Hello Poetry
Submit your work and get some sparkles! Create free account
"timetables" poems
The memory of you emerges from the night around me. The river mingles its stubborn lament with the sea. Deserted like the dwarves at dawn. It is the hour of departure, oh deserted one! Cold flower heads are raining over my heart. Oh pit of debris, fierce cave of the shipwrecked. In you the wars and the flights accumulated. From you the wings of the song birds rose. You swallowed everything, like distance. Like the sea, like time. In you everything sank! It was the happy hour of assault and the kiss. The hour of the spell that blazed like a lighthouse. Pilot's dread, fury of blind driver, turbulent drunkenness of love, in you everything sank! In the childhood of mist my soul, winged and wounded. Lost discoverer, in you everything sank! You girdled sorrow, you clung to desire, sadness stunned you, in you everything sank! I made the wall of shadow draw back, beyond desire and act, I walked on. Oh flesh, my own flesh, woman whom I loved and lost, I summon you in the moist hour, I raise my song to you. Like a jar you housed infinite tenderness. and the infinite oblivion shattered you like a jar. There was the black solitude of the islands, and there, woman of love, your arms took me in. There was thirst and hunger, and you were the fruit. There were grief and ruins, and you were the miracle. Ah woman, I do not know how you could contain me in the earth of your soul, in the cross of your arms! How terrible and brief my desire was to you! How difficult and drunken, how tensed and avid. Cemetery of kisses, there is still fire in your tombs, still the fruited boughs burn, pecked at by birds. Oh the bitten mouth, oh the kissed limbs, oh the hungering teeth, oh the entwined bodies. Oh the mad coupling of hope and force in which we merged and despaired. And the tenderness, light as water and as flour. And the word scarcely begun on the lips. This was my destiny and in it was my voyage of my longing, and in it my longing fell, in you everything sank! Oh pit of debris, everything fell into you, what sorrow did you not express, in what sorrow are you not drowned! From billow to billow you still called and sang. Standing like a sailor in the prow of a vessel. You still flowered in songs, you still brike the currents. Oh pit of debris, open and bitter well. Pale blind diver, luckless slinger, lost discoverer, in you everything sank! It is the hour of departure, the hard cold hour which the night fastens to all the timetables. The rustling belt of the sea girdles the shore. Cold stars heave up, black birds migrate. Deserted like the wharves at dawn. Only tremulous shadow twists in my hands. Oh farther than everything. Oh farther than everything. It is the hour of departure. Oh abandoned one!
0
14.2k
A Song Of Despair
The memory of you emerges from the night around me. The river mingles its stubborn lament with the sea. Deserted like the dwarves at dawn. It is the hour of departure, oh deserted one! Cold flower heads are raining over my heart. Oh pit of debris, fierce cave of the shipwrecked. In you the wars and the flights accumulated. From you the wings of the song birds rose. You swallowed everything, like distance. Like the sea, like time. In you everything sank! It was the happy hour of assault and the kiss. The hour of the spell that blazed like a lighthouse. Pilot's dread, fury of blind driver, turbulent drunkenness of love, in you everything sank! In the childhood of mist my soul, winged and wounded. Lost discoverer, in you everything sank! You girdled sorrow, you clung to desire, sadness stunned you, in you everything sank! I made the wall of shadow draw back, beyond desire and act, I walked on. Oh flesh, my own flesh, woman whom I loved and lost, I summon you in the moist hour, I raise my song to you. Like a jar you housed infinite tenderness. and the infinite oblivion shattered you like a jar. There was the black solitude of the islands, and there, woman of love, your arms took me in. There was thirst and hunger, and you were the fruit. There were grief and ruins, and you were the miracle. Ah woman, I do not know how you could contain me in the earth of your soul, in the cross of your arms! How terrible and brief my desire was to you! How difficult and drunken, how tensed and avid. Cemetery of kisses, there is still fire in your tombs, still the fruited boughs burn, pecked at by birds. Oh the bitten mouth, oh the kissed limbs, oh the hungering teeth, oh the entwined bodies. Oh the mad coupling of hope and force in which we merged and despaired. And the tenderness, light as water and as flour. And the word scarcely begun on the lips. This was my destiny and in it was my voyage of my longing, and in it my longing fell, in you everything sank! Oh pit of debris, everything fell into you, what sorrow did you not express, in what sorrow are you not drowned! From billow to billow you still called and sang. Standing like a sailor in the prow of a vessel. You still flowered in songs, you still brike the currents. Oh pit of debris, open and bitter well. Pale blind diver, luckless slinger, lost discoverer, in you everything sank! It is the hour of departure, the hard cold hour which the night fastens to all the timetables. The rustling belt of the sea girdles the shore. Cold stars heave up, black birds migrate. Deserted like the wharves at dawn. Only tremulous shadow twists in my hands. Oh farther than everything. Oh farther than everything. It is the hour of departure. Oh abandoned one!
Continue reading...
58
(for Christopher Isherwood) Seated after breakfast In this white-tiled cabin Arabs call the House where Everybody goes, Even melancholics Raise a cheer to Mrs. Nature for the primal Pleasure She bestows. *** is but a dream to Seventy-and-over, But a joy proposed un- -til we start to shave: Mouth-delight depends on Virtue in the cook, but This She guarantees from Cradle unto grave. Lifted off the ***** Infants from their mothers Hear their first impartial Words of worldly praise: Hence, to start the morning With a satisfactory Dump is a good omen All our adult days. Revelation came to Luther in a privy (Crosswords have been solved there) Rodin was no fool When he cast his Thinker, Cogitating deeply, Crouched in the position Of a man at stool. All the arts derive from This ur-act of making, Private to the artist: Makers' lives are spent Striving in their chosen Medium to produce a De-narcissus-ized en- During excrement. Freud did not invent the Constipated miser: Banks have letter boxes Built in their façade Marked For Night Deposits, Stocks are firm or liquid, Currencies of nations Either soft or hard. Global Mother, keep our Bowels of compassion Open through our lifetime, Purge our minds as well: Grant us a king ending, Not a second childhood, Petulant, weak-sphinctered, In a cheap hotel. Keep us in our station: When we get pound-notish, When we seem about to Take up Higher Thought, Send us some deflating Image like the pained ex- -pression on a Major Prophet taken short. (Orthodoxy ought to Bless our modern plumbing: Swift and St. Augustine Lived in centuries When a stench of sewage Made a strong debating Point for Manichees.) Mind and Body run on Different timetables: Not until our morning Visit here can we Leave the dead concerns of Yesterday behind us, Face with all our courage What is now to be.
0
13.9k
The Geography of the House
(for Christopher Isherwood) Seated after breakfast In this white-tiled cabin Arabs call the House where Everybody goes, Even melancholics Raise a cheer to Mrs. Nature for the primal Pleasure She bestows. *** is but a dream to Seventy-and-over, But a joy proposed un- -til we start to shave: Mouth-delight depends on Virtue in the cook, but This She guarantees from Cradle unto grave. Lifted off the ***** Infants from their mothers Hear their first impartial Words of worldly praise: Hence, to start the morning With a satisfactory Dump is a good omen All our adult days. Revelation came to Luther in a privy (Crosswords have been solved there) Rodin was no fool When he cast his Thinker, Cogitating deeply, Crouched in the position Of a man at stool. All the arts derive from This ur-act of making, Private to the artist: Makers' lives are spent Striving in their chosen Medium to produce a De-narcissus-ized en- During excrement. Freud did not invent the Constipated miser: Banks have letter boxes Built in their façade Marked For Night Deposits, Stocks are firm or liquid, Currencies of nations Either soft or hard. Global Mother, keep our Bowels of compassion Open through our lifetime, Purge our minds as well: Grant us a king ending, Not a second childhood, Petulant, weak-sphinctered, In a cheap hotel. Keep us in our station: When we get pound-notish, When we seem about to Take up Higher Thought, Send us some deflating Image like the pained ex- -pression on a Major Prophet taken short. (Orthodoxy ought to Bless our modern plumbing: Swift and St. Augustine Lived in centuries When a stench of sewage Made a strong debating Point for Manichees.) Mind and Body run on Different timetables: Not until our morning Visit here can we Leave the dead concerns of Yesterday behind us, Face with all our courage What is now to be.
Continue reading...
80
There's an architect designing the world from the skyline downwards, as he believes himself to be a God The paraffin lamps on Victorian cobbled corners are as dry as the seraph in dust bowls over some arid sea A portrait exists, of a town covered in mist and the orange cliffs are a thousand bloodied wrists Somewhere music plays to ghosts, obtuse reverberations of some cave on a mountain... or something and what a useless skill it is to be a poet, flouting fanciful words as if a single soul cared or could possibly muster anything more than unadulterated apathy What a lonely life it is, to spend entire days watching *********** and reveling in dissociative stoicism Watching cam girls for hours on end, swept up in conversation yet never taking part, only watching They seem as lonely as anybody, holed up in crimson rooms as anonymous DJs play through laptop speakers Fielding obscene questions with a smile and renting their body in timetables to the highest tipper and some days the depression becomes so heavy that ************ seems impossible, though it's possible to blame such scarcity on the anti-anxiety meds that have ruined so many-a youthful folly Is there a more flattering notion, than a story teller being commended for honesty when every word is a lie Fictional accounts of melancholic lives told in a pulchritudinous verse or a prose of the most regal purples Using nothing more than psycho-stimulants and a smeared bedroom window for inspiration There's a writer sat at a desk, typing ridiculous lines of text, as he knows himself to be human and in that humanity he strives to create a realists interpretation of existence through scattered memories and derivative styles of his favourite authors whilst using educational texts as footnotes in imaginary diaries
0
Nov 24, 2013
Nov 24, 2013 at 2:10 PM UTC
This Machine Frees Oppressed Chickens
There's an architect designing the world from the skyline downwards, as he believes himself to be a God The paraffin lamps on Victorian cobbled corners are as dry as the seraph in dust bowls over some arid sea A portrait exists, of a town covered in mist and the orange cliffs are a thousand bloodied wrists Somewhere music plays to ghosts, obtuse reverberations of some cave on a mountain... or something and what a useless skill it is to be a poet, flouting fanciful words as if a single soul cared or could possibly muster anything more than unadulterated apathy What a lonely life it is, to spend entire days watching *********** and reveling in dissociative stoicism Watching cam girls for hours on end, swept up in conversation yet never taking part, only watching They seem as lonely as anybody, holed up in crimson rooms as anonymous DJs play through laptop speakers Fielding obscene questions with a smile and renting their body in timetables to the highest tipper and some days the depression becomes so heavy that ************ seems impossible, though it's possible to blame such scarcity on the anti-anxiety meds that have ruined so many-a youthful folly Is there a more flattering notion, than a story teller being commended for honesty when every word is a lie Fictional accounts of melancholic lives told in a pulchritudinous verse or a prose of the most regal purples Using nothing more than psycho-stimulants and a smeared bedroom window for inspiration There's a writer sat at a desk, typing ridiculous lines of text, as he knows himself to be human and in that humanity he strives to create a realists interpretation of existence through scattered memories and derivative styles of his favourite authors whilst using educational texts as footnotes in imaginary diaries
Continue reading...
16
Exams over, friends dissolved and school also told bye, Holidays commence; time to wander and to fly. The first day of holiday-I woke up like an early bird, Mom preparing stuff for breakfast, And dad busy with calls and hurrying fast. I stare at my room window and take a glimpse Of people rushing their cars past the traffic. Seeing everyone in routine makes me terrific! The birds chirping daily without any holidays And the sweepers taking away the dust without any leavings. The gardener has arrived, the maid had come In almost each person’s home. People terminated their morning walk And grabbed the car. I’m still at the window spotting tones of people departing out very busily- The merchants and vendors shouting noisily. All the work is turning on without distraction, Everyone at their workplace in attention. After some time, my neighborhood turns out to be calm The tranquil and the ready floating breeze blow past my face. This assures me that everyone left their houses And reached their respective places. I take my eyes off the window and sit-back. No more to-do lists, no more writing the home works, And timetables on the calendar looks. No more wearing shoes at the sound of the school bus No more books and things at mess. I see the clock-it’s only eight Same time yesterday I was in an exam fight. Spotting everyone at their routine work- I feel so much desolate and forlorn. And yet at dusk I watch people returning home from their day’s work. At twilight, I see the firmament fading into a thick sapphire loom And ask myself-“What have I done today?” The obvious answer is-“Watching people drive and return from work!” I see the calendar-Two more months for school: Two more months for my homely eyes to twinkle Two more months to shut the windows Two more months to mess my table Till then, my homely eyes-weak and feeble I just need to nurture and make them twinkle…
0
Jan 6, 2013
Jan 6, 2013 at 12:49 AM UTC
Nurturing Home Eyes
Exams over, friends dissolved and school also told bye, Holidays commence; time to wander and to fly. The first day of holiday-I woke up like an early bird, Mom preparing stuff for breakfast, And dad busy with calls and hurrying fast. I stare at my room window and take a glimpse Of people rushing their cars past the traffic. Seeing everyone in routine makes me terrific! The birds chirping daily without any holidays And the sweepers taking away the dust without any leavings. The gardener has arrived, the maid had come In almost each person’s home. People terminated their morning walk And grabbed the car. I’m still at the window spotting tones of people departing out very busily- The merchants and vendors shouting noisily. All the work is turning on without distraction, Everyone at their workplace in attention. After some time, my neighborhood turns out to be calm The tranquil and the ready floating breeze blow past my face. This assures me that everyone left their houses And reached their respective places. I take my eyes off the window and sit-back. No more to-do lists, no more writing the home works, And timetables on the calendar looks. No more wearing shoes at the sound of the school bus No more books and things at mess. I see the clock-it’s only eight Same time yesterday I was in an exam fight. Spotting everyone at their routine work- I feel so much desolate and forlorn. And yet at dusk I watch people returning home from their day’s work. At twilight, I see the firmament fading into a thick sapphire loom And ask myself-“What have I done today?” The obvious answer is-“Watching people drive and return from work!” I see the calendar-Two more months for school: Two more months for my homely eyes to twinkle Two more months to shut the windows Two more months to mess my table Till then, my homely eyes-weak and feeble I just need to nurture and make them twinkle…
Continue reading...
41
Under the dead beat sky Collaborations tie us all together Our ideas cross and human gazes overlap Streams flow into tiny veins that cover a certain surface area. Red lights shine on profiled faces in the evening side of the night Trainers shuffle along the uneven ground around town where signs are broken. Cigarette smoke pours out of each corner of this run down station Wrinkled looks despair over the dated flourescent timetables Just waiting for the next train out of town Just waiting for the next train out of town Shove past my nearest man to get to the furthest conception The long path to the nearest understanding of human nature Is muddied with distasteful stories that couldnt hold any kind of weight Among us. Jeremiah in the window of the salon, he puts his makeup on slowly
0
Jul 8, 2015
Jul 8, 2015 at 3:34 PM UTC
Jeremiah in the window of the salon, he puts his makeup on slowly.
Each day the light slips into the murky shadows of the bedroom-morning-depression Cars swish by in the rush hour of work and school routines, timetables and teabreaks weekday working full of purpose. On the edge, outside the frame margin people wait silenced and destination free unmapped, unseen locked tight in a circle cruising their perimeter only hoping for a break. © M.L.Emmett
0
Feb 22, 2016
Feb 22, 2016 at 3:20 AM UTC
Each Day
Podium That’s me on the totem pole, with the face paints and cigarettes. The smoke burns your eyes. That’s me on the pedestal, ears to ground and eyes in the clouds. The rain soaked your skin. That’s me on the platform, with the rucksack and treasured artefacts, The timetables melted your mind. That’s me on the podium, soaked in sweat, medal around my neck. The track broke your heart. That’s me at the finish line baby, maybe, we could go back to the start.
0
Nov 6, 2015
Nov 6, 2015 at 12:45 PM UTC
Podium
I can't keep writing about the same things Like a broken record played over and over again Just so the lonely can hear something sing It's all her emerald eyes and silent goodbyes And all the times I've lost my mind A memory lasts a lifetime, As long as you have the evidence that that time Truly existed Maybe we missed it, The last train to our future together Maybe the timetables were wrong and We were too busy watching our scars heal to Make it to the station on time.  I've torn apart so many books and Burnt so much fabric In the hopes of forgetting people who Discarded me entirely And I will never see that word the same again, Because when you've become inconvenient, You will be dispensed, replaced,  Discarded.
0
Mar 3, 2015
Mar 3, 2015 at 12:50 PM UTC
Discarded
i stared at the milky way through the keyhole of your front door my nose itched at the linger of stardust on the floor needless of a space suit i stepped right through waving goodbye to the earth and entering this room where exists no calendars nor timetables where we’re made of constellations no need for labels realized the earth was a ghost town at your existence's sight, no city has a better skyline than your body laying down and while the clock on earth swallows up time chasing the sun as it hides i am floating with you now in a heavenly ride through our celestial silence so eyes closed blinded by your cosmic light i read your skin like braille most absorbing story anyone could write i fell for your stars too far down to be fearful of your night so i confessed i was your satellite i will follow wherever you guide in a supernova you created me didn't need to give me adjectives and as your blue and my green collided a new earth for us was provided the end of the universe will come the night your eyelids don't close beside me the cosmos is curled up inside of us it's the chaotic beauty of galaxies colliding
0
May 2, 2019
May 2, 2019 at 12:25 PM UTC
galaxies colliding
A small nest in a large sea, the beat of the blades keeps time for those still alive, whose desperate waves defy tide timetables. The camera zooms in on anguished faces and still ones. We lean forward screened from pain, listening to the death count, time and time and time again.
0
Jan 15, 2017
Jan 15, 2017 at 1:43 PM UTC
Migration
That dullard Percival Crane he's boring into my brain he's talking train timetables and grain sizes and portfolios and shares **** he's assaulting my ears Next time  when I spy his magnified eyes I'll say, see you Percy, my how time flies
0
Sep 12, 2014
Sep 12, 2014 at 11:40 AM UTC
Percival Crane
I don't have a playbook for this love. In every other relationship I have or had, there is a decoding: • If he does this, it means... • When this situation happens, the correct response is... • When he says this, it indicates... There are timetables and destinations stages that must occur in sequence things that have to happen before certain conversations can be had milestones goals And here I am I have no expectations I have no game plan There is no strategy I am I love
0
Apr 13, 2013
Apr 13, 2013 at 1:56 PM UTC
white light
There's a cacophony of attributable  timetables on silver rail roads, there's a surfeit of wisdom peering through  a thoughtless tunnel
0
Sep 27, 2012
Sep 27, 2012 at 4:26 PM UTC
Human Train of thought
i am on the platform at the railway station. Most days I board a train. On the other days I just look at the brochures and the timetables. At night I sleep in the waiting room. My partner sleeps there too. In the morning he goes down to the village Where the folk have settled Like sediment.
0
Aug 20, 2016
Aug 20, 2016 at 3:19 PM UTC
Platform
I had  a dream of travelling; just that - travelling, not leaving, not staying ; travelling. At the station Faces look out from the bus, familiar faces, continuing on their journey. Their journey. Not my journey. No going back, or even looking back, I can't see the road behind, only glimpses Of what it may have been. I'll stay here a while in no- man's land. Or stay forever Sit in the shelter at the roadside and pretend. Tell all the people in the queue, ' No. Not my bus. I have a while to wait, a while to wile.' I say. Scan timetables and adverts  idly, Then sit and sit , then sit some more And wait until a bus comes rolling down the hill with cheery driver and with all the windows lit. Jump on and go with it.
0
Aug 21, 2016
Aug 21, 2016 at 2:26 PM UTC
The bus to Nowhere
Pick me up in the passing Winter. Snow threatened, train timetables bidding for curtailment. The past shone resolute Health and Safety was a by-line but today's invidious un-motivation has its own Cellophane steering wheel to pace our growing passivity.
0
Jan 17, 2013
Jan 17, 2013 at 4:13 PM UTC
U.K. 18-01-2013
Don't be a local. Don't deny yourself the wonder. Don't forego the sunlight, the movement of the sky the dance of the water Don't be a local. Don't focus on timetables. Don't get lost in ferry dramas. Lift your head into the wind and take in the glacial.
0
Dec 6, 2022
Dec 6, 2022 at 7:12 AM UTC
Ferry over the Clyde
We need to organise a meeting So we can discuss the previous meeting Concerning the timetables of meetings So we can begin this year’s diaries of meeting in full! But should we have a meeting to decide all these meetings before we begin deciding at all? Said the council official who was avoiding the issue dreaming up ways to fill his diary for the year.
0
Oct 10, 2014
Oct 10, 2014 at 6:51 PM UTC
Counciling
4: i am fed with alphabet soup, and i am made to sing this song that sounds catchy. this seems rather fun. 9: 3, 6, 9, 12, 15, 18, 21, 24 my teacher says that we have to recite our timetables whenever we come into class. i like seeing my brain grow from day to day. 16: floating from room to room, just to have my mind rearranged, and "YOU HAVE EXAMS. GET YOUR **** TOGETHER" being shoved down your throat. learning is no longer useful, for all that matter is that grade in red. A, B, C, D or E? it defines your life. all that i feel like doing is burning my textbooks, notes and my school. i am only 16, but i am so worn out.
0
May 18, 2014
May 18, 2014 at 12:58 AM UTC
education.
For though we might, 
We cannot fight the wind;
 Try as we may,
 The mist eludes our grasp;
 Shadows defy our clutches,
 Rainclouds form,
 The sun and moon rise and set
 Despite our will;
 Controlling nothing,
 Still we do not see,
 And frame our lives with an order
 That is illusion,
 Timetables and inventories
 Of ignorance;
 Labels and times and convenience
 We set in stone that crumbles
 Like sand before the winds
 Of Impermanence;
 Change is the symphony,
 And fluid the score 
Of this dharmakayic waltz,
 And though we dance
 We fancy ourselves but
 Onlookers to the show;
 That when the crashing finale
 Resounds -- as it must --
 We stop our ears and wail; 
Not seeing, deaf to the choir
 That has but turned the page
 To sing a new song;
 Our own melody ended,
 We fade only to be played anew
 From the string of another bow;
 The song goes on, rising, falling,
 And Bliss is the one
 Who follows as the Piper leads
 With Namu Amida Butsu.
0
May 27, 2019
May 27, 2019 at 2:38 PM UTC
Nembutsu Piper
you shun me in our heat you turn, don’t laugh. smiles crease your lids, trying to hide it. but on the fireside i see the flames freckle your moonlit face. glanced eyes break when they meet. timetables and time souring my glower-grace. and then walking away, you’ve pulled that card again. does the neglect keep you honest, when the early hours made you cheat. the fear blossoms in crimson and you laid hands, ***** sinner. do try to repent— it doesn’t make it go away. i’ve lessened in height since December, climbing the ladders asking for heaven in dreams. (you are heaven to me.) unreachable. a siren in flames, voice not sweet but piercing i will sing to you until the ships come in dismantled and burning board by board i want to destroy you devour your living soul call me fate in dust industrial war, or spectral spirit to haunt you, a plague there’s no antibiotics for. you’ll deny me to your master but can’t can’t shake it off i see your eyes in the fire creased with your smile try to shake it try. you shun me in our heat but i’ll still know you in the embers love you from a distance keep my place in the shadows. just as the future calls for me, it calls for you whether hell or heaven you’ll beg for me again, and i will make you answer, suffer for your sins.
0
May 3, 2018
May 3, 2018 at 8:38 AM UTC
unholy
You'll depart when you feel like it: goddesses do not adhere to timetables. Your body is so lovely it scares away sharks. Why should it fear time? Your grace comes from deep caverns. The tocks of clocks mean nothing more to you than the creaking on weary stairs. You leave no footprints as you glide the beach. Millennia would not allow half enough moments to describe the tiny eternity of your arms around me. You arrived in a dream and you'll depart when you feel like it. - mce
0
Dec 14, 2015
Dec 14, 2015 at 12:07 PM UTC
Musing
bells and whistles the hands of a clock chiming the hours timetables captured children running to catch up late again detention looms the hour has struck born to be on the run
0
Jul 23, 2014
Jul 23, 2014 at 3:09 PM UTC
School Years
Anxious Getting ready for a trip, our traveling papers take on importance. Like Schindler’s list, if we drop one we could end up lost or stranded in some out of the way airport far from the crowd, or wandering about looking for ticket counters somewhere to get our reservations confirmed. I call to make sure we are on track with the planes and cars homes and roads and timetables, but the recording says: our arrangement for a sedan is invalid. So I wait on the phone for hours. Finally, I think maybe my sister can get us out of this jam. One well-placed call and she had us on the way. So nice for an old man, to still have a big sister.
0
Jul 21, 2015
Jul 21, 2015 at 8:36 AM UTC
Anxious
We’d dallied with bright shining dreams, of course; Gatsby-esque timetables and solemn pacts Made with ourselves, come undone with brute force. A bitter brew to quaff, but facts are facts; We’re those workaday cogs we once foreswore (Of no note at all save in mothers’ hearts) Doomed to lurch forward while being no more Than the shabby sum of commonplace parts. Let us shelve tattered remnants of our ghosts, And deign not to dwell on what could have been, At last shaken free of our fathers’ boasts (Praise God, no longer promising young men.) Unshackled from that, then we can begin To embrace the joy of just sleeping in.
0
Oct 5, 2017
Oct 5, 2017 at 8:39 AM UTC
a sonnet, of sorts, for the mediocre