"tempe" poems
And then we weren’t.
I learned more about you in our ending than I did in those two years
One minute you were my Heathcliff.
The man that I had looked for all of my life.
The next, a paltry reproduction. All of your pretty words dispersing like the death of a Tempe dust storm.
I will make peace with never understanding.
I will cease longing for something that never was.
I will heal
But I will always wish that I didn’t have to.
Oct 24, 2018
Oct 24, 2018 at 8:58 PM UTC
Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness,
Thou foster-child of silence and slow time,
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express
A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
What leaf-fring'd legend haunts about thy shape
Of deities or mortals, or of both,
In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?
What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?
What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?
What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?
Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd,
Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave
Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
Though winning near the goal yet, do not grieve;
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,
For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!
Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed
Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;
And, happy melodist, unwearied,
For ever piping songs for ever new;
More happy love! more happy, happy love!
For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd,
For ever panting, and for ever young;
All breathing human passion far above,
That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd,
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.
Who are these coming to the sacrifice?
To what green altar, O mysterious priest,
Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,
And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?
What little town by river or sea shore,
Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,
Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn?
And, little town, thy streets for evermore
Will silent be; and not a soul to tell
Why thou art desolate, can e'er return.
O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede
Of marble men and maidens overwrought,
With forest branches and the trodden ****
Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought
As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!
When old age shall this generation waste,
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st,
"Beauty is truth, truth beauty,--that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know."
3k
I am a true vagabond.
Flowing in and out of the moments presented with a fierce desire to absorb as much knowledge from every experience. I have taken a piece of every place with me and kept them all close at heart.
The night life of Vegas. The Heat from Tuscon. The Storms from Tempe. The Sunsets from San Antonio. The History from D.C. The Laziness of L.A. The snow from Denver. The Rose from Abileene. The pens from Dallas. The spirit of Austin. The smog from Houston.The frostbite from Grand Forks. The sand from San Diego. The trees from Alexandria. The Disney Magic from Orlando. The tornadoes from Pratville.
I have taken a piece of every state and city and absorbed its significance. The days fade into nights and I am somewhere new every time. I love the cities I have been too and the worlds that I have collided with.
I am a true Vagabond. Even if my home is here or there I am in spirit everywhere.
Sep 12, 2012
Sep 12, 2012 at 10:28 PM UTC
As Hermes once took to his feathers light,
When lulled Argus, baffled, swooned and slept,
So on a Delphic reed, my idle spright
So played, so charmed, so conquered, so bereft
The dragon-world of all its hundred eyes;
And seeing it asleep, so fled away,
Not to pure Ida with its snow-cold skies,
Nor unto Tempe, where Jove grieved a day;
But to that second circle of sad Hell,
Where in the gust, the whirlwind, and the flaw
Of rain and hail-stones, lovers need not tell
Their sorrows. Pale were the sweet lips I saw,
Pale were the lips I kissed, and fair the form
I floated with, about that melancholy storm.
1.6k
Somewhere In California
Woke up,
somewhere in California,
at a beautiful girl’s house,
a good morning,
with tempe and eggs,
espresso for sure,
a whole meal homemade,
no SPAM no Ma’am just blessings yes Sir,
somewhere,
in California,
Kirtan and gangsta music,
a future of livid linguistics,
I make a poem from these thoughts,
which come from these experiences,
a California Native born,
into a surreal existential existence,
conceived in Hollywood,
which makes everything feel like a movie,
or a Reality Show at least,
battled through this War of World’s in order to have Universal Peace,
see I’ll take a life before I make one,
I guess that makes me an Environmentalist,
people move their mouths making my name appear in the air,
I guess that makes me a Ventriloquist,
how real is this?
Waking up,
somewhere in California,
at a beautiful girl’s house,
a good morning,
with tempe and eggs,
espresso for sure,
a whole meal homemade,
no SPAM no Ma’am just blessings yes Sir…
∆ Aaron LA Lux ∆
from '777' the new book by best selling poet A. Lux
available worldwide here: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1548700746
Jul 18, 2017
Jul 18, 2017 at 6:57 PM UTC
I surely cannot keep living like this.
Daily routines are shattered by dreams of screams
Echoing like those off a mountaintop
Not triumphant
But longing to keep climbing--
Always keep climbing.
I want to howl and scream and kick and jump
off the rooftops
of Cleveland, Chicago, Tempe, everywhere;
I want to lick sunshine acid from
fingers and cheeks and mouths;
I want to go on a spiritual journey
with strangers
And run.
Whether it is through dirt paths or city streets
it does not matter
For continue running we shall.
Because I know that if I stay
in this apartment, this building,
this block among identical blocks
that can only truly be understood
by the all-seeing eyes of a plane,
I will surely perish long before I die.
Dec 2, 2013
Dec 2, 2013 at 7:15 PM UTC
Rien n'est précaire comme vivre
Rien comme être n'est passager
C'est un peu fondre pour le givre
Et pour le vent être léger
J'arrive où je suis étranger
Un jour tu passes la frontière
D'où viens-tu mais où vas-tu donc
Demain qu'importe et qu'importe hier
Le coeur change avec le chardon
Tout est sans rime ni pardon
Passe ton doigt là sur ta tempe
Touche l'enfance de tes yeux
Mieux vaut laisser basses les lampes
La nuit plus longtemps nous va mieux
C'est le grand jour qui se fait vieux
Les arbres sont beaux en automne
Mais l'enfant qu'est-il devenu
Je me regarde et je m'étonne
De ce voyageur inconnu
De son visage et ses pieds nus
Peu a peu tu te fais silence
Mais pas assez vite pourtant
Pour ne sentir ta dissemblance
Et sur le toi-même d'antan
Tomber la poussière du temps
C'est long vieillir au bout du compte
Le sable en fuit entre nos doigts
C'est comme une eau froide qui monte
C'est comme une honte qui croît
Un cuir à crier qu'on corroie
C'est long d'être un homme une chose
C'est long de renoncer à tout
Et sens-tu les métamorphoses
Qui se font au-dedans de nous
Lentement plier nos genoux
Ô mer amère ô mer profonde
Quelle est l'heure de tes marées
Combien faut-il d'années-secondes
À l'homme pour l'homme abjurer
Pourquoi pourquoi ces simagrées
Rien n'est précaire comme vivre
Rien comme être n'est passager
C'est un peu fondre pour le givre
Et pour le vent être léger
J'arrive où je suis étranger.
985
Nomad 69 days ago
TravelingMan
Homeless Man
Tin Man on the
Yellow Brick Road.
HelpingMan
Cleaning Man
SavingMan
Told he had to go.
Austin, Boston
Does it really matter.
HatedMan
BlackoutMan
ForgivenMan
ReservationMan
FuckItMan
Westward Nomad would go.
Phoenix, Mesa, Tempe
LovedMan
For about 2 days
Told he was ReboundMan
Then DespisedMan
HalfBlackedOutMan
LimitedContactMan
FuckingAMan
In reality
A truly DistractedLOSTMAN...
Aug 12, 2015
Aug 12, 2015 at 8:15 PM UTC
We ended up beside one another in line,
myself,
&& the sweetheart with the dream eyes.
The girl whose gaze reached,
where dreams dwell.
From one heart-string to another,
whose heart beat lightly,
the pulse of my own,
mirrored by a distant light,
reflecting in our languished eyes.
Alive.
Our intimate, imitant crystal gaze,
resounded all of the opulences.
Golden light pouring through pristine pools,
Pure laughter && aqueous, bubbling love.
A single dream,
just one lumen,
fixed about a sole stroke of mortal contour--
A love.
Tracing delicate differences,
illuminating a limitless furrow.
"So where are ya from?"
not her name,
nor her time.
Her answer:
the tears streaming down my face.
"From where the animals run the furthest."
my heart stumbled outwards,
my hand, apprehensive,
yet absolute,
reached her right,
Lovingly,
inclusively,
she then grasped it,
with both her heart-strings.
"Tell them on your way back,"
Smiling,
knowing deep within her contention,
"I can't live without it."
Dec 30, 2015
Dec 30, 2015 at 2:31 PM UTC
halo kalian semua
saya ingin memberi tahu
bukan tempe
bahwasannya, rindu itu hidup
dan
diam kita tidak menghambat tambah tumbuhnya.
Jun 11, 2019
Jun 11, 2019 at 5:09 AM UTC
I'm so happy,
here in the heat
away from all the things
that remind me of you.
(but some things still do)
Aug 22, 2014
Aug 22, 2014 at 11:56 AM UTC
Le foyer, la lueur étroite de la lampe ;
La rêverie avec le doigt contre la tempe
Et les yeux se perdant parmi les yeux aimés ;
L'heure du thé fumant et des livres fermés ;
La douceur de sentir la fin de la soirée ;
La fatigue charmante et l'attente adorée ;
De l'ombre nuptiale et de la douce nuit,
Oh ! tout cela, mon rêve attendri le poursuit
Sans relâche, à travers toutes remises vaines,
Impatient mes mois, furieux des semaines !
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