"tempore" poems
When I am old,
And sadly steal apart,
Into the dark and cold,
Friend of my heart!
Remember, if you can,
Not him who lingers, but that other man,
Who loved and sang, and had a beating heart, --
When I am old!
When I am old,
And all Love's ancient fire
Be tremulous and cold:
My soul's desire!
Remember, if you may,
Nothing of you and me but yesterday,
When heart on heart we bid the years conspire
To make us old.
When I am old,
And every star above
Be pitiless and cold:
My life's one love!
Forbid me not to go:
Remember nought of us but long ago,
And not at last, how love and pity strove
When I grew old!
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The bodies of paradise
are the fledglings of humanity--
little chicks
that peeped for love
and instead found
what we attempt to purge.
Which is reality
instead warping
and mourning
the placate scene
into what our creation
has never meant to be.
I've become fond of
literature and statutes
that line a facetious library.
One which mangles
others from stepping inside
yet holds the truest heart.
My finest lines
are not those spoken
but those read
from paper or stone,
because
it is only
to those un-living
the crēvit are not divined
and which Veritas,
can come find
Amor est vitae.
Sep 19, 2016
Sep 19, 2016 at 5:57 AM UTC
"...In Tempore quoad ordinem successionis; in Spatio quoad ordinem situs locantur universa..."
--D. Isaaci Newtoni, "Philosophiae Naturalis Principia Mathematica."
Language was grown into the vines to make the food interesting. The animals, who evolved their own sustenance, drew synergy out of the completion which could not be expected to vary as a potential, a desire, in the course of the rise. From the deep cushion, something had repelled softness to surprise eternity within the inevitable vibration. This was comprehended by elephants and giraffes.
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In the darkness of the cool months, the heat was measured at a single temperature, the universal presence of a glass of (cold, hot) water seeking the measure of the thermometer. The wolves measured it freezing. The lizards in the desert remembered the dreams of ants wandering to be described as particles of light.
Mar 18, 2014
Mar 18, 2014 at 6:12 PM UTC
"...Vis centripetae quantitas acceleratrix est ipsius mensura Velocitati proportionalis, quam dato tempore genrat..."
--D. Isaaci Newtoni.
Centipedes wobbled, hugging the ground, and they could expect only a few kindly moments, where the doctors watched to confirm their beliefs circling specific ideology, advancing the territory, dramatic, where the strength remained in proportion to that, which time generated by the flapping, dark wings in the cold, grey sky. There, also, flew the doves; a friendship between them indicated significance. The cold was hunger, around which, twirled an illusion.
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As they wrapped themselves in a ball of tender arms, for the winter, they were spinning in two circles. Tiny animals, and the great size of the dear birds, did no loitering. Civility prevailed, and we all stayed within, an example for those floating in wind breakers, along the rain swept flinch reminding the ears of this prevalent pinch. The small book was thicker than the others, the great boulders were in pockets. The tiny eyes, the encyclopedias, were in sockets.
Mar 3, 2014
Mar 3, 2014 at 5:37 PM UTC
The whispers have returned.
You still don't matter...
You really thought you were done with us?
End it and we'll leave you alone...
I turn to the shadows,
But they hiss in anger and gesture.
They point towards the opposite corner,
On the side of the room with working lights.
Three people stand there.
Their eyes are sewed shut,
Their mouths always open,
And they each hold a needle and thread.
We're still here.
You've lost more of those that cared.
We're getting closer.
More start to gather,
Until I'm faced with a horde of those I trusted.
The shadows screech and stand between us.
The only protection I have.
It's only a matter of time until you have nobody.
You know the rest will turn their backs soon.
They always do.
They're right.
So now I wait,
Sitting in a corner,
Surrounded by shadows.
I have a knife in my right hand.
Like a General waiting for his capture,
So that he can end everything.
Sed tantum de tempore...
"It is only a matter of time."
Dec 15, 2016
Dec 15, 2016 at 9:27 PM UTC
Lawrence Hall, HSG
[email protected]
A Carrier of Bodies
My stretcher is one scarlet stain
-Robert W. Service, “The Stretcher Bearer”
In illo tempore:
I don’t know that anyone shouted, “Corpsman up!”
Like in the movies; I was already up
There, where smoking metal scraps stopped in some kid’s flesh
Red fragments of flesh screaming in the sun
Later:
Carrying bodies of literature was impossible
But I tried; Wordsworth and Keats during the day
Holes in the patients and in sterile drapes
Red fragments of flesh in the E. R. at night
Now:
In the evenings I carry Wordsworth outside
And my older self, to a chair at dusk
Oct 2, 2023
Oct 2, 2023 at 10:55 PM UTC