"transcendentalists" poems

Lately I found myself Amidst my covers Yet unable to surrender To peaceful slumber; I kept feeling the urge To create, to pass the time Awake, working on art, lest My nights be as vacuous as my days. I became voracious in My drawing, producing A portfolio with only Shades of graphite. Still the next night Would come, and Again the mania would Possess my thoughts. So I began to delve Into the sounds of my Imagination, conceiving Wondrous symphonies. Yet still I found myself In the sea of linens Instead of losing myself In the clouds of dreams. Then lo! the answer came Like water falling on rock: I pined not for graphite on Paper or song on staff But rather I longed for The flow of words Cascading as water From your lips Which pooled into a Pond of letters, dissolving And reforming until they Grew, becoming an Aftergrowth of green foliage Sprouting from the rushing White and turquoise blue Of your spoken word. I miss my muse who Made my imagination reap The wealth of my thoughts Into countless combinations of prose. I miss my muse who's Rune created a haven In which my verse could Flourish and abound from my pen. We create an oasis out of Our sounds and syllables- A wellspring of stanzas and verse, A fountain of prose and poetry- As idealists and transcendentalists We painted our reality out of Our thoughts and dreams, our Perceptions and realizations of nature; Our meeting came like the Creation of a dual galaxy: Slowly forming in a Passing cycle between two, Our minds slowly spun Together as two hearts of Our own worlds, until All at once the two were one. Forging a new galaxy, Simultaneously of you and me, We created a breeding ground Where your poetry met mine Resulting in the accumulation Of poems that shined against the Vast emptiness of space as stars: Tiny beacons amidst a sea of nihilism. How could I sleep when I have Entire galaxies to craft with Words into poems, and poems into Stars? I miss my muse of creation.

0

Aug 3, 2014

Aug 3, 2014 at 8:12 AM UTC

elforthefirst

I Miss My Muse

Lately I found myself Amidst my covers Yet unable to surrender To peaceful slumber; I kept feeling the urge To create, to pass the time Awake, working on art, lest My nights be as vacuous as my days. I became voracious in My drawing, producing A portfolio with only Shades of graphite. Still the next night Would come, and Again the mania would Possess my thoughts. So I began to delve Into the sounds of my Imagination, conceiving Wondrous symphonies. Yet still I found myself In the sea of linens Instead of losing myself In the clouds of dreams. Then lo! the answer came Like water falling on rock: I pined not for graphite on Paper or song on staff But rather I longed for The flow of words Cascading as water From your lips Which pooled into a Pond of letters, dissolving And reforming until they Grew, becoming an Aftergrowth of green foliage Sprouting from the rushing White and turquoise blue Of your spoken word. I miss my muse who Made my imagination reap The wealth of my thoughts Into countless combinations of prose. I miss my muse who's Rune created a haven In which my verse could Flourish and abound from my pen. We create an oasis out of Our sounds and syllables- A wellspring of stanzas and verse, A fountain of prose and poetry- As idealists and transcendentalists We painted our reality out of Our thoughts and dreams, our Perceptions and realizations of nature; Our meeting came like the Creation of a dual galaxy: Slowly forming in a Passing cycle between two, Our minds slowly spun Together as two hearts of Our own worlds, until All at once the two were one. Forging a new galaxy, Simultaneously of you and me, We created a breeding ground Where your poetry met mine Resulting in the accumulation Of poems that shined against the Vast emptiness of space as stars: Tiny beacons amidst a sea of nihilism. How could I sleep when I have Entire galaxies to craft with Words into poems, and poems into Stars? I miss my muse of creation.

76

ice turns to air, freezing my insides with every breath intake. the trees seemed as though they were soldered, engraved by a goldsmith. yet the grass is still alive without woe. i sit isolated at a small park. kicking the stones with many mindless swings. cars ruin what’s to be silent as bark; things have changed the old poets’ viewings. old poets like emerson who said that nature leads to truth, but how could truth be found in a place consumed by noise and chat. worlds transcendentalists would hate to see. this park may still be calming like before but only lies are hiding in the core.

0

Dec 8, 2013

Dec 8, 2013 at 11:04 PM UTC

julia-robertson

e m e r s o n l i e d ;

ice turns to air, freezing my insides with every breath intake. the trees seemed as though they were soldered, engraved by a goldsmith. yet the grass is still alive without woe. i sit isolated at a small park. kicking the stones with many mindless swings. cars ruin what’s to be silent as bark; things have changed the old poets’ viewings. old poets like emerson who said that nature leads to truth, but how could truth be found in a place consumed by noise and chat. worlds transcendentalists would hate to see. this park may still be calming like before but only lies are hiding in the core.

14

when young, I read Thoreau the transcendentalists were but gone by slightly over a century disobedience was in style we would all head toward the land and live in the wood soybeans simmering on the stove as we headed toward a dream the pull of the world a force so very strong as to last throughout the ages interrupted our free fall so when I would consult the mind of Walden through his writings there burned in me a sense of radicalism to head to the forest, naked with poetry I told myself I could not afford these steps recognized that Thoreau’s considerations were so true as to be dangerous I set the sage aside I am sure that sages expect that sort of behavior soon after my 50th year in my personal limerick I found myself looking at a summer morn…..

0

Oct 12, 2013

Oct 12, 2013 at 8:11 PM UTC

jimmy-tee

when young

when young, I read Thoreau the transcendentalists were but gone by slightly over a century disobedience was in style we would all head toward the land and live in the wood soybeans simmering on the stove as we headed toward a dream the pull of the world a force so very strong as to last throughout the ages interrupted our free fall so when I would consult the mind of Walden through his writings there burned in me a sense of radicalism to head to the forest, naked with poetry I told myself I could not afford these steps recognized that Thoreau’s considerations were so true as to be dangerous I set the sage aside I am sure that sages expect that sort of behavior soon after my 50th year in my personal limerick I found myself looking at a summer morn…..

23