"twanging" poems
I.
Hear the sledges with the bells—
Silver bells!
What a world of merriment their melody foretells!
How they ****** ****** ******
In their icy air of night!
While the stars, that oversprinkle
All the heavens, seem to twinkle
With a crystalline delight;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells
From the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells—
From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.
II.
Hear the mellow wedding bells,
Golden bells!
What a world of happiness their harmony foretells!
Through the balmy air of night
How they ring out their delight!
From the molten golden-notes,
And all in tune,
What a liquid ditty floats
To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats
On the moon!
Oh, from out the sounding cells,
What a gush of euphony voluminously wells!
How it swells!
How it dwells
On the future! how it tells
Of the rapture that impels
To the swinging and the ringing
Of the bells, bells, bells,
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells—
To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells!
III.
Hear the loud alarum bells—
Brazen bells!
What a tale of terror now their turbulency tells!
In the startled ear of night
How they scream out their affright!
Too much horrified to speak,
They can only shriek, shriek,
Out of tune,
In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire,
In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire
Leaping higher, higher, higher,
With a desperate desire,
And a resolute endeavor
Now—now to sit or never,
By the side of the pale-faced moon.
Oh, the bells, bells, bells!
What a tale their terror tells
Of Despair!
How they clang, and clash, and roar!
What a horror they outpour
On the ***** of the palpitating air!
Yet the ear it fully knows,
By the twanging,
And the clanging,
How the danger ebbs and flows;
Yet the ear distinctly tells,
In the jangling,
And the wrangling,
How the danger sinks and swells,
By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells—
Of the bells—
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells—
In the clamor and the clangor of the bells!
IV.
Hear the tolling of the bells—
Iron bells!
What a world of solemn thought their monody compels!
In the silence of the night,
How we shiver with affright
At the melancholy menace of their tone!
For every sound that floats
From the rust within their throats
Is a groan.
And the people—ah, the people—
They that dwell up in the steeple.
All alone,
And who toiling, toiling, toiling,
In that muffled monotone,
Feel a glory in so rolling
On the human heart a stone—
They are neither man nor woman—
They are neither brute nor human—
They are Ghouls:
And their king it is who tolls;
And he rolls, rolls, rolls,
Rolls
A paean from the bells!
And his merry ***** swells
With the paean of the bells!
And he dances, and he yells;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the paean of the bells—
Of the bells:
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the throbbing of the bells—
Of the bells, bells, bells—
To the sobbing of the bells;
Keeping time, time, time,
As he knells, knells, knells,
In a happy Runic rhyme,
To the rolling of the bells—
Of the bells, bells, bells—
To the tolling of the bells,
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells—
To the moaning and the groaning of the bells.
10.5k
They’ll be rockin’ in Heaven
Down St. Peter’s Gate Way.
Chuck Berry passed over,
But he still can play.
True King of Rock,
He’ll live for evermore.
And he’ll keep duck walking,
Along that golden shore.
His guitar keeps twanging,
Wah wah tlang tang tang.
Ya want a Showman?
Chuck’s still yer man.
He died at ninety.
It was very sad.
But now he’s up there,
I’m sure that God is glad.
He’ll love that Rock N Roll Music,
Chuck’s sense of humour too.
A touch of Devil also,
When he sings the blues.
So all you Saints and Angels,
You better move and hurry,
For they all want to dance with
That amazing Chuck Berry.
Paul Butters
Mar 22, 2017
Mar 22, 2017 at 6:10 AM UTC
Magdalene watched Mary
bend down to put on the LP.
The Beatles. They’d saved
up and bought it together.
She took in Mary’s stockinged
thigh showing through the slit
in the side of the school skirt.
Mary placed the LP carefully
onto the turntable, with her finger
put the needle arm down onto
the vinyl. The music started up,
Mary stood up and sat next to
Magdalene on the single bed.
Magdalene sensed her there,
her thigh next to hers, her
warmth, their knees almost
touching. What did your Ma
say when you said you bought
the Beatles? Magdalene asked.
She said nowt, Mary replied,
but Da said it was a load of
***** and where did I get
the money from to buy it?
John Lennon's voice sang
over the twanging guitars.
Magdalene said, did you
tell him we bought it together?
Mary nodded. Her hands
pushed between her thighs,
her young face lit up by
the room's light. Don't you
think Paul's a dish? Mary asked.
Magdalene shrugged her
shoulders, studied Mary’s
knee where a spot of flesh
showed through a hole in
the black school stockings.
She wanted to move closer,
kiss the cheek, place her
lips on the skin. She breathed
in the borrowed scent that
Mary wore. Said she'd liberated
it from her Ma's room. Mary
talked of the boy they'd met
in the woods above the school.
Tried it on so he did, she said,
over the guitars and Lennon's
loud voice. Magdalene wished
she could put her hands where
the boy had tried. I put him
straight, Mary said, kneed him
where his fatherhood might flow.
Mary moved up and down on
the bed in response to the music.
The bedsprings complained.
Magdalene sensed the movement,
took in Mary’s behind going up
and down on the bed cover.
Glory be. She wanted to kiss.
Needed the hand to touch Mary’s,
the skin to join up with hers.
Downstairs a voice bellowed
to keep the ****** noise down.
Mary sighed and bent down
to turn the **** the thigh
revealed in the skirt's slit,
the spot of flesh through
the hole in the bended knee.
Magdalene captured the image.
Hid it in her memory bank for
later, for bedtime, for the cosy
pretend hold, maybe more if in
her dream she was lucky and bold.
Nov 17, 2012
Nov 17, 2012 at 4:31 AM UTC
The poem of the mind in the act of finding
What will suffice. It has not always had
To find: the scene was set; it repeated what
Was in the script.
Then the theatre was changed
To something else. Its past was a souvenir.
It has to be living, to learn the speech of the place.
It has to face the men of the time and to meet
The women of the time. It has to think about war
And it has to find what will suffice. It has
To construct a new stage. It has to be on that stage,
And, like an insatiable actor, slowly and
With meditation, speak words that in the ear,
In the delicatest ear of the mind, repeat,
Exactly, that which it wants to hear, at the sound
Of which, an invisible audience listens,
Not to the play, but to itself, expressed
In an emotion as of two people, as of two
Emotions becoming one. The actor is
A metaphysician in the dark, twanging
An instrument, twanging a wiry string that gives
Sounds passing through sudden rightnesses, wholly
Containing the mind, below which it cannot descend,
Beyond which it has no will to rise.
It must
Be the finding of a satisfaction, and may
Be of a man skating, a woman dancing, a woman
Combing. The poem of the act of the mind.
3.3k
“I can do all things through Christ which strengtheneth me”
Embroidered on the back of his letterman jacket
Hanging from the kitchen chair where he sits
Practicing chords while the **** cooks to crank
In the trailer back of his momma’s house
Where she lets him live while he looks for work
They didn’t treat him right at the truck stop
His uncle might get him on at the mill
A crankster wankster twanging out his art
Unless the Cossaks find out about…
“Who’s there…?”
Nov 16, 2018
Nov 16, 2018 at 12:13 PM UTC
to a friend
No! those days are gone away
And their hours are old and gray,
And their minutes buried all
Under the down-trodden pall
Of the leaves of many years:
Many times have winter's shears,
Frozen North, and chilling East,
Sounded tempests to the feast
Of the forest's whispering fleeces,
Since men knew nor rent nor leases.
No, the bugle sounds no more,
And the twanging bow no more;
Silent is the ivory shrill
Past the heath and up the hill;
There is no mid-forest laugh,
Where lone Echo gives the half
To some wight, amaz'd to hear
Jesting, deep in forest drear.
On the fairest time of June
You may go, with sun or moon,
Or the seven stars to light you,
Or the polar ray to right you;
But you never may behold
Little John, or Robin bold;
Never one, of all the clan,
Thrumming on an empty can
Some old hunting ditty, while
He doth his green way beguile
To fair hostess Merriment,
Down beside the pasture Trent;
For he left the merry tale
Messenger for spicy ale.
Gone, the merry morris din;
Gone, the song of Gamelyn;
Gone, the tough-belted outlaw
Idling in the "grenè shawe";
All are gone away and past!
And if Robin should be cast
Sudden from his turfed grave,
And if Marian should have
Once again her forest days,
She would weep, and he would craze:
He would swear, for all his oaks,
Fall'n beneath the dockyard strokes,
Have rotted on the briny seas;
She would weep that her wild bees
Sang not to her--strange! that honey
Can't be got without hard money!
So it is: yet let us sing,
Honour to the old bow-string!
Honour to the bugle-horn!
Honour to the woods unshorn!
Honour to the Lincoln green!
Honour to the archer keen!
Honour to tight little John,
And the horse he rode upon!
Honour to bold Robin Hood,
Sleeping in the underwood!
Honour to maid Marian,
And to all the Sherwood-clan!
Though their days have hurried by
Let us two a burden try.
3k
As I told you already that I was Graeme Thorne in the 1950s and apart from the fact I was him for just 8 years, I had a best friend named bobby Francis who was a very ***** fellow, well back then so was I
Bobby had a teenage crush on dody Stephens who sang pink shoe laces which was bobby's fave song and I, as Graeme Thorne thought yeah she is cute and bobby bought her album over to my house and you could hear his voice twanging with the words pink shoelaces and then in 1959 bobby bought pink shoelaces which caused a bit of shock for teachers at old scots college and Greame Thorne who was me said it looks weird that my mate is wearing pink shoe laces
But bobby couldn't give a flying **** about what people were saying about him
Just listen or try and get the memory of him singing
Tan shoes and pink shoelaces
A polka dot vest hey man oh man tan shoes with pink shoelaces and a big panamol
With a purple hat band and my friend bobby sang that with the same twang as dodi Stephens
Which could be the reason why
Bobby is having a tween crush on an older 13 year old singer
I as Graeme Thorne also had a crush on dodi and both me and bobby were dodi's dory but bobby's mum got really cranky with bobby for his voice because it could be a **** voice but bobby used bad language to tell his mum to get ****** and every time we went to the local shops in Bondi beach we bought our ice creams and sat on the beach singing the dodi Stephens hit
And then two gorgeous 12 year old girls sat near us and I said
How about a bit of sugar and bobby said for you maybe but I want dodi's pink shoelaces
And I told bobby to live in the realistic years and bobby said you can talk to these girls but I like dodi ok and bobby was ************ over dodi Stephens **** body while I as Graeme Thorne went over to the 12 year old girls and started to massage their backs and thighs saying to bobby these girls are a nice *** of sugar
For my spoon and as the girls left they kissed me as greame Thorne on the lips and left thinking my friend was a bit of a **** and when we got back to bobby's house bobby played pink shoe laces very loud as well as ************ thinking dodi is a 50s fox and I toild him that those girls on the beach were **** too and bobby said yeah I agree but I plan to finish school and marry dodi and then said he was Dooley and dodi is trying to keep me safe well in 1960 I was kidnapped and killed and bobby well I will never ever know if he got it together with dodi, probably not but in my current life at the age of 22 I heard bobby's twang singing pink shoe laces as I heard it on the radio and now I listen to pink shoe laces on YouTube
She is hot
Apr 1, 2017
Apr 1, 2017 at 2:47 AM UTC
Love's worshippers alone can know
The thousand mysteries that are his;
His blazing torch, his twanging bow,
His blooming age are mysteries.
A charming science--but the day
Were all too short to con it o'er;
So take of me this little lay,
A sample of its boundless lore.
As once, beneath the fragrant shade
Of myrtles breathing heaven's own air,
The children, Love and Folly, played--
A quarrel rose betwixt the pair.
Love said the gods should do him right--
But Folly vowed to do it then,
And struck him, o'er the orbs of sight,
So hard, he never saw again.
His lovely mother's grief was deep,
She called for vengeance on the deed;
A beauty does not vainly weep,
Nor coldly does a mother plead.
A shade came o'er the eternal bliss
That fills the dwellers of the skies;
Even stony-hearted Nemesis,
And Rhadamanthus, wiped their eyes.
"Behold," she said, "this lovely boy,"
While streamed afresh her graceful tears,
"Immortal, yet shut out from joy
And sunshine, all his future years.
The child can never take, you see,
A single step without a staff--
The harshest punishment would be
Too lenient for the crime by half."
All said that Love had suffered wrong,
And well that wrong should be repaid;
Then weighed the public interest long,
And long the party's interest weighed.
And thus decreed the court above--
"Since Love is blind from Folly's blow,
Let Folly be the guide of Love,
Where'er the boy may choose to go."
1.9k
Rapture, growing voice around the corner.
Crisp new diphthongs, sorry rounded vowels
unrehearsed. A twanging reverb. Certain
loosened phrasings shock the doorknob, like
'Clara...octaves...failings'. When I lift the
latch it's broken trailing consonants
streaming past the ceiling; bassy treaties,
sighing falling clothes and chord-crushed feeling.
Apr 5, 2013
Apr 5, 2013 at 11:32 AM UTC
Formless words...broadcast scribbling space, their diagram
of poetic motion washes over you...formed on impact.
Dark room's glow in broad daylight--your fully developed
picture...deepest blue of two worlds in one, betwixt vibration.
Hue of the canonized, twanging entire a cloudless sky...
enriched tenfold in mimicry of you.
If only stained glass and silk would wed, search light's
spectrum...distill the most affecting gradation of blue--
then would you see a just replica?
Visionary's shield...where earthen wend unveils the abysmal...
that eyes may remain upon you--till one is ferried, and
vision seen through.
Apogee of seventh sea...epicenter of dancing Nine Muses,
whose round keeps the Blue Flower earthbound.
Blue Flower of the poet's pilgrimage, whose synesthesia
electrifies.
Blue Flower...a nebula pinned to earth, the name of spring
born of you.
The golden section of angels fly their flawless form to you...
that High Art may pray to High Art.
...Blue Flower, commended spirit rife with grace...whose
ceaseless hour at hand holds beauty alone.
Mind, quill to tongue riven--if ever...ever is now--Blue Flower...
ever is Now!
The words of this poet have begun fasting...not to eat of what
they cannot sacrifice...their Blue Flower.
Nov 17, 2014
Nov 17, 2014 at 1:48 PM UTC
VI
No.
These books lie.
These words and these voices and
These photographs
Hoodwink us into thinking
Titanic is really gone.
No.
It was the Olympic, dear
Baby girl Titanic is still out there
Twanging lovely cello notes
And drifting with smooth propellers.
No.
Adrift like a ghost
Is she…
**** those photographs
They feel so untrue, because in my heart
I was there
I am there.
So I am drowned?
I am facedown in the water
Gasping for a breath my
Body cannot take?
I am dead?
NO.
My boy is still alive
I am still holding his hand deep
In the sea
Blue blue ocean
If lovely girl, Titanic, has broken
I am broken too.
Jan 7, 2017
Jan 7, 2017 at 2:25 PM UTC
A good friend with a basset-hound face is on his feet
The rest of us are weak
as newborn puppies,
from the late hour, the numbing glory in our lungs
But, mostly from laughter.
This young man is a connoisseur of altered states, an apprentice butcher, and one of the chosen few who breath music in and out effortlessly
And he's preaching
Prosthelytizing
Three minutes before,
he had been happily day dreaming
Three feet from the floor
with the boob-tube beaming
happy
simple
moving colors
The man on the set shows us how to stir-fry chicken
Our mouths water, but we're content to sit.
But with the fire coming up that glass pipe
and setting his boiler to churn along feverish
He caught an insight
or it snared him, like a spiderweb across a peaceful hiking path
On his feet
He was beginning to see connections
And had to share them with someone
Now
I'm a limp doll at this point, fully immersed in the body-high
Thoughts are glacial, movement glacial
Oh, my friend.
You're talking to the wrong audience
We can't hope to see it as you do.
But he keeps on keeping on.
And tells us a thing or two.
Cooking
He says
Is like ***
As our laughter dies down to a dull roar, he continues
The speeds and heats and intensities can all vary
to give you countless subtle differences.
But the true constant is care
Loving attention to the finest detail.
His brows furrow, his toes test the fibers of the rug
and he glances back up, and I imagine a podium in front of him.
Or maybe it's like Jazz. He says.
We learn, or glean out, how things are supposed to happen
But in the moment, the twanging instant
Beautiful things will themselves to exist
and they defy all well-laid plans.
Nov 13, 2014
Nov 13, 2014 at 8:33 PM UTC
It’s time for a rhyme
I hear you chime.
It’s time to hit the beat.
We’re ready to dance
Without a glance,
Pick up those Tyger feet.
Those drums do thump,
Dancers grind and bump,
The party’s in full sway.
Don’t feel like strolling,
Just want to be rollin’
In the scattered hay.
Them guitars are twanging
I’m really panging
To twirl you round and round.
Some like to fight;
I’d rather dance all night
To that raucous rebel sound.
Let’s go.
May 28, 2014
May 28, 2014 at 1:55 PM UTC
Love's worshippers alone can know
The thousand mysteries that are his;
His blazing torch, his twanging bow,
His blooming age are mysteries.
A charming science--but the day
Were all too short to con it o'er;
So take of me this little lay,
A sample of its boundless lore.
As once, beneath the fragrant shade
Of myrtles breathing heaven's own air,
The children, Love and Folly, played--
A quarrel rose betwixt the pair.
Love said the gods should do him right--
But Folly vowed to do it then,
And struck him, o'er the orbs of sight,
So hard he never saw again.
His lovely mother's grief was deep,
She called for vengeance on the deed;
A beauty does not vainly weep,
Nor coldly does a mother plead.
A shade came o'er the eternal bliss
That fills the dwellers of the skies;
Even stony-hearted Nemesis,
And Rhadamanthus, wiped their eyes.
"Behold," she said, "this lovely boy,"
While streamed afresh her graceful tears,
"Immortal, yet shut out from joy
And sunshine, all his future years.
The child can never take, you see,
A single step without a staff--
The harshest punishment would be
Too lenient for the crime by half."
All said that Love had suffered wrong,
And well that wrong should be repaid;
Then weighed the public interest long,
And long the party's interest weighed.
And thus decreed the court above--
"Since Love is blind from Folly's blow,
Let Folly be the guide of Love,
Where'er the boy may choose to go."
1.3k
Soaking up the sweet, slow shine of summer
Basking in June's warm day glow
You remind me of innocence
Times long passed when I did not know the ache of loss
I find myself feeling guilty for loving you
Being happy
Even though I know the gone would wish it for us
I breathe you in my tie dyed lover
A vast array of rainbow hued passion
Spilt across my peaches and cream canvas
You go down easy like sweet wine berry wine
Late July before us twanging on mountain top strings
I'll be here while you sleep softly
Guarding a back that always has mine
Jun 7, 2016
Jun 7, 2016 at 2:06 PM UTC
chugging
twanging
thumping
snarling -
no drugs needed; the tempo sends me into a tailspin of bliss.
a frightened ear would perceive a dirge but
to the acquainted
it can only be a hymn.
Feb 24, 2015
Feb 24, 2015 at 3:38 AM UTC
Around the coals we gather to warm are tired souls
Brothers singing of all life's woes
And dear old sawyer and his lady go on their way
Towards the west and memory lane.
I bid adieu to these travelers and the heated night
One day we will find peace in our drunken blight
To the poet and their thoughtful muse
To the guitarist and their twanging tune
To the smoker with a hazy mind
And the couple rekindled in Octobers fire.
Oct 25, 2013
Oct 25, 2013 at 3:39 AM UTC
I cannot put my finger on my dissatisfaction
I cannot slake my thirst
I cannot sate my hunger
I cannot itch this scratch
I cannot imbibe it better
I cannot forget it, worse
deaf--dumb--blind--limp--sad--stupid
I feel I am seeing in the second dimension
when I know the fourth is called for, now!
I cannot expunge this record, these memories, or the lack thereof
I cannot remember the effort, or, where things stopped or started
I cannot describe this inexplicability,
I cannot remember the introductions
criss-cross logical thinking
twanging words, tungsten,
copper, and sheets of steel
sautered, bolted, shorted
circuits crackle and spark
blue like the ocean water
burning the water in skin
and I find nothing on an endless loop around the
Möbius strip, no, nothing, neither starts nor ends
I'm stuck in some Escher stairwell, so frustrating
I feel like an imbecile that knows not of a named
thing that stands before me, if it were a snake, it
would bite me, what, ( ) it is so close?
boy, this stings,
this ***** to be
struck by something, and
I don't know
what
I cannot find relief from catharsis
no, that hasn't ever worked at all.
dizzying, myopic thing that keeps me awake
show yourself, show me how, or what, wants
this thing thing thing this thing of something.
I cannot find my ( ), no,
I cannot find anything at all.
Jun 3, 2013
Jun 3, 2013 at 2:12 PM UTC
I am not drunk you will have
to have me like this
and I’m sorry about that
with my teeth pumped full of silver
my toes like awkward twigs
now my hand is on your shoulder-blade
where I taste honey
and I find the scar you said you had
a misty oblong splash on the back
of one arm
then I seem to lose control of my lower face
the biology out of whack
it is moving about as if
yawning but not yawning
more chewing a wodge of sickly toffee
you are on me
touching me like this happens
to anyone with a wonky pulse
a gurgle in their gut
that sounds like a faulty washing-machine
have I made this up
am I zipping seamlessly through
each lucid scene without so much
as a blink
a sour cough
does it matter
you are playing me
as your favourite guitar
twanging the strings
to make me sort of sing
I have miles just miles
of words to spill out to say
but I don’t know how
to rotate them together
just yet
Aug 6, 2015
Aug 6, 2015 at 7:03 PM UTC
I found a ribbon.
And without thinking,
I took one end
Into each hand.
And I tugged.
Hard.
It made little sounds
Like it was twanging.
Over and over again.
Then I stopped,
And saw
That it still looked
Brand new.
And this
Didn't seem fair.
That an object
So inanimate,
Could withstand
So much abuse.
When my heart
Was felled
In one blow.
But then I saw
A little string
On one end
Of the ribbon.
And I pulled.
It started to unravel.
So I pulled
And pulled
And pulled.
Until finally,
The ribbon
Wasn't a ribbon.
But a pile
Of tiny stings
Just sitting in my hand.
And I felt better.
Because now
My heart
Wasn't the only thing,
In a thousand little pieces.
Mar 13, 2015
Mar 13, 2015 at 1:23 PM UTC
A thought passed through the clouds so white that hung over my head
There was nothing I could do about the lies in the sky
Or the heavy hanging that outside I saw a man in the rain
Where there were whispers ringing out in the night
There were also tears streaming down the faces of the proud
But these were the worries of a man wounded in love
And these were the haunts of a house that I never thought to bought
Twanging terrificly for all the undead world to see and hear
Roaming was the way of the world for me and only in me
Streets were a red color this morning as she lay mourning
And of course these were the words of a man unborn and unknown
But listen to the trickle of the rain outside thine window
And watch carefully the ticking of that majestic clock
Where there were many a man broken and many a woman spending tokens
With their cash cards swiping itself upstairs with large words
And these worries spelt in trouble spills unto those stairs
That I once danced up when I felt I was in the know
Course' there was a record playing while the wine was being poured
And a professional man said to me "Would you like a glass?"
I've forgotten the tune of the croon so I look to the scattered road
And a Jesabil sound rushed the stage seeking fame
Stardust rocket blasts with confetti men wearing hats
And rough and tough men selling books that litter shelves
Yes these were the sights of a man busy being unborn and sworn
Sworn in these skies that fire themselves for they are not right
But the right of the right keeps itself tight
And this construction outside this window is breaking fast
And the purring kitty is no longer belonging to the name of cat
Feast on the fear of remembrances of your former self
For those were always and seemed like much better times
But the bouncing Bob of the times were something I never quite got to know
Knowing to know there was never really anything to get to know
Knowledge that leads to the whirling machine of images
Illusions and false fancy fast formerly fattened fragrances
Titanic break through of a former self that I never did get to know
Too tough to tell what I needed to really say
So I better get on my way fast cause we all know
Were soon to be setting off to set sail
May 3, 2011
May 3, 2011 at 11:16 AM UTC
Old man sitting class front
Plucks his twanging banjo
Singing songs about rain
Songs about this kind of day
Imagine the tough skin
Hugging his picking thumb while he strums
The music rewinds and ages
Giving rhythm to his pulls and nods
Lines escaping from a dark wrinkled cave
Hidden behind whites and grays
Growing south like so many do
Just an old man sharing his love with you
Keeping it all the same
Hum drum going nowhere
Questioning progress
Did I go anywhere today?
Or have I just returned?
Oct 14, 2012
Oct 14, 2012 at 11:21 PM UTC
Enlightens My days of darkness,
Artificial Light,
Weak violet blow of a violent decay
Thunder of rough emotions
Exploding and burning and bursting
In the remote obscure hollows of my head.
This it is; Where pure passion is emanated,
Runs away to the very edge of curiosity
A traveller through the infinite skies
Of my bare human intelligence.
Light of darkness
Expression of sudden expiry
And simultaneous rebirth.
Light of veracity
Reveals and destroys and remakes
As the majority abruptly yells about.
Light of my dreams
Golden thing
On this soil of broken faith.
All of a sudden, sneaking bull,
my cacophonous orchestra wavers
as a sharp blade has sat in my brain.
Boiling gurgling twanging
My mind cracks and gasps
And gulps, when the veracious grace of light
glances out of the waves of my lost sea.
Glorious the way it shows off,
Harsh the way it acts and plays.
And yet Lives and gives life, it is Light.
Speeding through the windows of our soul,
it measures with my fortitude's eyes.
And yet is light
The only source of truth.
And yet,
on this soil of broken faith.
So why, for godness sake, should we avoid her natural touch?
Oct 19, 2015
Oct 19, 2015 at 4:25 PM UTC
The poem of the mind in the act of finding
What will suffice. It has not always had
To find: the scene was set; it repeated what
Was in the script.
Then the theatre was changed
To something else. Its past was a souvenir.
It has to be living, to learn the speech of the place.
It has to face the men of the time and to meet
The women of the time. It has to think about war
And it has to find what will suffice. It has
To construct a new stage. It has to be on that stage,
And, like an insatiable actor, slowly and
With meditation, speak words that in the ear,
In the delicatest ear of the mind, repeat,
Exactly, that which it wants to hear, at the sound
Of which, an invisible audience listens,
Not to the play, but to itself, expressed
In an emotion as of two people, as of two
Emotions becoming one. The actor is
A metaphysician in the dark, twanging
An instrument, twanging a wiry string that gives
Sounds passing through sudden rightnesses, wholly
Containing the mind, below which it cannot descend,
Beyond which it has no will to rise.
It must
Be the finding of a satisfaction, and may
Be of a man skating, a woman dancing, a woman
Combing. The poem of the act of the mind.
Apr 1, 2015
Apr 1, 2015 at 8:20 AM UTC
The awkward jutting out of spiny branches,
And a monotonous tone bellowing through the chasm,
The reverberation of sound an incomprehensible spasm,
And the shaking of rock with threats of avalanches.
Something’s happening in my mind’s eye.
Something weird, darksome and ambiguous.
As the shattered memory flew through us,
Ransacked the minds metaphors with a dusty cry.
Whale song and bird song mixing together.
Entwined like two lovers twanging in their movement.
A blast of brilliant light in the cave of thoughts, an improvement,
And singing in a strange tongue relishing forever.
The misshapen figure of my spirit guide,
Blurry in the distance and emerging from the light.
Images of my soul a riding black knight.
The two come together walking in stride.
Leading through corridors and passages bleak,
To a landscape thwarting the concepts placed within it.
And striding through its swerving scene ideas bound and tight knit.
And set fire to itself with plumes that reek.
Choose a word, I choose access,
Hear that word ring out growing in its beauty and elegance.
Then ****** violently from one place to another, the relevance?
Not understanding the situational nexus.
Feb 4, 2015
Feb 4, 2015 at 7:14 PM UTC