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Of which I promised this Forthcoming Gift
That Low-Resolved Program you often play
Mine of Sum's Direct robbed my Basics shift
Could make my Allowance afford one day
Till then, master those Memes and Squarish Crew
And ask your Score teemed to accumulate
I know you can do it, Technocrat Blue
And rake those Creepers down confusticate
Or shall I, along the mean, Journal's Writ
Ask for more Hints over Direction rough
You, Controlling-E, fly Normal's out-of-it
Conclude my Patience to nearly enough.
I'll trust the Swede with his Awards advance
Then I'll Trust you; With those Talents enhance.
Endless Horizon Aug 2014
I am searching through the ghastly depths below the seas,
Where the sunlight still shines through the waters.
I find an interesting village...A haven for creatures in this
Dead, lifeless ocean floor.
I did not know so much life teemed through this rock.
Intricate sea creatures swim through the teeming corals
like red liquid flows through narrow blood vessels.
Each with a purpose, each with a task.
One species benefits the other, and vice versa.
The sea cannot live without one, and one cannot live without the other.

This makes me question the point of me being the world.
Am I something of importance,
Or a seemingly dangerous virus?
Really, I cannot tell who I shall be,
Until I live out the rest of my life, and find out,
Who I really am, and the person that will grieve for me the most when I'm gone.
I seriously did not give this poem much thought. Kinda just went with the flow here, no pun intended.
Fegger Nov 2010
Is this the place where garland grows,
Among the olive branches low?
Splattered, cindered, clay abode,
Am I so alien?
Encircled those, in khaki drab;
Paying homage to the bags;
Which hold remains of brave, young lads;
Will I feel again?

Surrounded, chains of un-lit lights,
Which only shine in day, not nights;
Illumination betrays the plights,
Should we become aglow.
A tree of polypropylene,
Adorns the tower, so serene;
A branch of steel hid in-between,
That only gunner knows.

The air of diesel, not of Myrrh,
As pre-fab dwellings start to stir,
Indifferent as they observe,
Fading of the Star.
A failed attempt at lone ‘SandMan’
Adorned with boots, bayonet in hand,
Iraqi winds displace his stand,
Re-formed in Kandahar.

T’was yesterday, on Christmas Eve;
A day ahead of promised leave,
When Paul, Eric, Mark and Steve,
Took leisurely patrol.
In Tikrit, where he was born,
Some sixty years before this ‘Storm’,
They’d set-out on this early morn.
Assessing evening’s toll.

Among the buildings, scattered ruins;
Charred men, like shadows, on the dunes;
From temples soar cremated plumes;
One hour had gone by.
In the distance, beyond the spire,
Come ‘reports’ of skirmish fire,
Incessant screaming of the dire;
Then screams dissolve to cries.

Approach, inside a city square,
Where once a fountain teemed, right there,
Smoldering flesh, low burning hair;
A family splayed together.
Rank and putrid pieces strewn,
Mother’s face, shrapnel-hewn;
Attending Allah far too soon--
All their hands were tethered.

Domestic dogs, now on their own,
Fight for human flesh and bone;
Such holy image sets the tone,
As chorus strikes ‘Jihad’.
Eric stumbles, exploded knee,
Bearing witness to comrades, three,
Souls reclaimed near instantly;
Christmas in Baghdad.

Is this the place where garland grows;
Among the olive branches low?
How I miss New England snow,
This Christmas in Baghdad.
Copyright, Fegger 2010
Do you remember
That afternoon--that Sunday afternoon!--
When, as the kirks were ringing in,
And the grey city teemed
With Sabbath feelings and aspects,
Lewis--our Lewis then,
Now the whole world's--and you,
Young, yet in shape most like an elder, came,
Laden with Balzacs
(Big, yellow books, quite impudently French),
The first of many times
To that transformed back-kitchen where I lay
So long, so many centuries--
Or years is it!--ago?

Dear Charles, since then
We have been friends, Lewis and you and I,
(How good it sounds, 'Lewis and you and I!'):
Such friends, I like to think,
That in us three, Lewis and me and you,
Is something of that gallant dream
Which old Dumas--the generous, the humane,
The seven-and-seventy times to be forgiven!--
Dreamed for a blessing to the race,
The immortal Musketeers.

Our Athos rests--the wise, the kind,
The liberal and august, his fault atoned,
Rests in the crowded yard
There at the west of Princes Street.  We three--
You, I, and Lewis!--still afoot,
Are still together, and our lives,
In chime so long, may keep
(God bless the thought!)
Unjangled till the end.
Brian Oarr Jun 2012
I cannot restore the lakes that teemed with fish,
nor the maples cultivated by the Mohawk,
the Adirondacks now more remote than boyhood,
a lost dark conversation with jejune oblivion.

Events became the storyline of my life,
and events were always stronger than resolve.
My journey took me inward without time schedule,
dredged up expediencies as layovers.

Still, I felt drawn to the people,
who bejeweled my dreams in neuron flashes,
became therapy, billboards along the escape route.
Turned out that vital knowledge would suffice.
Geno Cattouse Oct 2013
The speckled puffer fish was a greedy scavenger
a greedy thing with no agenda but to grab the hook
I used to hate to touch them.******* eyes staring
Huge gopher teeth bare and sharp.

I was Huck Fin Carribean
Bare foot and rural as heck
Dirt ring around my neck
The dusty roads
humid.

The sweltering heat and the river would meet us
in the mangrove Forrest as we walked the
Picado road to river's edge.
A cranky dory sat tied of
for our convenience with a paddle or two.

We pushed of and fought the tide
to get us safe to the other side.
Aunt Doris would stand with'
arm akimbo a cigarette burning
between index and middle
a tiny smile stayed put.

The  Muttruce , as we named it
Flourished because no one would eat it
so the river teemed with catfish and puffy.
we did not eat catfish either some cultural bias. Lucky cat
but that bias died when the market for him found Belize.
Scary little blacked eyed buck toothed *******.

Dont know if they are on someones menu now.
They seemed a bit scarce last time i fished.
high priced export on the orient express I guess.

Price of popularity is no privacy
eaten to extinction.

Head up , eyes open
mouth closed.
Kevin Triolo Jun 2012
We walked through.
        Stingy back alleys.
        Decadent
        in their fading
        twilight glory.
Obnoxious dumpsters.
        Teemed
        with rusted belongings.
We took pictures.
        Discussing technique.
        In depth
        connected by
        secret jargon.
Enlightened meaning.
        Dripped
        from knowing tongues.



© 2012
Tally Cat Sep 2018
Rabbit, Rabbit, worn and weary at my parlor door
Come inside, sit by the fire, we’ll let tea spirits pour
They listen as we sip, they’ve never heard a rabbit howl.
But you’ve loved a wolf, and the wolf loved you
A rabbit who was on the prowl

Your lover wore the beast they made, of comets, dirt and fur
You drove fast cars
You fell through stars
You think it would all become a blur

Oh the places you two ran, the places you two crashed
A rabbit who danced through constellations
You two birthed solar systems when you clashed
You tell me of what you saw, the gods and their creations
The secrets that you made together, the heights you did ascend
And how this journey came and went to find its timely end

Because you lived an urban fantasy, in a world like a dream
Fantastic creatures in it teemed
Fantastic deeds and fantastic feats
Fantastic, eerie, dark lit streets.
For all its wonder, much like your lover,
It had as many teeth

And this is where a rabbit learned to growl
Grew sharp claws to disembowel
And on each other you left your marks
Be it lovely or be it ******
Both felt trepidation at the threat of sparks

So Howl, rabbit, who offered up your beating heart
Howl rabbit, who loved the prowling bard!
Tell your stories, weep into your cup
Nostalgia rocks you in her arms
Howl at those old once blazed skies
Howl about all of those pretty lies
Howl, divine heart break of harsh goodbyes

A thousand suns set on that day
The dream is done, or so you say
The things you crave, the things you made
These things you’ve done will never fade
The fauns of man have made their war
In the ballad of a love that is no more...

But you’re not a rabbit, and they weren’t a wolf
This was not a dream
I was there, and it was despair,
The story wasn’t as pretty as you made it seem
I’m glad it’s done, that you’re both free
I hope you did enjoy the tea
But make no mistake, I know your habit
They weren’t a wolf, and you’re not a rabbit
nichole r Jun 2014
her eyes held rain and cloudy weather.
they stored lightning and harvested thunder.
they churned waves and teemed with froth.
they were as bright as who she was,
and she was as bright as what they were.
as they flickered over the clumps of warm masses,
he hoped with shaky breaths
that those eyes would land on him,
if only for a second.
I wrote a short story told in poems on Wattpad, so I thought I'd post some of those poems here.
JJ Hutton Nov 2010
I was suckling the barrel
of my grandpa's favorite gun,
when Gloria strolled in,
head held high,
like a 12-story *****.

"What the **** are you doing?"

"Nothin', sweets, I was just wondering about the taste."

Gloria mixed herself a Mt. Vesuvius,
unplugged the telephone,
turned on the tv,
dug her nails into my weary couch,
over and over.

I didn't ask how her day went,
she didn't call me babycakes,
we didn't touch,
I just watched as she changed channels,
sunk further into oblivion,
I traced my kneecap with
grandpa's gun,
it was something to do, I suppose.

"You know you got to get out," she finally said.

I looked like a suicidal *******, baptized in cobwebs,
and every word I threw at every guest teemed parasitic.
I hadn't left the apartment for awhile,
it seemed like every time I did, I would collide with
some enemy, and my bloodlust was subsiding.
I didn't like it to be so awfully one-sided.
"Hey, look at me," she demanded.

Maybe the neurons are crippled,
can't cross the synapse,
or perhaps it's this culture that
listens only to the false priest in its head,
but when no one else around you is living,
it makes the whole gig seem a bit pointless.
"Gloria, sometimes it's better just to die."
Copyright Nov. 2, 2010 by J.J. Hutton
Paul Butters Apr 2015
Can stories be poetic? I think so? What do you reckon? Read on...

The giant red globe of the sun hung over young Omega’s head. That great orb filled nearly a quarter of the sky. Omega found it hard to believe that the sun was a “red dwarf star”. Yet who was he to argue with his elders?

A chill wind blew along the desolate beach. In the distance, some giant ***** were on patrol, looking for a meal. Above the *****, some rowdy gulls were waiting to scavenge anything the ***** might leave.

Not much to report here. The usual dismal scene. Nothing here to reflect the importance of these moments. Omega had seen moving pictures of other planets, on which they had things called “days”. This particular “Earth” here was “tidally locked” so that the same side faced the sun at all times. The sun was always there, solidly positioned above Omega’s head.  Here on the equator, they “enjoyed” maximum warmth: yet it was not too much above the freezing point of water!

Mother appeared.

Mother: “We will be ready to start in ten Lunons, Omega. I will call you then.”

Omega nodded. He gulped, nervously and mentally reviewed why this ritual was necessary. What had the elders said?

Oh yes. The Universe began 110 trillion standard years ago with the “Big Bang”. It had expanded at an incredible rate. In those early days the universe had teemed with stars like the sun. Most of those stars had travelled together in great wheels and clouds called “galaxies”. Those galaxies had been full of light and heat, and life!

Yet all that abundance had been before the “Degenerate Era”, when the universe had thinned out so much that no new stars were formed. The remaining stars had died and died. So now the sun above Omega was the last known star.

They were about to enter the “Black Hole Era”, when the universe would be dominated by Black Holes of course. After that would be the “Dark Era”. Finally, about 500 trillion years after the Big Bang, the universe would undergo “Heat Death”. Well, that was what Omega recalled from his lessons.

What was bothering The Elders was the state of the sun. It was foundering. Soon it would just blink into darkness. Before then, the world would just get colder. A bleak prospect.

Mum reappeared. She ushered Omega to “The Circle”. The children were joining with the adults and Elders now. That central obelisk, encircled by the populace, was brightly lit. They all formed an unbroken chain.

Omega felt a great glowing from within. It was happening! Warmer and warmer. Brighter and brighter. All of them shone and flowed and coalesced. Then they each broke free and flew apart!

It was done! Every one of them had transformed into a spirit energy being! Each was now a shining orb. So alive, and free from what would have been a slow freezing death under the last dying sun.

Such joy. Eternal life achieved at last. None of them had heard of our Earth. None of them was human. There were similarities with us, but they were quite alien. Who cares. They were sentient beings who had escaped the death of the last star, and ultimately the universe.

Paul Butters
Can stories be poetic? Yes, surely. Any good? Inspired by the ending to "The Time Machine" by HG Wells.
Grahame Jun 2014
A beautiful angel, sitting on a cloud,
softly playing her harp,
Was suddenly frit by a noise so loud,
and hit by something sharp.

It’s Concorde, travelling faster than sound,
that is so very sharp,
The angel tumbles towards the ground,
while Concorde flies off with the harp.

She thinks, “No longer shall I sing
while on a cloud I’m sat,
That flying machine has broken my wing,
I’m falling fast, and that’s that!”

The wing though’s, not broken, and causes no pain,
so she thinks, just to feathers, is damage,
However, she tries to fly in vain,
it’s something she just cannot manage.

By spreading her wings slightly she manages to steer,
and thus, stops spinning around,
She is greatly filled with fear,
and still falling towards the ground.

And then, far below, she spies a small plane,
climbing into the sky,
The sight causes her some hope to gain,
and towards it she tries to fly.

“If I can land on the plane,” thinks she,
“that’s grand, cos my fall it will stop,
I might be able to ride it down safely,
and when it’s landed, off it can hop.”

She glides down, the plane flies higher,
and about halfway they meet ,
And though, for a moment, things seem dire,
she grabs on tight, and makes it her seat.

She sits there, astride the plane,
waiting for her panic to subside,
And realises, as plain as plain,
she’s in for a bumpy ride.

Then the plane levels out, her heart calms down,
and things are looking better,
She smooths out her lily-white gown,
and thinks, “Today’s one for a red letter!”

And then she hears a clunking noise,
a door is opened wide,
“Oh no!” she thinks, nearly losing her poise,
“There must be people inside.”

Inside the plane, the pilot had fretted,
he’d felt it pitch and yaw,
And though its balance had been upsetted,
he’d straightened it out once more.

By skydivers, chartered plane had been,
they’d all jumped out, except one,
They were experienced, she was green,
and now she was left all alone.

She’d thought that she should exit last,
’cause she’d never jumped before,
And her static line she’d made fast,
and followed the others to the door.

The door had been opened, they’d got ready to jump,
and finally it was her turn to go,
Then something had caused the plane to bump,
and the door had swung, and closed to.

The pilot had struggled to regain control,
he’d used the joystick and rudder,
The plane had pitched and tried to roll,
then yawed, and finally did shudder.

Eventually, the plane had been levelled out,
and the lone skydiver was shaken,
“Do you still want to jump?” the pilot did shout,
She’d said, “Yes,”  though she was mistaken.

When the plane had tossed, she’d banged her head,
and blacked out for a while,
So she should have stayed in the plane, instead
she thought she’d jump out with style.

She opened the door, and fastened it back,
her training however, had slipped
She didn’t realise her static line was now slack,
no longer safely clipped.

She got to the door, and outside leant,
and looked down at the ground,
Then blacked out again, which unfortunately meant
she fell out, and was earthwards bound.

The angel was still sitting on top,
starting to enjoy the flight,
Then, seeing the girl from the doorway flop,
realised that all was not right.

The girl was spinning around and around,
and falling out of control,
She rapidly fell, not making a sound,
she’d be lucky to get down whole.

The angel now knew something was wrong,
and that something right had to be done,
So she threw herself from the plane, headlong,
knowing that she was the one
Who had to help, or the girl might die,
so she tucked back her wings, to go faster,
The girl was in peril, so she had to try,
even though it might end in disaster.

Like a stooping hawk, down she did hurl,
cutting through the air,
Rapidly closing up to the girl,
until, she got to where
She realised she had to be,
right underneath the skydiver,
Correctly placed, just where she,
the proper aid could give her.

She rolled herself over, her wings she spread out,
the right trajectory she had guessed,
Then caught the girl, the waist about,
and drew her to her breast.

By now they had neared to the ground,
there was no time the ’chute to release,
And the angel kept her arms tight around,
the girl, her rescue she would not cease.

And dropping, with her back to the ground,
with the girl held tight on top,
She sensed a large hand, around them wound,
and their downwards plummet stop.

They were gently lowered to the mold,
and laid there, side by side,
The skydiver was still out cold,
the angel’s eyes opened wide,
Because, as she lay in that place,
a mighty presence seemed
To be looking down on her with grace,
and around her, angels teemed.

It was then she swooned, and knew no more,
until she woke up in a bed,
And to her surprise, on looking up, saw
no halo was over her head.

A nurse sitting close by her bedside,
smiled at her and said,
“You’re really lucky to be alive,
and so’s your friend, who’s in the next bed.”

Just then the ward door opened wide,
and four people clattered in,
They stood around the skydiver’s bedside,
and made an awful din.

“Tell us what happened up there, in the plane,”
the angel heard one of them say,
“I really do not know how to explain,
or what actually happened that day.”

The girl continued, “I was ready to go,
when the plane seemed to receive a bump,
And then I thought, everything’s ok, so,
I decided to make the jump.

I do remember opening the door,
and looking down at the ground,
And then, I remember nothing more,
’til I woke up here, safe and sound.”

One of the crowd said, “You gave us a fright,
you came out of the plane, spinning round,
Of your parachute, there was no sight,
we were sure you’d crash into the ground.”

Another one said, “Something else wasn’t right,
we were certain that your ’chute was red,
Then one seemed to appear, that was lily-white,
which broke your fall instead.”

A third one spoke, “And another thing,
which I just can’t get out of my head,
It seemed as though I heard angels sing,
as I ran over, to check you weren’t dead.”

Finally, the fourth one said,
“And my mind’s still in a whirl,
We saw that not only weren’t you dead,
lying next to you was a girl,
Your parachute hadn’t opened, and
of the white one, there was no sign,
Though the girl by your side was holding your hand,
and wore a white dress of archaic design.”

Then all of them chattered together,
until the nurse made them leave.
The angel and girl looked at each other,
neither knowing what to believe.

Meanwhile, the Concorde had come in to land,
and when it had rolled to a stop,
The ground staff simply could not understand,
what, off its nose, they’d seen drop.

Things falling off planes can be serious,
so they got over there pretty sharp,
And then, they thought they were delirious,
cos, what had dropped off was a harp.
And a label, tied tightly to it was,
with a message upon it inscribed,
Send it to the hospital of St. Thomas,
the owner’s recovering inside.

The girl, to the angel, held her hand out,
and giving her a fond glance,
Said, “I’m really glad you were there about,
we don’t often get a second chance.”

*Grahame Upham
3rd January 2014.
These winter mornings make me miss you,
Your scent, your breath, how you always left me,
The pet names we called each other,
The small pieces of foreign languages we meant,

Your “Lo siento”s, your Elvish “I love you”s (‘Amin mela lle’),
The day of silence, I learned to sign my heart for you,
I learned so much through it all, my brain teemed,
But you only taught me how my pain was true.
    (And how to kiss.)

Winter mornings without warmth.
A compass with no North.

11-12-13
I miss her, I really do. I miss them all. All three.
She was the first, and, I don't think I will ever stop loving her.
Even when I know it's masking the hate, and only slightly.
She tried to ruin my life. Succeeded for months. Almost a whole year.
Then I fought back.


On another note, I wrote this in a book I've been carrying with me. I wish I could share all of its contents. Btu I can't. Expect to see more hand-written poems like this one.

P.S. I write for myself, I just post because it feels like my duty as a creator, to share.
AprilDawn Apr 2014
after dark
had fallen

I stood
in the backyard

the majestic palms
playing
to wind chimes

solar lights
cascading   rainbows
along the water’s surface
  
Life teemed
in the silken underbelly
of the purple  night sky

someday

I will miss
this piece
of unfinished paradise.
My garden in the burbs of Houston. And yes, I do miss it.Written Oct 2006
mark john junor Nov 2013
its grown quiet
here in the darkness
things moving have grown still
or moved off
now even the stillness has
ceased its capturing
left with the impoverished air
that once teemed with subtle life
i **** in its neutral taste
and slowly breath out trying to avoid creating a stir
pause here at the gap between instruction
of the current and the mastery of the next
i flicker between fears unfounded yet persistent
strip off layers of perception only to cloth them again
in some other unnatural garment of paper thin ideal
this struggle exhausts me and i flounder at the escapism
i am left here in the silence
once more
to become still myself as i reconcile the loss
how it came to be baffles me
but i know i must come to terms
i am trapped within and will not find easy egress
the darkness gathers my attention
i search it for meanings
it by inaction speaks
it by force of its encompassing nature
gives birth to visions
creates echoes in the mind
that are not really there
but are real enough to the perceiver
a lone dog shouts his displeasure
a lawnmower begins its guttural journey through
a landscape
a child's joyfully laughing shout
these strange noises come and depart in an instant
in the the minds eye
each has meaning and creates image of each thing
as it would happen
but it is just a thought
just an image
the darkness has not moved
has not revealed a sound
it is more alive than i
eye flutters open to visual noise
and i am free
Dee Oct 2014
I was the scorched wasteland,
you the ravishing stream
my life, sparse
while yours teemed
my lips parched
while yours gleamed,
one drop water was all
that I had sought,
alas! That was too much
for you to part with…

I live on
as the deserted desert*.
Love, emotions
Collaboration...Dee and Deborah Brooks

I was the scorched wasteland,
you the ravishing stream
my life, sparse
while yours teemed
my lips parched
while yours gleamed,
one drop water was all
that I had sought,
alas! That was too much
for you to part with…


**I live on
as the deserted desert.

You were scorched in my being
Sent my ravishing stream to drink
Kissed your lips that were parched
My love made you shimmer and gleam.

My tears real, splattered as raindrops
Your lonely hand reaching out
When the day we bid goodbye
In the deserted desert
Alone by ourselves…
The fine collaboration by Dee was
in response to his poem 'Drought'
Truly thankful to you
Dee
shaqila Jul 2013
Gleaming eyes shining green
Long ***** hair unkempt but moving
As teemed with life in each strand
Flowing yellow transparent chiffon, **** or sari?
You advance, i retreat
Step by step, it’s appears a dance
Even though pitch dark
Your luminosity lights our path
Oh ****, i hit a wall, no opening, too high to climb
i kick and scream but not even echoes sound
You’re gruesome self, nearing, i scream and cower
I pass out?
I’m in my room in a corner by the closet
Parents hovering, wondering, asking together
Me - it was a dream...
No, impossible, so lucid, vivid
The lady, the green eyes, the moving strands of hair
I was dreaming?
mmmm....
martin Dec 2011
Tap tap tap and ye shall find.
I sieved and panned for nuggets that shine,
Searching for those elusive lines
That transgress space and transgress time
Or soothe and calm like favourite wine
Or send a shiver down the spine

I chanced upon a wealthy seam
I tapped and from it gushed and teemed

A geyser of emotion
A tide of wisdom
A planet of experience

Hello Poetry, how do you do?
I'm very pleased to meet with you.
A thank you to this site for making it possible to read all the good work posted by members.
The Nada Oct 2017
I would rather close the door
For I can not fix ravage bind
Ruined along the plight
Tight hold no more.

Peer at the motion
Slowly teemed by caution
Loose its cleave
And just decided to leave.
The Nada
Madison mounted her coal black mare
In the yard of the Smugglers Inn,
Her coat was black and her hair was fair
And her jodhpurs tucked well in,
The sky was in a threatening mood
With its thunderheads from hell,
As lightning forked on the ancient rood
And the rain teemed down as well.

‘You need to get to the Laird,’ I cried,
‘Tell him to haste to me,
Another day and she may have died,
I’m trying to set her free.
But the Pikemen stand outside her door
And they say they guard her skin,
There were locks and chains on her door before
Up there, in the Smugglers Inn.’

‘Tell him to bring his gallant troop
To dismay the Duke of Bray,
He means to imprison his daughter
In his tower, the Lady Grey,’
The Pikemen said that I’d lose my head
If I tried to breach her door,
And wouldn’t answer whenever I asked,
‘What is she locked in for?’

So Madison wheeled the mare around
And she put it to the spur,
If any could ride a horse to ground
I knew that it was her,
She headed off to the Castle Croft
Head bent to the driving rain,
With lightning flashing around her mount
I watched her across the plain.

What seemed to take forever, I thought,
Was merely an hour or two,
But then my fears were set at naught
As the troop came jangling through.
Each man had raised his sabre and
He’d kept his powder dry,
My heart was surging within me as
The troop came riding by.

And then, at last, was Madison
Still riding with the Laird,
Determined then to save her friend,
To show her that she cared.
The Pikemen soon were beaten down
Were lost in the affray,
I never did catch a glimpse of him,
Their lord, the Duke of Bray.

It took a moment to smash the locks
On the door of Lady Grey,
And all the troop had cheered out loud
As the chains, they fell away.
Madison was the first in line
To embrace the one within,
But we were not to know what lay
Up there, in the Smugglers Inn.

The Lady, held in a firm embrace
Had staggered out through the door,
But blood and pustules were on her face
Like we’d never seen before.
A dying Pikemen called, ‘You fools,
You’ve unleashed a bitter ague,
And then he sighed just before he died,
‘Behold, you have the plague!’

David Lewis Paget
Seán Mac Falls Jun 2015
( Sonnet )*

My love beamed back to heavens overrun,
In a field where we stood so held in light,
As radiance teemed, our crown of sun
And never again was any day so bright.

Never were flowers too alive, so moving,
As we, they blanketed the fields of youth,
A memory set in starlights of blooming,
Our innocence eternal, O such beauty!

But bliss became loss caged in that one day
And light was shed from a gift to a sorrow,
Luster of dream, once held, now so faraway,
Only memories of image, dim light to borrow,

How spark of bliss fades in young sun, so soon
Lovers overrun, once held, in fields of bloom.
Seán Mac Falls Apr 2017
( Sonnet )*

My love beamed back to heavens overrun,
In a field where we stood so held in light,
As radiance teemed, our crown of sun
And never again was any day so bright.

Never were flowers too alive, so moving,
As we, they blanketed the fields of youth,
A memory set in starlights of blooming,
Our innocence eternal, O such beauty!

But bliss became loss caged in that one day
And light was shed from a gift to a sorrow,
Luster of dream, once held, now so faraway,
Only memories of image, dim light to borrow,

How spark of bliss fades in young sun, so soon
Lovers overrun, once held, in fields of bloom.
Simon Soane Jun 2013
Once water ran with life,
reflecting light,
until the sun shy.
Oceans teemed
with dreams
and landed
on a verdant shore,
sure of love.
Now arid ground
covered in contours
carved by racing streams
stares at starless skies,
awaiting rain from empty eyes.
Dee Oct 2014
Collaboration...Dee and Deborah Brooks

I was the scorched wasteland,
you the ravishing stream
my life, sparse
while yours teemed
my lips parched
while yours gleamed,
one drop water was all
that I had sought,
alas! That was too much
for you to part with…

I live on
as the deserted desert.


**You were scorched in my being
Sent my ravishing stream to drink
Kissed your lips that were parched
My love made you shimmer and gleam.

My tears real, splattered as raindrops
Your lonely hand reaching out
When the day we bid goodbye
In the deserted desert
Alone by ourselves…
The fine collaboration by Debbie Brooks was
in response to my poem 'Drought'
Truly thankful to you
Deb....
Benzene Mar 2023
The forest stood silent and still,
A melancholic hush over the hill,
The trees that once whispered to the breeze,
Now stood with a sense of unease.

The rivers that flowed once with glee,
Now ran dry and lost their spree,
The birds that once sang so sweet,
Now vanished from their retreat.

The flowers that bloomed with such grace,
Now withered and faded in their place,
The grass that once swayed with delight,
Now wilted, with no hope in sight.

The earth that once teemed with life,
Now barren, with nothing but strife,
The sky that once shone with stars,
Now dull and gray, without any bars.

The world that once pulsed with love,
Now drowned in tears and woes above,
Nature, once a bountiful gift,
Now a symbol of pain, a heartbroken rift.
Mother nature is dying
Seán Mac Falls Feb 2016
( Sonnet )*

My love beamed back to heavens overrun,
In a field where we stood so held in light,
As radiance teemed, our crown of sun
And never again was any day so bright.

Never were flowers too alive, so moving,
As we, they blanketed the fields of youth,
A memory set in starlights of blooming,
Our innocence eternal, O such beauty!

But bliss became loss caged in that one day
And light was shed from a gift to a sorrow,
Luster of dream, once held, now so faraway,
Only memories of image, dim light to borrow,

How spark of bliss fades in young sun, so soon
Lovers overrun, once held, in fields of bloom.
Wack Tastic Nov 2014
My head itches incredibly tonight,
The flames rising and being fanned,
Teemed and tousled,
Tortured by it,
Right down the ***** of my helm,
My teeth still drenched in sage flavor,
Through my crimson gums,
With my sapphire tongue,
Down my emerald ridged tepid throat,
Straight to my crystalline heart,
Onyxed lungs.
Esther Mar 2016
'and' was a continuation
and so you loved that word and hated endings
and you let your fingers weave the word over and over,
(delicate hands pressing them into your skin
as if to ensure your immortality,
push away whatever time wanted you to be, but the sun rose and set
and nights were only dank reminders of morrows after)
and besides you seemed quite tired as if you'd been holding the stars
in your arms for far too long
and they didn't even bother to shine for you

                                                      you look like loneliness has taken its toll

and your legs, weary with time, couldn't hold you anymore
and let your body collide with stardust
and the tips of your hair brushed the page that teemed with life,
that filled with doodles and words and and and and and and

                                                        you look like 'and' has taken its toll

and your eyes were dark and sunken, empty black abysses, eclipses
that stole the sun
and your lips were chapped and cracked, a jagged strip of the Milky Way
and your cheeks grayed and faded, stars that had lost their shine
and your stomach caved in on itself to let your rip cage and hip bones protrude (because it loved them both but they were too infatuated by your skin and clung to it like it was life after an ending)
and your skin was a painting, a Starry Night, and you were Van Gogh
(except you carved with knife and colored your blue skies with red stars)
and your eyelids were drooping, full moons falling into perfect crescents
and your lungs were containers without air,
galaxies without solar systems

                                                        you look like you're dying

and your fake smiles and midnight tears were like meteorites in the sky,
they were like comets, falling, falling, falling,
falling from home,
falling towards stone cold ground.
and the saddest part was,

*they never got back up.
All stars die.
Pyrhos Dec 2017
A kingdom above with a maze below
An infinite land out of time
In forests they might yet still grow
In tunnels they slowly lose their mind

So much they fail yet they still try
Isn't hope such a wonderful thing?
A solemn tale weights on my mind
Let me tell you of this world's king

His rule with powers absolute
His judgement not so resolute
His kingdom teemed with untold dreams
His ethereal muse with devious schemes

Many roads sprawl through his kingdom
The heart of the land beats in time
Thorny is a path to wisdom
Thickets and mountains one must climb

Dark branches looming in the sky
Death comes for all, little king
Hands shaky and head held high
Mind weighed, now starts remembering

Beware of the false muse, my son
Treacherous are songs she sings
Lest you want to come undone
Don't succumb to your heart's swings

Grip them like a sword in hand
Let dignity be your hearts guide
Set your mind, don't let it bend
A kindred soul responds in kind

Mighty armies back at home
How he wishes they were here
On this quest each walks alone
Doubt seeps in and so does fear

Suddenly light's gentle blaze
Hope comes here in short supply
Eerie sight meets the king's gaze
He plunges forth, his soul awry

Fall awaits those gone astray
Tunnels invite all who come
False hope, waste and disarray
Prepare to fight or succumb

Creatures lurking in the depths
The less one looks the more they grow
Only eyes that finds their strengths
Can vanquish fears above and below

Now our kingdom sings a tale
Of the enraptured, trapped boy-king
Those brave enough heard him unveil
True nature of his suffering

    Whispers from beyond the veil
    A strange muse watching over me
    Her mask cracked, a familiar tale
    But everyone seems blind to see

    My heart is true and so is she
    My muse is watching over me
    My mind is broken, but it will heal
    My need is her embrace to feel

Walking in circles, empty space
'Til suffering is all that's real
Always striving for embrace
One that he would never feel
The very first one
Collaboration...Dee and Deborah Brooks

I was the scorched wasteland,
you the ravishing stream
my life, sparse
while yours teemed
my lips parched
while yours gleamed,
one drop water was all
that I had sought,
alas! That was too much
for you to part with…

I live on
as the deserted desert.


**You were scorched in my being
Sent my ravishing stream to drink
Kissed your lips that were parched
My love made you shimmer and gleam.

My tears real, splattered as raindrops
Your lonely hand reaching out
When the day we bid goodbye
In the deserted desert
Alone by ourselves…
The fine collaboration by Dee was
in response to his poem 'Drought'
Truly thankful to you
Dee... The finest friend anyone could ever have
Del Maximo Sep 2016
the world was good
light shown through the dark void
waters parted to reveal dry land
Flora and Faunus presided
over primordial paradise
the green earth breathed crisp
cerulean skies
stars twinkled laser-like
through the unpolluted vastness
and every month a dragon
swallowed the moon
lions and lambs played peacefully
roses bloomed in deserts
rivers and oceans teemed
with every kind of cat and dog fish
buffalo roamed by the millions
and chickens came before eggs
nightingales sang songs
with humpbacks
butterflies flapped their wings
without consequence
the earth was new
the garden was fresh
then God created man
© 09/11/2016
Robert Gretczko Oct 2016
on gray hard streets we pounded out our youth
amidst tightly knitted cobble stone pathways
and shining windows always kept clean
struggling strong immigrants far and wide
teemed fruitfully through long days
and playful front stoop games
ring a leeveo and johnny on a pony
stick ball, jax and my favorite skellzey
mostly happy but deadly too
many ways of speaking were spoken
cultures clashed but soon subsided
in quiet civility and tamed calm
that all efforts would bring ahead more
bright days and simple luxuries
a streetside chat... a day at Orchard Beach
breezy stroll through Crotona Park...
a picnic by water's edge and maybe a hooked flounder
pale afternoon sun would blaze firey red at sunset
then pink and purple painted effortlessly
across our sleeping skies
we longed just for friendly pushing around
flirting with the girls when the nerve came up
and smart challenges of who could do what
when and how
for then that time, our time it was
all just a dream a day and the glories
of growing up...
Wild Turkey sojourned the lavender -
encrusted , wooded depression
Panola sunlight tarried , engulfing a peppered
granite expanse in the vivid 'Light of Creation'
Life teemed in pools of rainwater , Jays foretold the impassioned hour
Pungent , dew marinated fields shone as the
Lamp of God* ......
Copyright September 7 , 2016 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
James Rowley Jul 2019
Angelically gold Mary stood stoically
Cradling all that I’ve known to be true.
His father is dead; blank was his expression
Blank were the people bowing to him.

For all meaning had been lost to the wind.
Once, this place teemed with the beams of children;
Now that our fate is confirmed, we merely stare
Without sight.
////
Norman Crane Nov 2021
It was eighteen hundred and nine
when William Blake was visited
by a vision of the divine
angel, which sat upon his bed,
and conferred on him God's power
to raise—by speech—the faithful dead.
"As writing's done, now come the hour
to act," the glorious angel said.
"To blaze against the shadowmist
spewed by the dark satanic mills.
Thy sole command is thus: Resist,
for all the shadow touches, it kills."
Then the angel disappeared, and
Blake was left alone. "An army
of undead," he thought, "to stand
with me against the vile industry?"
So it was that Blake visited
crypt, churchyard and cemetery,
where by pure incantation did
he resurrect the very
victims of the mine and factory.
He spoke; their limbs burst through the soil,
skeleton-men singing, "Glory
to the Almighty!"  /  "Accursed toil
killed you, but I grant you new life!"
Blake intoned, and, gazing at them,
a sea of white frothing strife,
knew they would create Jerusalem.
When the British Prime Minister,
Spencer Perceval, learned of Blake's
sorcery, he sensed sinister
times, telling parliament, "Mistake
at your peril the poet's crusade,
inhuman in its unnature,
aimed at the progress we have made,
as rumour. The legislature,"
he said, "must brace for civil war."
Meanwhile, Blake and his bone legion
wrecked utter havoc in the north,
cleansing greed-sin from the region.
Coal production fell—ton by ton.
Parliament did send a thousand men,
but still nothing could be done.
They fought. Blake beat them. ‘twas then
that drowning in desperation
Perceval turned to the great
industrialist, Ward.  “Save our nation,”
he beseeched, “from its dreadful fate.
Our way of life is threatened, and
our common profits are at stake.”
Ward pondered. Then revealed his plan:
“A million souls, kiln-baked,
dismembered and reassembled
into one giant defender—”
“A million dead?” Perceval trembled.
“Would you rather we surrender?”
So it was done. Forced from their homes;
burnt, screaming; pleading for mercy.
From their congealed human loam
was born: a Titan of Industry!
Profit-seeking automaton,
one thousand feet tall. Steel plated.
Violent. With superhuman brawn.
Switched on—yet never to be sated.
“This beast,” said Blake, “we meet head on!”
as he rallied his undead troops
before their assault on London.
The city teemed with fresh recruits,
watching, waiting, in unabating
fog: their Titan’s excreted smog.
A general was just stating
how the fight would be a slog—
When Blake appeared on the horizon,
followed by a river of bone,
white warriors with sharpened limbs
under the banner of a tombstone.
“Now!” Ward instructed the Titan.
It lumbered forth: into the fray!
Met by the surging skeleton
wave, as Blake knelt down to pray,
and Perceval, looking away,
went mad from the clattering din.
British soldiers charged into grey
death. The Titan pushed deep within
Blake’s crumbling lines. Kneeling, he cried,
“Why, God, have you abandoned us?”
Ward laughed, and the Titan pounded
the undead into calcium dust.

Until—silence:

The Titan was the master. / Jerusalem would not come to pass.
Seán Mac Falls Dec 2018
(Sonnet)

My love beamed back to heavens overrun,
In a field where we stood so held in light,
As radiance teemed, our crown of sun
And never again was any day so bright.

Never were flowers too alive, so moving,
As we, they blanketed the fields of youth,
A memory set in starlights of blooming,
Our innocence eternal, O such beauty!

But bliss became loss caged in that one day
And light was shed from a gift to a sorrow,
Luster of dream, once held, now so faraway,
Only memories of image, dim light to borrow,

How spark of bliss fades in young sun, so soon
Lovers overrun, once held, in fields of bloom.
.

— The End —