full of blameless confessions Sundering your vision with deathless years The sharpness of your syringe of hate ****** flaws that dictate you Wincing for a delicate escape Pursuing the creek of graceless yearning Immersed and nonexisting into the marrow of your passage As the mourners disaffirm the farewell fortitude of your youth
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Oct 4, 2013
Oct 4, 2013 at 11:23 PM UTC
Mortal Coil
what abounds like love in it's infancy ? a revival of Spring from an infinite well. as such; love is the Sun. sundering ordinary doubt as blind-spots boggle from the lightning fell... what rainbows do when they shout. and all - the music that sustains you, blessed; from a realm as cloudless as a newborn babe. there are stars. and all the splendor of an ****** life thrumming the lost chord, to the last song ! a host of ecstasies, tumbling in a waterfall of loose shackles and open doors. love then, is the mark of a genius design embedded in the viscera of Eternity. bristling with Time - and all the majesty of the Flesh. it barks at the moon and enthralls the latent flames that lay dormant in your soul. how the world is new, but not innocent concerns you not in the least.   and Love is You.
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Jan 12, 2017
Jan 12, 2017 at 5:16 PM UTC
Love In It's Infancy Is Infinite
Bursting, bounding, blazing; boldly blasting, breaking branches, birch beneath boughs, boots bruising blackberry brambles, bashing buried boulders, she shot; sprinting, spittle-spitting, screaming, singing, sundering scarlet sumac screens, seeking secret solitude, scrying, simple, silent safety, solace.
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Jul 2, 2014
Jul 2, 2014 at 1:52 PM UTC
Added Alliterative Appeal (brain hurts now)
Can't keep my eyes from melting Those tears that they've been smelting Because loneliness is pelting Poor young, forsaken me Can't keep my eyes from wondering Why silence is now thundering Between us and its sundering Poor young forsaken me Can't keep my eyes from missing Those lips that I've been kissing But now they keep on enlisting Poor young forsaken me Enlisting me to cry and Enlisting me to try Because if he's not here beside me Then I might as well have Died.
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Feb 4, 2016
Feb 4, 2016 at 6:56 AM UTC
Eyes
August now has dipped its head, Blazing sun's cries now ahead. September has tore reality, An Asura sundering dun eternity. The tide of Season's change again; It undulates in trepidation.
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Sep 2, 2025
Sep 2, 2025 at 3:11 PM UTC
Season's Tide
Dyslexia, mixed messages Everything so confusing Susceptible to misusing; A 'B' becomes a 'D' instantaneously And screws things up simultaneously. A short trip from insanity to inanity. Fiscal confuses with physical Turning laudable into laughable So quickly eyes can't disguise Whether one means the skies Or perhaps one means this guy's. If read, confusion and contusion Seem like quibbling over siblings But things like read and read Only different when they're said Take un-signalled turns in the head And instead come out backward, Which should be spelled backword. Muddling and confuddling resides Issuing thundering broadsides, Rendering and sundering any Blundering inadept ineptitudes Like some kind of garbled beatitudes. Some take hostile attitudes. Wheedling and wheeling away Beetling and saying it wrong; Maybe a song can be written And some tongues can be bitten, Taken aback by words taken back, As the Raven said "Never more!"
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Dec 24, 2016
Dec 24, 2016 at 4:18 AM UTC
SHOOTING GARBLE MARBLES
My stiffening fingers found the flowers hiding beneath the snow, the edges of their petals sharp with ice. My broken fingertips turned the delicate flower flesh every imaginable variation on pink, and I held a bouquet against my greying skin, lost in dreams of the spring, wandering in and out of time and space, to walk the streets of the city I had never learned to call home. I recalled all the terrible dark seasons of youth, the great evils of the world, and when I arrived again, at the walls of the city, I saw it with new eyes, a great harbor afloat on the sundering sea. It was in this city that hope had come to live. Forcing myself from my reverie, I steeled myself for the trek back to the new world, a holdfast standing strong against the old. I left the flowers behind, thinking that when spring came, my blood would melt from the petals and return to the welcoming earth.
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Feb 25, 2013
Feb 25, 2013 at 5:22 AM UTC
The Arrival
A tempest is brewing Beneath our soles. Coerced many massive mountains but sundering them not;                                      consuming them. With eons unequaled, With few fathoms measurable yet measuring the unfathomable. Unrealistic fables, As a dragon in a cavern, Perhaps infernal heathens...                                     ludicrous claims, yet No soothsayer's transmutations, No reviser's adaptations, Nor squabbling between politicians could surmount to the tensions amassing beneath us. Are we at pinnacle of the world? Only if one's ego is at True North, Merely the surface, unfurled forth. But as molten iron dwindles slowly outward into hardened crust As does man's manifested quest for greed and lust So if a monolithic magma pool ever decides to ****** Hopefully it will gather a rather miraculous gust (it must!) Distrusting the wicked, while sparing the just As quickly as water turns ephemeral steel to rust.
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Jan 13, 2013
Jan 13, 2013 at 11:13 PM UTC
An Ode to the Core
I am adrift in shadow when parted from you existing in a non-life and a non-death caught between dominions of light and dark my soul, disincarnate, hangs suspended impaled upon the sundering hook of an obscene numinous dismembering of the essence that is Us twisting and battered in an enervating wind which moans and wails like the wretched, suffering ****** filling a haunted and dissonant land with anguish at the midpoint between rivened you and I all aspects of me are halved, dissipated I must survive with half a feebly beating heart inhale for but one struggling lung, choked with ash seeing only half the sky, half the world My scattered thoughts incomplete and disordered I drag myself, mauled and maimed, towards the next transcendent moment of palpability in Us Khronos, laughing, mocks all my efforts drags the hours just beyond my numb fingers I can only touch you if I reach inside of me
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Jan 19, 2019
Jan 19, 2019 at 11:18 PM UTC
Severed
Broken, alone I am left, Tears I shed, The pure transforms into blood red. I can't say that I made it, I deserted it, In a desert of memories I am left with. My sight blurred, My love unsure, A sickness without a cure. Left with the vision of your unspeakable beauty, I ache for the piece that you took from me, In a world of darkness you are the only light I see.
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Jan 18, 2015
Jan 18, 2015 at 12:44 PM UTC
The Great Sundering