"thronging" poems
#*O darkest night, what are you for?
Sometimes to wrestle, sometimes to rest
But always to cling to Jesus more
Though senses are dulled, desires awaken
Aching grows stronger, inhibitions are taken
Less seeing, less hearing, more hunger, more longing
Answers are dimming while questions are thronging
More drilling, more filling
The canyons of my soul
More boring, more pouring
Himself into the hole
More stretching, more catching
Away my gasping breath
More tearing, more sharing
In the union of His death*#
Jun 18, 2016
Jun 18, 2016 at 5:33 PM UTC
*O darkest night, what are you for?
Sometimes to wrestle, sometimes to rest
But always to cling to Jesus more
Though senses are dulled, desires awaken
Aching grows stronger, inhibitions are taken
Less seeing, less hearing, more hunger, more longing
Answers are dimming while questions are thronging
More drilling, more filling
The canyons of my soul
More boring, more pouring
Himself into the hole
More stretching, more catching
Away my gasping breath
More tearing, more sharing
In the union of His death*
Nov 3, 2015
Nov 3, 2015 at 2:49 PM UTC
Listen my dear daughter, to my first song of caution
Earmarked for you my wonderful sire, come and listen,
That tall old man with white hair all over his head
Standing over there is not good; he is gnomish in the mind
Be careful with him, he is not human in the heart
But a mermaid of Yoruba poetry, just like Thespis of Greece
Even the pecuniary psychopomp of Sweden gave him an accolade
His heart is selfishly full of avarice; he wants everything for himself,
Don’t recite him any of your poetry, lest he spells an abyss
Against your juvenile poetic talent, he will fool you with a gift;
A white sheep or a scarlet goat for your birth day anniversary
Please don’t take it or anything else from him, as nothing from him is genuine
But only machinations of evil spell aimed at mahyeming your talent
Finally to decimate your girlhood and life, this is my caution
For you dear little African girl.
Listen my dear little daughter, to my second song of caution
That short man in a Muslim gear loafing yonder, is suspect
The Muslim beret on his head is merely a smokescreen to aghastly behaviour
He is in no way an avatar of god of love and humane piety
He is a terrorist working with Boko Haram and Algaeda
He is an Alshabab that is bombing young girls in Mombasa and Nairobi
All over Kenya he has killed the young people; his long egret-white sari is not for holiness,
It is merely a nefarious sanctum of grenades, other tools of work in terrorism trade
His loudly prayers, body movements and pocket bursting monies are only a stunt
To have you kidnapped into death conduit, once you goof to join his courts,
His sanctimony is a total picaresque film, (s)heroes of terror the centerpiece
And thus, this is my caution for you dear little African girl.
Listen my dear daughter, to my third song of caution
Those tourists thronging our streets are deadly *** pets, they also skulk ****
Their handsome outlook is not a stamp to any good conscientiousness
They derive pleasure from poverty and *** tourism; they yearn to see a girl in poverty,
Often rarely will they help an African girl, out of milieu of beggarly squalorism,
Instead they go straight for the purse between your thighs,
Regardless of the legacy they leave out of this lewdness, they are showy,
They regret not in their Byronic broadcast of *** and fatherless urchins in the poor streets
Foundation for their further poverty tourism, this is my caution for you dear little African girl.
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 4:20 AM UTC
They are flocking from the East
And the West,
They are flocking from the North
And the South,
Every moment setting forth
From realm of snake or lion,
Swamp or sand,
Ice or burning;
Greatest and least,
Palm in hand
And praise in mouth,
They are flocking up the path
To their rest,
Up the path that hath
No returning.
Up the steeps of Zion
They are mounting,
Coming, coming,
Throngs beyond man's counting;
With a sound
Like innumerable bees
Swarming, humming
Where flowering trees
Many-tinted,
Many-scented,
All alike abound
With honey,--
With a swell
Like a blast upswaying unrestrainable
From a shadowed dell
To the hill-tops sunny,--
With a thunder
Like the ocean when in strength
Breadth and length
It sets to shore;
More and more
Waves on waves redoubled pour
Leaping flashing to the shore
(Unlike the under
Drain of ebb that loseth ground
For all its roar.)
They are thronging
From the East and West,
From the North and South,
Saints are thronging, loving, longing,
To their land
Of rest,
Palm in hand
And praise in mouth.
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My Worthiness is all my Doubt—
His Merit—all my fear—
Contrasting which, my quality
Do lowlier—appear—
Lest I should insufficient prove
For His beloved Need—
The Chiefest Apprehension
Upon my thronging Mind—
’Tis true—that Deity to stoop
Inherently incline—
For nothing higher than Itself
Itself can rest upon—
So I—the undivine abode
Of His Elect Content—
Conform my Soul—as ’twere a Church,
Unto Her Sacrament—
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I passed the thronging Gariahat market each day,
There were quite a few comrades on that very road; but only one seemed acquainted to me
A florist; whom I would survey.
He held a basket of red, lucid, hibiscus flowers as I could see for wee.
The drastic smile reminded me of old Grand-dad.
The alluring gleam in his hazel eyes remarked despondency.
I wanted to confide to the hard working lad,
That he isn't alone, and sing him a strain, melancholy.
His smile was blemished.
His bony hand could not hold the basket for a prolonged time,
And I thought his wounds must be replenished.
My contemplative eye would be abstracted by the tram's chime.
Once, on the night of May
When I thought he was endowed with glee,
To him, I lost my way
For sleeping pills vanquished me.
I stood there like a woebegone,
In reminiscence of my inamorato
As the funeral carriages were drawn,
I weeped while that naked smile on me, would bestow.
Sep 17, 2014
Sep 17, 2014 at 10:48 AM UTC
*Nature welcomes you with an embrace
The wind playfully caresses you
And the crescent moon still visible
And the sun playing hide-n-seek
About to rise, coloring the flaming sky
In the amphitheater of celestial sphere
There is the drama unfolding of a new day
All the spectators, waking to the spectacular
Applauding, as a tribute to the grand illustration
Of abstract paintings, with a rich hue
Dawning on us whith a new plot to enact
The sunrise guiding us with a new ray of hope
Birds leading the way, helping us dream
To reach higher and cross new horizons
I am also a spectator in the crowd
Thronging to face life, as new day has dawned*
© Amitav (Radiance)
Jun 5, 2014
Jun 5, 2014 at 9:46 AM UTC
**Do you hear them coming, thronging,
Leaping o'er the steeps of light,
Clad in glorious , shining garments,
Blood-washed garments, pure and bright.
'Tis a glorious Church , without spot or wrinkle,
Adorned as the Bride of the Lamb,
'Tis a glorious Church without spot or wrinkle,
Adorned as the Bride of the Lamb,
Do you hear the stirring anthems,
Filling all the earth and sky?
'Tis a grand, victorious army,
Lift its banner up on high!
News fear the clouds of sorrow,
Never fear the storms of sin,
We shall triumph on the morrow,
Even now our joys begin.
Wave the banner , should His praises,
For our victory is high !
We shall join our congu'ring Saviour,
We shall reign with Him on high.**
Nov 2, 2015
Nov 2, 2015 at 1:24 PM UTC
I think you can know something before it happens
There's a change in the air
Or something inside of you
That you know to be true
And it is not that strange
Don't be that person with nothing to say
As the autumn leaves fall
Dying leaves spawling out through wind
You can try to catch to wind
But you might just lose your mind
So
Depart from me
Deep within the sea
Feel the water through your fingers
Let that wonder linger
Maybe you'll feel a thronging in your chest
A tightly packed longing
Like lungs on fire
Fueling a simple desire
to breathe and to be
-
May 24, 2016
May 24, 2016 at 8:38 AM UTC
Faerie wings and fox's tails,
Pan horns and leather bras,
Thronging people in thronging crowds,
Dancers dance and musicians play.
Tight hard leather and lots of skin,
Bodices, corsets, and lots of skin,
Furs, feathers, and lots of skin,
Showing, revealing, flirting, lust.
Pan dances as the dancers dance,
Bachus drinks as the drinkers drink,
Aphrodite spreads her legs,
Filled with lust as the people play.
Fun and laughter, dance and play,
Enjoying each other, enjoying the day,
Music and shouting, milling and food,
Golden throng and darkest moon.
Watching the people she feels at home,
Fair and hidden, shadow and light,
The Faerie Queen on a throne of bones,
The revelry worship, all for her.
Oct 1, 2011
Oct 1, 2011 at 11:38 PM UTC
the copious girls of summer are fair skinned laminate
withs blonds all ********* about their heads the air
or syllables of autumn in distinctly American voices
a swaggering insomniac who is springs ugly sister
but myfingers find her soft decimals and make her make verbs
of quiet ***** a distinct growl of decadent hair marching
from between her hips and about who is circling the
vultures of my hands. resting on her thronging paint
the goldenarch of luscious flesh and she tastes like
apples
and cinnamon
and dead
my little fAll
Oct 11, 2010
Oct 11, 2010 at 5:09 PM UTC
T-Thronging poets are welcomed at the doorway
H-Hundreds do shuffle in by night and by day
E-Eliot York hath provided a platform for display
H-How fantastic it's been to stumble upon this space
E-Every conceivable style of poetry is seen in the place
L-Love and all emotion put in front of a person's face
L- Lasting impressions left for our minds to e'er trace
O-Our world poetic fraternity gathering in an embrace
P-Prolific amounts of verse offered to the page
O-Over the years some hath been verily sage
E-Engaging with fellow poets on a large stage
T-Themes and philosophies begetting of gauge
R-Robust the giving which occurs at this silage
Y-Young and older writers inside a vast cage
S-So let us all put our pens in creative mode
I-Invest HP with the fruits of your brain's node
T-Thousands of readers will enjoy every code
E-Endless lines we can all scribe into a fine ode
Dec 22, 2014
Dec 22, 2014 at 8:52 PM UTC
Borne upon that midnight lost in longing—
Though lost in naught--its own desire--
Forever flung into a maddening dream--
One so forever sought by men thronging
At the insidious pearls--Paradise Hearth.
Damnable desire in all purest gait--
A god in my hands, war upon the gate.
Those upon the highest choir--whom we all forsake,
Know this man--alighted in his doom.
For even as the stars weave their tainted webs
We, the God Kings of memories long lost--
Shall ever be forgot.
Sep 2, 2010
Sep 2, 2010 at 4:33 PM UTC
i got tumbled over creeks over mountains and even over
the stroke of roots like "have you ever been a permanent
walking sound?"the earth was raised in meek hillocks
distending the asphalt like lovely thronging arteries
of full and with gilt split pavement just up over them
,gilt with the song of a dying star, crusted on them
as they split the yoke of the hard scramble of tightly packed
firm loosing."a tree is sound that i have tasted when i
was just young struck moments of flesh as thin as
the instants that i was then when i was in forests and
in ponds and the silk of water drowned the heat of
long suffering summer drawn cheeks(we called them
days but really they were just the paneless leaves of
glass i spun myself through as like a stretch of damped
slightly fingers, sticky slightly, i picked up some
flecks of seconds shorn and fluttering to my skin
they stuck)tanned and brushed with the rosy tattoo
of my heart down a little just a bit in my chest.
I was in the golden state and i had heard my mother
call me as the twill of friscalating nice illuminant
brushes played against my ***** blond hair and i was
pulled from them the moments of youth stabbed
instants and i was pulled right up back to now
where i am sitting just another second dead.
Jun 2, 2011
Jun 2, 2011 at 2:27 AM UTC
in summers fist winters come
(a daughter
)
day and frost together
(her croup languid
***** heavy cherries
******* beautifully
freckled darlings
(with downy and petals
freezing
)her thighs run thick and
perfect
laying fingers between
those fullest
(fat fingers lazily)
autumn tickles
thronging innumerable
crunching death
(between her *******
)lays dust and fancy
juice and coffee
but she don't care
she'll **** him pretty
that season brightest
loves getting dead
between those thighs
Nov 25, 2011
Nov 25, 2011 at 3:44 AM UTC
Like a nest on a little church
indented in the rocks.
The sky is low.
The twitch
of the air flower-beds –
the passing angels.
And voices like gushing
streams; rivers before the sea.
The day is silent.
The body is growing up –
some birds are thronging.
Отпускам се…
Като гнездо на църквицата
врязана в скалите.
Небето ниско.
Потрепването
на въздушните лехи -
минаващите ангели.
И гласове като шуртящи
ручеи; реки преди морето.
Денят мълчи.
Нараства тялото -
прииждат птици …
Translator Bulgarian-English: Vessislava Savova
rarebird
© bogpan - all rights reserved
Apr 27, 2011
Apr 27, 2011 at 3:54 AM UTC
as the thronging wind blasted
leaves whirled through the yard
much havoc it's velocity
had instigated
Jan 17, 2014
Jan 17, 2014 at 10:52 AM UTC
AUTUMN
,
shes got a pretty little
hair lip(fast over that
sad mouth)between
her eyes&chin; shes
got pretty bundles
of loose fat(and they're
her lips)she moistly
smacks around every
hem of whizzing
jackets skirting
hitherwither
with 'er wither
heavy teeth(shes
has green bits and
yellow bits, respectively,
thronging between
those thrusting ivory
cleats)she normally
wears and wears
death(so does everyone)
when she comes calling
('tween october and december)
but she's just twiddling
(less like dead )
more like starting dead she's
pretty like that
(all rot and musk)
she's gorgeous
Oct 22, 2011
Oct 22, 2011 at 7:45 AM UTC
There was magic at work there, some protecting veil
I felt beyond the mobile cab, gestalt, with its felt-angelic wings
Anew, I felt safe on that bend and wind of 322.
The needle at ¾ heading back the country road
From the quiet haven of West Chester, PA, towards here:
Oh, in awed—amazed the simplicity, we both looking
Back on the other: one loquacious and I speechless,
And simple was the history—a thousand stories and I
I picked mine!—Its grantedness between the golden parallels
My incipience of joy cutting through the last dust of the silos
The thronging corn and coral-bugs celebrating me
Or is it with me, that much too.
If I had never been down yon, I feel as though I’d know your
Serpentine nostalgia all along the miles’ track
As kept as if my birthright.
Beauteous a gateway to the Juniata-home, though miles
Away from here and subject to an absent roam.
Its waves may roil ‘gainst my native door,
‘Tis this your patchwork sister on which we humans drew
That equates paths, that pining name, that road 322.
And, oh, as before I knew of thou distant eyes
Despairingly all recollections of home in the Gallery
Of Autumn fruit: plucked, transient, and rotting.
This music! Music can’t help—I hear highschool in the chords
Playing in the lyrics, transformed by my design
As meaningful, self-serving words and they all burned
And brand to home if I, if I ever can again.
But where would I go, where do wizened lines end?
Written in sullen, maddened road maps, words to that history
All my own—does it write in the river, end in the mouth?
Or the Appalachian Eden, taken on the river’s vein
To my little fall of man, a threshold barred by flaming swords
That of hate and of command, miles fatten as years accrue
Go distant past the western sun,
Down,
Down,
PA-322.
Oct 31, 2014
Oct 31, 2014 at 4:42 PM UTC
i imagine it being small and cold
as that's how it always felt
small and cold and thronging and killing
and yet somehow
i'm still here.
in this little chamber full of
secrets and lies
and laughter and cries
i feel home.
of course i could go outside
get a glimpse of
what would be contentment
of what would be the truth.
but that would mean pain
to expanses i will not be enough to sustain
so thank you
but no thank you
You had a look into my closet now.
please close the door
and let me be
not me but only ever me
i am miserable either way.
Jun 13, 2018
Jun 13, 2018 at 1:25 PM UTC
of the wind's spirit
there will be no tie
it is a spirit which has
an unfettered ply
thronging along
gusting its gale
in liberty the wind
travels and ventures
the globe's trails
no restriction is placed
on its knot
the wind is an element
who's flowing cloak
will not be stifled
by a yoke
the soul of the wind
is spirit which must fly
o'er the landscape
in an unbound cry
the wind sings a tune
of its own air
which is that of
devil may care
Sep 21, 2014
Sep 21, 2014 at 9:33 PM UTC
strong blusters of thronging wind
blew through the town's streets last night
whirling with a forceful might
as heard in their skirl
Aug 19, 2018
Aug 19, 2018 at 11:11 PM UTC
Oh yes, oh yes, salams, hello, hi
Aha, oh yeah, oh my, oh my
My favorite dream places happen to be
coincidentally
ones that rhyme with the words
aye, aye, aye and bye, bye, bye
for I wish to fly
to divine Dubai
to showy Shanghai
to beautiful Brunei
and heavenly Hawaii
and last but not least
the land of the Thai
The only odd ones out in this rhyme scheme
of exotic favourite places of my dream
are touristy Turkey and Singapore
ah, I wrote this kinda' extempore.
So if I do go gallivanting
somewhat like Gulliver on his travels
these are the places I'd like to explore.
Ah, it's always great to travel
and geo atlas mysteries unravel
upon God's wide world to marvel
Going places to collect and bring back memories
A collection of curios and cherished souvenirs
As indeed whenever you bring back some exotica
you enhance your knowledge with those ephemera.
So guys I'd love to fly
to travel to Turkey and Thailand
Sojourn in Shanghai
depart for Dubai
holiday in hawaii
Board a flight to Brunei.
One has to try
to get into jetsetting style
act somewhat like the jet set
for frequent flyer mile.
This has been a poetic travelogue
for voyages are ever in vogue.
But whenever I can and if I have luck now
I know I could never tire of journeying
to Aligarh and Lucknow
For motherland India calls me like no other,
a place to hug my origins, beloved dad and mother.
Ah, only if there were no travel formalities
I could be sightseeing many more cities.
Without need of passports, ticket and visa
anyone could've travelled
to watch the Leaning tower of Pisa
or even the egyptian pyramids of Giza.
But for spiritual enlightenment and nourishment the mecca of thronging visitors flocking ,
I wish to frequently visit Mecca as a pilgrim,
It's the favourite sanctuary for every Muslim
So O' Tinkerbell, sprinkle me too with yer fairy pixie dust
so I too can fly, and satisfy, my spasmodic wanderlust
Dec 22, 2022
Dec 22, 2022 at 1:02 PM UTC
It snowed for two nights and days
Snow covered everything beneath
I longed for snow for long, for...
The snow covered...
The thronging steps on the pathways;
The daunted breaths on the grass;
Cigarette butts and unhealed burns;
The scars left as marks forever
The snow defined a new vista
A tranquil moment frozen in space
An unblemished surf on every muddle
Snow had grown in to a deserted horizon
I pulled over the blanket of snow
Head to toe, thoughts to dreams
I liked the deserted vista of snow
Snow covered everything beneath
Feb 5, 2019
Feb 5, 2019 at 3:39 AM UTC