"tristan" poems
Route 84 would not lend me
the light of a star last night
Radio blazing at 75 mph
nonsense noise to chew gum by
Crackling political commentary
Static of distance and thick clouds
Invisible mountains blocking
Memories seeping through the cracks
coating the music in a film
I rub my eyes
watch myself punch alert buttons
But it’s the angels’ jukebox tonight
Roll down the window
Watch the heat escape
Summer again
I am building a castle of ancient stones
pulverized by relentless tides
Dragged across maps by mastodons
and mammoth glaciers
The scouring hiss
the ocean sighs
Time has lulled these smoothly
rolling them in the softest hands of sand
and gels of life’s comings and goings
tenderly tumbling
in the millionth moonrise—
Time deposits them here
wet and glistening
For the girl with the plaid two-piece to gather
Shoulders sun-burnt barely say
one week only,
one week of the fifty two
“It’s the time of the season…”
and daddies on the beach are watching….
She has chosen yet another stone
And the castle continues—
in oblivion to all but her legend…
The queen will be safe here
from the rabble
The disgraced Tristan will surely seek her
Among these lofty cliffs
Between the raging circuit of the tide
Here winds forbid the vengeful mob
Here lovers learn
the debt of love’s bad timing
“Drink ye all of it!”
--the potion that assigns our sorrow….
She will not sleep—
while I chew this gum-- GUM?
Roll down the window!
Angels escape with the heat
Waking me with the brush of their wings
As that eighteen-wheeler hugs my flank
And leans on the horn
Lights flashing
Rude rumbling under right tires
Tantrum of snow
In the draft of mass and velocity
…and the angels?
They’ve chosen another good one!
They must’ve liked the 80’s
Their wings slapping the windshield madly
Their hands steady the wheel
Sep 13, 2016
Sep 13, 2016 at 1:20 PM UTC
“Angelica arguta”,
He shows her his wildflowers
“Angelica Susannah”, he says.
And prodded further by her
His heart.
Lingers briefly with the night;
Her affection has power,
But not enough
To keep him
From marching off to fight.
Tristan, son of One Stab,
Brings wildness from the mountains.
Lovely woman from the East,
Fascinated by her,
His passion.
Revels in her bridal bower,
And stops her
Loving any other.
Alfred, eldest son of his father,
Full of rectitude and romance.
Angelica abandoned,
Adrift between the mountains
Becalmed far from the sea.
He takes advantage,
Snatches her soul with riches,
But never captures
Her longing heart.
Years pass and one son gone,
The other lost and mad.
Year of the red grass and
Happiness found
Is felt too soon.
Tristan loves young Isabel,
But Angelica is his doom.
Yet only he survives
The waves that lash her shore,
“Like water in the ice,
She breaks them.”
And in the Spring,
Is gone once more.
Angelica Susannah is buried
Above the box canyon in the meadow
Among the many dead.
Near Samuel’s heart,
The executed Isabel,
And others who follow soon.
Until only Tristan remains,
Left to hunt his nemesis,
The bear inside him.
And dream of one wife lost,
And a lover left behind:
Angelica Susannah
Beside whom he should lie.
He is slain by the bear in Sixty-three,
After forty years of solitude.
And laid to rest in the plot
Between two women he loved,
Isabel, his ingenuous wife
And Susannah, his tragic love.
Do their spirits meet at last
And wander the golden fields,
Or ride out to bathe in the hot springs,
Under the moon of the falling leaves?
Aug 6, 2018
Aug 6, 2018 at 10:37 AM UTC
Stairs fly as straight as hawks;
Or else in spirals, curve out of curve, pausing
At a ledge to poise their wings before relaunching.
Stairs sway at the height of their flight
Like a melody in Tristan;
Or swoop to the ground with glad spread of their feathers
Before they close them.
They curiously investigate
The shells of buildings,
A hollow core,
Shell in a shell.
Useless to produce their path to infinity
Or turn it to a moral symbol,
For their flight is ambiguous, upwards or downwards as you please;
Their fountain is frozen,
Their concertina is silent.
4.1k
Here are the names of my lovers,
The women I sleep with, whom
I use, like they use me.
Spent, they discard me, for when their pleasure needs
Satiated, they climb aboard another man.
What they do not know,
Is that in my mind, in my ears,
everywhere,
I did not let them, or you go,
We are still romping,
For I
Take them as needed.
I need them all,
For my pleasure needs, like my unshaped heart,
Addictive, endless.
If your is name is here, I do not
Apologize.
Pink
Adele
Lilly Allen
Anna Nalick
Bess Rogers
Beyonce
Brandi Carlisle
Cat Power
Colbie Callait
Duffy
Eva Cassidy
Evanescence
Alison Sudol
Fiona Apple
Florence Welch
Grace Potter
Ingrid Michaelson
You
Joni Mitchell
K.D. Lang
Kate Nash
Kate Voegele
Leona Lewis
Lizz Wright
Madeline Peyroux
Marie Digby
Mary Wells
Norah Jones
Regina Spektor
Sara Bareilles
You
Sara Haze
Taylor Swift and Tracy Chapman
Tristan Prettyman
Vanessa Carlton
So many others, used so long ago, I can't remember the faces,
Which can't be googled.
Use them hard, use them often, more than daily.
Bluntly, I tell you
Your name is on my list,
Even if I do not disclose it.
Aug 18, 2013
Aug 18, 2013 at 9:31 AM UTC
heavy air,
a body beside me,
it's face buried in a pillow, resting
the two of us like sprawled starfish
on a sea bed of blanket
here we lie, centered in our narrow room,
a room made bright by the single skylight above,
clouded
the following forming the soundscape of this moment:
- Sam's breath, my breath
- a pair of bluebottles buzzing and bumping into the walls
- an itch every now and then of sunburned skin, a leg brushing itself against the sheets
- a distant Tristan singing songs to his daughter down in the kitchen
there is a bucket with sick in it
there is a ***** laundry pile
there is a red, sun cream stained bikini hanging on the door handle
there are two clean, white towels and
two holiday cameras: the first's film already finished, the second with a little yet to go
Maybe we'll go to the beach
Maybe we'll go to the town or discover
a new town or ride our bikes out again until we find somewhere just right
the day has so much promise and
I have so little I have to do
but lie here and be grateful for time
Jun 14, 2023
Jun 14, 2023 at 7:51 AM UTC
ACT I
DAD: in his late 50's.
TRISTAN: around ten or eleven-years old GLADWIN: in her early 40's.
TRISTAN Dad?
Scene 1
Interior of a cheesy, unkempt motel room. DAD
channel-surfs the cable television, the remote in
his right hand, a cigarette in his left. He's
sitting on the edge of the bed. TRISTAN is on the
bed behind him, crying.
DAD
Yeah bud?
TRISTAN
Is Mom gonna **** herself?
DAD
Well, I hope so.
TRISTAN Dad!
DAD
(Chuckles). What?
TRISTAN
Stop! I'm scared. What if she does?
DAD
Why are you worried? I'm not that lucky.
TRISTAN
(Screaming). C'mon, Dad!
DAD
What? (Chuckles again, longer this time). I'm not.
TRISTAN
Dad, stop. What if she really does?
DAD
Trist, don't be stupid. No one who's really going to
**** themselves tells you like that. They don't sing it
out loud. She's whistling Dixie.
TRISTAN
(Sobbing at this point). Dad, I love Mom.
DAD
(Pause). I know, and I-
(DAD'S cellphone rings. He answers
immediately)
Hold on, Trist. It's your fat mother.
Hello? Yeah. Yeah, you have this kid scared to death.
Would you just tell him you're--What? Alright, Glad.
Well enough's enough. (Pause). Okay. (Reacting loudly).
Oh, quit screaming in my ear! Trist, (extends the phone
to TRISTAN) here.
spotlight comes up on GLADWIN, who is stageleft,
lying in bed and on the phone.
GLADWIN
Trist! Trist? Say goodbye to Mama. I'm going away.
TRISTAN
Wait! Don't do anything bad, please.
GLADWIN
I'm gonna swallow my pills, Trist. I'm gonna take them
all and I won't be around anymore, honey...
TRISTAN
No! Mom, don't!
GLADWIN
...so just say goodbye to Mama and don't ever...
TRISTAN
Mom! Stop. Please, stop, just don't!
GLADWIN
...forget that I love you.
Spotlight goes out on GLADWIN.
TRISTAN
No! (Looks at DAD). Dad, she can't!
(He drops the cellphone)
Oh my God!
(Leaping off the bed and fumbling with
the phone in his hands, he hurries it to
his ear)
Hello? Mom? Mom?
(He closes the phone and quickly reopens
it. He dials GLADWIN'S cellphone)
DAD
Trist, take it easy. She's fine. Stop calling and go to
bed.
TRISTAN
She won't answer! (Breaking down). She won't answer.
(Lets out a piercing cry). Dad!
(DAD lights another cigarette and pulls
TRISTAN onto the bed and under his right
arm)
DAD
(Rubbing TRISTAN'S back gently). Go to sleep, babe.
She'll be there tomorrow morning.
TRISTAN
But--
DAD
Ah, ah! What did I just say? Everything will be okay.
TRISTAN
(Calming, but still anxious). You promise?
DAD
Promise, kiddo.
Jan 28, 2013
Jan 28, 2013 at 3:17 PM UTC
I miss the look on your face when you saw me
I miss the smell on of the smoke on your skin
I miss the small, silver camera you held in your hand
I missed you the moment you'd taken me in
I miss the long drives past rolling corn feilds
I miss the tissue crumpled in my hand
I miss the trailer sat 10 feet from your porch light
I missed you the moment that I knew I can
I miss the family that I'd never known there
I miss my neices blue eyes, curly hair
I miss when Aunt Nikkie painted my nails green
It started chipping, but I didn't care
I miss the fireflies that I couldn't catch
I miss the movies you forced me to watch
I miss the ashtrays all over the house
I missed the jokes I continue to botch
I miss the grapes that you stuck by my bedside
I miss the feel of my neice on my lap
I miss my cousins attempting to drown me
I even miss Tristan, whom I wanted to slap
I miss the day that they took me out shopping
I miss watching movies with them late at night
I miss winning money on Grampa's 10 slot machines
I miss how hard those mosquitos would bite
I miss the day that you bought me a pizza
I miss the way that smoked everyday
I miss the drive to the airport that morning
I miss your face, as you drove away
May 25, 2013
May 25, 2013 at 12:31 AM UTC
Chance Operations are methods of generating poetry independent of the author’s will. A chance operation can be almost anything from throwing darts and rolling dice, to the ancient Chinese divination method, I-Ching, and even sophisticated computer programs. Most poems created by chance operations use some original text as their source, be it the newspaper, an encyclopedia, or a famous work of literature. The purpose of such a practice is to play against the poet’s intentions and ego, while creating unusual syntax and images. The resulting poems allow the reader to take part in producing meaning from the work.
The roots of using chance operations to generate poetry are generally traced to the Dada movement in Western Europe in the early and mid-twentieth-century, involving writers such as André Breton, Louis Aragon, Tristan Tzara, Philippe Soupault, and Paul Éluard. The Dadaists were deeply interested in the subconscious, and they believed that the mind would create associations and meaning from any text, including those generated through random selections. In one section of Tzara’s “Dada Manifesto on Feeble & Bitter Love," he offers the following instructions to make a Dadaist poem, here translated from the original French by Barbara Wright:
“Take a newspaper.
Take some scissors.
Choose from this paper an article the length you want to make your poem.
Cut out the article.
Next carefully cut out each of the words that make up this article and put them all in a bag.
Shake gently.
Next take out each cutting one after the other.
Copy conscientiously in the order in which they left the bag.
The poem will resemble you.
And there you are--an infinitely original author of charming sensibility, even though unappreciated by the ****** herd.”
The use of chance operations in contemporary poetry has been used most famously by the international avant-garde group Fluxus, poet Jackson Mac Low, and the poet and composer John Cage. A good example of a poem that was written using chance operations is Jackson Mac Low’s “Stein 100: A Feather Likeness of the Justice Chair," which also includes Mac Low’s explanation of the methods he used to compose the poem.
Jul 9, 2014
Jul 9, 2014 at 10:02 AM UTC
So, I wanna try something. I know this is a poetry website, but I have been writing this story. I stopped for many reasons such as being too busy, not inspired, not sure if it was good enough or not, etc.
So I wanna post just a part of it, just to see if anyone will like it. Just to see if it's worth it to continue it.
It's called The Sweet Pea, Honey Bee Kiss.
I tried not to regret the decisions I had made thus far, so the decision to pack my things and leave San Francisco was my own. I said not a word to anyone—not that anyone cared—and left on a rather depressing Wednesday morning. Leaving was not as hard as I thought it would be, rather, it was easier than well...me. There was an empty feeling in my stomach as I left, a sense of worry and depression lingering, but I refused to let the tears fall. So he didn’t turn out the way I wanted him to. That was fine, I suppose....
But who was I kidding? I thought he was the guy...the perfect guy. I didn’t know he could be so cruel, so detached and so...so much like every other **** there was at high school. Not all guys were bad, I knew that I wouldn’t succumb to blaming every breathing human being with a ***** I just knew now that Tristan Booker was an evil son-of-a-bitch and I was a complete idiot for thinking that he could ever like someone like me. Watching him turn his back away from me—away from the possibilities that could eventually be us—it crushed me. I had never felt so alone in a world filled with people—people who may have experienced the same thing I was going through or at least experienced heartache and heartbreak. I felt so emotionless. I couldn't find it in myself to cry, a cry that I so desperately needed, so desperately wanted. I could go my whole life blaming every guy that was a “Tristan”, I could go on with my life and succumb to the whispers and disappointment that pressed itself against me until one day it wouldn’t matter so much anymore. I could fight back; defend the dignity that was left behind and on life-support. But I did what any rational and distressed human being would do: I ran away. I hid in a tower much like how a Disney princess would, but then I remembered Cinderella was never called a *****
I know it's long. Please bear with me and like/comment it honestly. Thank you so much!!
Jun 18, 2013
Jun 18, 2013 at 11:16 PM UTC
I heard the great tumult of noise,
Ranging from the hills of Troy,
I head Amnon’s earnest whispering,
At the banquet of the king.
I saw the stark white midnight sun,
Blind Edward John Smith on his run,
I saw John Franklin not think twice,
Before he too was claimed by ice.
I was there the fateful day,
That earth and fire claimed Pompeii,
I was there as horizons shook,
And the sand Valdivia took.
I felt Isolde’s deep pain forlorn,
As Tristan from her side was torn
I felt Young Werther try in vain,
With love in heart but lead in brain.
Yet knowing grand calamity,
I sought naught but serenity.
Longing for love, as life depends.
My suit is cold, as so my end.
Aug 30, 2010
Aug 30, 2010 at 4:14 PM UTC
i remember the first time bryn brought a boy for christmas
his name was chris
and we had to distinguish between him and my cousin chris
so we called him gay chris
because he had lots of pockets
and he always looked better than my cousins
who hardly ever tried to look presentable.
i remember last christmas
how damon gave elise
sweaters from a thrift shop and fleetwood mac records
and how happy she was.
i never wanted to be allie from the notebook,
and i never wanted you to be noah.
in the 8th grade,
hidden between shelves of a torn-down library where i'd sit for hours,
was a short, thick book with pages of romanticized post-it notes
and the smell of sawdust.
dash and lily's book of dares
was all the things i'd been dreaming about.
the first-glance feelings in the middle of new york,
the warm feeling melting through your bones with an even warmer drink.
i've always wanted a chris
or a shaina
or a natasha.
i've always imagined thanksgiving day going differently for once in my life.
when my uncle asks me if i'm texting my boyfriend,
i want to say "yes, actually" and i wanted to find a boy
to take to my grandmother's house.
i wanted to show him
how tristan would pay me to go sneak him cookies,
and the way we fought over couches.
but now we took all the couches out of the basement,
and i think someone else is living in that house.
but there's still thanksgiving,
there's still an extra seat at the table,
and i'm not sure but i think justin is bringing maya this year.
so when it is my turn to go around the house and say hello to everyone,
and my uncle asks, "how many boyfriends do you have?" teasingly,
i can smile and say "just one"
and it can be you.
Nov 6, 2013
Nov 6, 2013 at 8:37 PM UTC
Dusty roads lead beyond the mountain pass
Waterfalls with gurgling rush of foam
Tristan, won't you follow me?
The truth awaits us back in the woods
The gory reminder of our eventful lives.
The morning sun rising above the earth
Rays of light hit the still calm water
The heart of life, the essence forgotten.
Collect your tears in a golden ***
Save it for a day when grief's afoot.
The breaking dawn brings the unforgivable truth
When will the birds start their song?
Far beneath the layers of the earth
Tucked into some corner, oblivious
Our names embedded in red.
What destruction we have wrought!
The unquenchable quest for wisdom
Blinded by worldly desires.
Our unholy crimes to Mother Earth
Will Her scars give us remission for our misdeeds?
Mar 27, 2014
Mar 27, 2014 at 8:29 AM UTC
i sometimes watch a cooking show and feed myself, finding old italians very funny with everything simple being a milanese delicacy, ambrosia of a doubly baked bread, sprinkled with water, a juicy tomato and some olive oil... mmm, yeah, am bro sia... where’s the salt? if this is ambrosia please give me a haggis in a bagpipe. by the way... the best sarcasm is found in a hangover.
i still don’t know how a cat managed
to knock on my bedroom door
while slayer’s seasons in the abyss
stopped me munching on violins and cellos:
i got paranoid being the only person in the house
with that eerie sound of knock knock...
but i guess greeting him in the morning
with a head-butt utilised his head for the ‘being human’
initiation... only yesterday he managed to open
the door to the kitchen using the handle -
and like any man with his middle finger outstretched
in defiance... he did the same, but with a thumb.
p.s. poetry and collage have a lot in common,
as does poetry and music, i still don't know
why philosophy started the fight, poetry has
nothing in common with philosophy to be
even remotely related for a boxing match,
it's poetry as music and collage, the classical stances
of philosophy are becoming more and more obsolete;
i guess someone had to point that out and side
with plato rather than socrates, but i have to add
one blatant innovation i'm working on,
no not the plagiarism of tristan tzara by william burroughs
of the famed 'cut up' method of writing poetry,
i'm talking Bach, yes, BACH, polyphony, multilayering,
spontaneity, and everything that tzara attempted
picking out bingo ball snippets of newspaper
articles from a bag like some ****** doing the same,
writing a abduction-ransom letter to a rich girl's family
enigmatically... also enclosing a portrait of the girl
done with crude pointillism in cartoon shock colours
with a signature that ræd: antoinette warhol -
yep, and some people will be famous for 15minutes in
a repetitive loop.
Oct 17, 2015
Oct 17, 2015 at 7:06 AM UTC
Once it was labelled
You lost what we were
Too many opinions
You couldn't defer
You faked a break up
That soon became real
Peer pressure forced you
To change how you feel
For the next long month
I took space to recover
But on Hallowe'en I found out
That you found another
You two broke up
And Edwin brought us together
We hungout just twice
In the near-winter weather
I thought you liked me
Because we kissed at the park
But you loved me like a sister
Thought there wasn't a spark
You moved on to Emma
And we drifted apart
You found a new family
And it broke my heart
Every promise was broken
You weren't the same Reagen
You forgot about my feelings
And left with no reason
We had the worst fight of our history
So many hurtful things said
The worst: that you're leaving
That ripped me to shreds
Two months spent without you
But only just physically
'Cause you plagued my thoughts
And wrecked my stability
Ironically, it was Emma,
The girl who stole your attention,
That convinced you to come back
And repair our connection
Our relationship improved
But it wasn't restored
We only talked about Emma,
The girl you adored
Eventually, I met a boy
Who seemed to treat me much better
We started to date
He lent me his sweater
Everything changed
When Jesse moved away
You realized who cared
And what mistake you had made
As we got closer
Tristan started to withdraw
I was being too clingy
It's always been my flaw
The saying "History repeats itself"
Has never been more true
When Tristan and I stopped dating
You hoped that we'd get to
And just like last summer
I made out with Owen
But again it felt awkward
So it won't keep going
They say I've chosen you
Like my love's a competition
They say I've chosen you
I do it like tradition
All I know is I love you
And I always want to see you smile
Just understand that I can't
Make decisions for awhile
So happy birthday baby
May all your dreams come true
I hope this year's amazing
And I can spend it all with you
Sep 22, 2013
Sep 22, 2013 at 12:32 AM UTC
I need that disaster,
that chaos which runs through my head and the faster it goes the better I like it,the madness of mayhem that flows from my brain stem is all that I need,feed me flights of sheer fantasy,show me the sights of calamity and let me climb down into the tree with Alice.
If I'm Shot through with lunacy like a candy stick I will be,licked into infinity to play with eternity quick games of whist,twist,ludo and who knows the score when one is mad to the core and the maggots of knowledge are eating your brains.
How boring I'd be if I was just me,
but I'm not
I am Napoleon,Leonardo,Joan of Arc and Tristan da cunha..yes, I can be an island, in the crazy of my land it's possible to be,
the Island,the sea,the shore and much more.
There is trickery in the madness of lunacy,to some I'm quite sane,then again so are they,nothing's as grey as the black in the white within the light of a lunatic's day.
Dec 19, 2013
Dec 19, 2013 at 5:47 AM UTC
Lost in a tavern of doubt
Darkness deepens the drought
Peace concocted with anger
The fury sparks a flame
My sorrow is filled with pain
My sole aim is to tame the voices echoing
Swarming around like bees
Chaos and calamity
My mental capacity to see
Out of this dark hole
Is tarnished
I resent the very things I can't contain
My tears stain my shirts sleeve
I sleep with one eye open,
The demons terrorize my dreams
I fear what I can overcome
I am succumb by disillusioned thoughts
My heart, as heavy as shackled feet
The dust becomes my perfume
The aroma of death touches my shoulder
I am an anomaly, eagerly waiting for liberty
Conformity is my enemy
But it's crude lips deceive me
Saying I should strip myself of individuality
To be molded by confusion
To taste the vile poison of humanity's flaws
The struggle
The battle
The despair
Dig me a hole, six feet under
And lower me in with the maggots and worms
Cover me in darkness
Tell me I'm not here
Tell me lies I can believe
And yet with such shocking imagery
Nothing compares to the nightmare of reality
There is no escape from this tragedy
Cursed from birth
Birthed in destruction
I am nothing.
© Tristan B. (Tristan B)
Sep 2, 2015
Sep 2, 2015 at 3:34 AM UTC
Running rings around thirteen hours of opera
I sit spell-bound absorbing the angry music
Suppressing an urge to re-conquer Poland
Music a direct expression of world’s essence
**** passion means Israel is Wagner-free
Tristan and Isolde unplayed before Ludwig
Love and death and passion for Mathlde
Eros and Thanathos that predate Freud
Arthurian love story interrupted by Minna
Overwhelming influence frustrates his peers
Worried that his brilliance is simply anger
That guarantees you feel undead tonight.
Nov 25, 2012
Nov 25, 2012 at 9:27 AM UTC
We loved you
Pumpkin pie
And you
Bahzie boy
My bridge to the
Equine kingdom
Mitten, you made
My wife like cats
Begins a tragedy of three
A tale of other kitties
Stanley wandered too far
A tragedy of traffic
Babad not as far…
Both waited for us
No one wants to die alone
But still, we’ve been blessed
Goldie, I’m glad
You loved me
Little dog with
A heart too big
Thank you, Sue
For trusting us with Trudy
What a lucky man I am
To garner such love and trust
And of course, biggie guy,
He who once was named Hunter:
Gunther.
(Inset sadness here)
Chessy taught responsibility
With insulin shots at 6 & 6
Tristan y Isolde
(Stanley and Zolda)
Operatic lives lived
As comedy/tragedy
And, et-hem; yes
Even you, Ms. Berry
Past denizens
Of Chateau Flobo
Let’s not not leave out
The current cohorts:
Free spirit, wild child
Lucky Ducky
Biggie boy found you
You adopted us
Ms. Black-in-the-box
Moved herself in
And Fred—well,
Fred is just being Fred
They all found us
Not the other way around
From a big family,
We’ve loved/love a big family
May 24, 2019
May 24, 2019 at 7:24 PM UTC
I can't smell the night air
because your lyrics are getting in the way
and I don't like them enough to listen,
but you're everywhere, it seems.
And I don't mean to be rude,
but you're being very rude.
Just thought you should know
in case you thought you weren't.
And I can't see the stars because, crazily enough,
I can't see through solid objects.
Funny how that works, isn't it?
But you must think that I can
because you sit with your back to me
like I'm Superman or something,
when really I'm less:
I'm nothing (to you).
Jul 17, 2010
Jul 17, 2010 at 10:43 PM UTC
We are at the top of a walk up somewhere. There is a skylight above us and the sunlight washes over us, it is so bright that it is hard to see. Your in a sleeveless T shirt and I'm in some hippy dress. We are both laughing and someone calls to us... We look up and smile...It's the same smile, the same face, we are one!
"My face in thine eye, thine in mine appears" (Tristan& Isolde)
Ilysf
Jul 18, 2014
Jul 18, 2014 at 6:26 PM UTC
I am Tristan, madly in love with Isolde
a woman torn between the will of love and of status of a queen without love
and I
embark on this daisy
i feel your neck on the side of my nose
and i lift your hair and i feel the white pedal.
your face
small and yet again you are a small man.
I am Tristan and i am destined to love a woman
that will never be mine
only in the shadows of the night
will your kisses ever taste so sublime.
Dec 23, 2013
Dec 23, 2013 at 4:33 PM UTC
Your words still my blood
I am empty.
A hollow shell of spirit,
Once,
Drew fire into my lungs
And exhaled with great joy
The hope of love.
The faith in your divine.
A withered knight falling again
And again upon the sword
Beg mercy to escape the agony of this deed
Compounded misdeeds,
Now seem Trifle.
As the blood hardens thick
In veins
Refusing to release
Upon the steel
And guarantee
Of An eternal Torment.
Aug 7, 2012
Aug 7, 2012 at 7:52 AM UTC
You told me you loved me,
You swore it to be true,
But just as Tristan lost Isolde,
I lost you.
My memories are fading,
It has all been such a blur,
Love and happiness in abundance,
And gone within a year.
Love is fickle,
As changing as the tides,
Lust is more honest,
But never wise.
For all my effort,
And all my will,
Love was never mine,
But always yours to ****
I won't believe those words again,
Nor the racing of my heart,
And just like Romeo and Juliet,
My world will fall apart.
May 29, 2013
May 29, 2013 at 6:43 PM UTC