"ubi" poems
A Lone Walker nowe Ah!
Intae Theis Murky Naycht
‘Yont Whin-Rock menacin’,
Ewry Wound bygane an’ the Scar
Freish Bluid o’ mine fuelin’,
Lang, lang, IT! the Blacklyn Howr,
Unfathomable, Unearthly,
Verra Guid Fyre wearin’,
Burnan Hye! Gore o’ mine
Awa, awa, IT owre spilled!
Soil o’ Alabaster gravin’,
An’ abön, Great Orrah! a Presence yirr,
Near-hand ay flashin’,
Rumblin’, guid tremblin’,
Lyke a Rhodium-Demon Hyear
Unco! stick-an-stowe towerin’,
An’ a Mirror-Vision ay broo!
O’ Red Gore fuil an’ pruid!
Great Rowth ragin’!
Human nae, nae IT laanger!
Heyne intae Theis Skye-Mirror,
Image o’ mine! nae, nae IT laanger!
Ma Rubye Brooch Micht, och!
Stylle haiwin',
An' wae Veins o’ Deep Lowe imbued,
Ma ain stylle! Glamis’ Orrah! Dearest!
Athwart ma Solitarye Gait
Ays a Storm-Blast fallin’,
An’ wnto me! wnto me noo, IT!
O’er an’ o’er! Carham’s Scyld-Hel Orrah!
Stylle Theis Dangerus! Verra Dangerus, IT!
Highlan’ Thwndir-Rode o’ mine
Intae Theis Guid Kintra whooshin’,
An’ the nae ****** Cauld Landis Micht,
Swaird-Wounded, stylle Ironclad Ah!
Fore’er unco! wi’in Oun Hye Fyre
Thro’ nae croud strollin’,
Ays yf frae Hye Þunor His-sel
The Lone War-Whisper Weel-Gaun!
Wae Thae Verra Woirds o’ Battle-Angyr
Lewdlie! Theis Specular Bluish Fyre o’ mine!
Thus Thwndir-Taukin’:
NUNC IN HOC SIGNO VINCES
QUIA FOCUS TEMPESTATIS MODO EST TIBI
ET VEXILLA FULMINIS PRODEUNT UNIVERSI
IN FERRO CAERULEO SANGUINEQUE
AD TE PICTORUM NOCTE TETRA
ET IN SPECULO RESULTANTE FORMA
THOR GOTHORUM UBI DESCENDET LAETO
AB ULTIMA GLITNIR MAGNO MALLEO
DEUS FLAVUS QUI ALTO FERRO SECURIQUE
TONITRUO INDIGNAM VIAM MALEDIXIT
FULMINIS IGITUR TETRA UMBRA TUA
ALTA FLAMMA CALIGINEA VEXILLAQUE
SUPREMO IGNE OVERMAN ULTOR.
Jan 23, 2021
Jan 23, 2021 at 6:54 AM UTC
By paper-lantern light
flames colour a snow crystals dance, beautifully enchanting, to
the distant sound of singing; Joyous songs of celebration, lulling all in revelry. Each note heard
in silent reverence, beneath the skeletal canopy of majestic oak spread. Where from amongst the
damp branches, wise old saucer eyes calls "Ubi? Ubi?", heralding a cacophony of wide-eyed whispers
This afternoon, sweet twilight guides our paths as we search on ever onward journeys unknown; Our
arms collecting firewood, to fill the empty hearths of others. Unaware of the cold hands, we are, when
there's such warmth in our hearts. We toil within the stillness, snow falling softly, and covering the
crisp ground. From deep beneath the dazzling pure white, tiny hibernating animists
blink wide from the warmth of hidden
woodland beds. Gently,
sweep the 12 droplets
of ice from all our eyes, Sol,
as we cough darkness
from our lungs,
watching the sparkles of no
matter, floating
in the paper-
lantern light
to scatter across
this Solstice sky,
illuminating our fates,
as cold snowflake hearts
twinkle like falling stars, unseen,
turning, embracing the return of the Light
Dec 14, 2012
Dec 14, 2012 at 4:24 AM UTC
Cupid chose an arrow because love does not come without pain.
Sep 10, 2014
Sep 10, 2014 at 4:03 PM UTC
By paper-lantern light
flames colour a snow crystals dance, beautifully enchanting, to
the distant sound of singing; Joyous songs of celebration, lulling all in revelry. Each note heard
in silent reverence, beneath the skeletal canopy of majestic oak spread. Where from amongst the
damp branches,wise old saucer eyes calls "Ubi? Ubi?", heralding a cacophony of wide-eyed
whispers. This afternoon, sweet twilight guides our paths as we search on ever onward journeys
unknown; Our arms collecting firewood, to fill the empty hearths of others. Unaware of the cold
hands, we are, when there's such warmth in our hearts. We toil within the stillness,
snow falling softly,and covering the crisp ground. From deep beneath
the dazzling pure white, tiny hibernating animists
blink wide from the warmth of hidden
woodland beds. Gently,
sweep the 12 droplets
of ice from all our eyes, Sol,
as we cough darkness
from our lungs,
watching the sparkles of no
matter, floating
in the paper-
lantern light
to scatter across
this Solstice sky,
illuminating our fates,
as cold snowflake hearts
twinkle like falling stars, unseen,
turning, embracing the return of the Light
Dec 20, 2013
Dec 20, 2013 at 5:49 AM UTC
In the spectral mausoleum
Wherein the human's left me deserted;
I still wilt writeth transcendent poesy
Mine blood as the word's to be posted.
An anointed omnipresent
To luster her anticipation of mine proclivity;
She awaiteth me, behind the benevolence
As her optical's art painting's in Renoir relevance .
I revamp mine apparition
To maketh mineself to her more known;
She seeith mine black suit, unbuttoned shirt
She feeleth mine flesh, and strokes mine old bones.
All mine bad misgivings, she erases like as if at school
She's the teacher, I'm her student, though tis I breaketh rules;
Yet I do payeth attention, to this queen whoever she is
Yet thou must remember, this is all a dream, spurious wish!
Though tis just an illusion, I still hath highest Hope's
Because I'm not the other men, proudly others seeith that most;
As tis I shalt continue on, writing amour for one not around
Whoever she is, and who she might be, please release me from..
The ground................
©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
Aug 1, 2015
Aug 1, 2015 at 8:42 PM UTC
O my heart, broken and betrayed; beaten, battered, bruised beyond Beauty's bear.
Though my eyes haven't yet spilled a single tear, O my heart, with aches foretell of heavy rain; of regret and remorse religiously retained.
At first my breath had ceased... had paused. Then my heart and mind; love and logic had waged a war; leaving my severed spirit... to bear its dear cross - Both Forsaken And Lost.
Feb 10, 2021
Feb 10, 2021 at 2:53 PM UTC
SHE WAS JUST A LITTLE GIRL
TACEANT COLLOQUIA
EFFUGIAT RISUS
HIC LOCUS EST
UBI MORS GAUDET
SUCCURERE VITAE
She was just a little girl,
and she tried to make the scene,
but they threw her down and she died —
broken on the pavement,
naked and alone,
with her beads around her neck.
She had these amber beads,
and she wanted to “make the scene,”
but it was the wrong scene
and the wrong time
and nobody loved her,
and nobody cared,
and she died there, on Mott Street,
with her beads around her neck.
From a little shabby house
near a cornfield in Ohio
with a barn
and a horse that died
and a couple of old trucks out back —
She wanted to be “where it's at.”
She was only playing a game;
they buried her three weeks ago —
she would have been fourteen today.
It was a hot night in July
when they hitchhiked to New York.
In Washington Square Park
everybody was making it
even the mosquitoes were making it
and they bit her as she slept.
But she wanted “kicks,”
so she went off with two men.
And they found her, broken on the stone,
with her beads around her neck.
Her parents, they worked hard,
and they ate their bitter bread;
her father, he drank and he fought —
he'd been in trouble with a girl
and was in jail last year.
It broke him, too.
“I felt like I just got
picked up and dropped,
broke like a glass.”
They buried her three weeks ago;
and Death cannot rejoice
that she made his scene, —
for she was just a little girl,
and they broke her and she died
with her beads around her neck.
Nov 9, 2016
Nov 9, 2016 at 12:47 PM UTC
Silence!
The field mice have scurried off,
With the last of our sinister seeds
In their spangled, spiteful masquerade
Now the reddest of rivers carry wistful reveries
Out to a cold, callous sea
Tomorrow, the sun may climb once more
But where peace sleeps, war dreams
Coveter!
Dwell within your own spirit,
For these souls have wretched memories
And their willful, wanton deeds
May yet still sunder sons and daughters
From mothers and fathers
Tonight, we stitch our children back together
Because where peace sleeps, war dreams
Jan 20, 2021
Jan 20, 2021 at 4:17 PM UTC
Rumblings shaking the earth
Names cried out, long lost
Blame the gods, or us
Who forgot to pray?
Buildings collapsing
“Ubi est mater?”,
Children cry
Who forgot to pray?
Ash everywhere
Miles and miles of dust
This is it,
Goodbye Pompeii.
Aug 29, 2018
Aug 29, 2018 at 6:49 PM UTC
Ubi Petrus
For Inky and Jason
“Ubi Petrus, ibi Ecclesia”
- St. Ambrose of Milan
Where Peter was, there also was the Tomb --
Blood-sodden dreams cold-rotting in old sin,
The Chalice left unwashed, the Upper Room
A three-days’ grave for hope-forsaken men.
Where Peter is, there also should we be,
Poor pilgrims, his, a-kneel before the Throne
Of Eosian Christendom, and none but he
Is called to lead the Church to eternal Dawn.
Where Peter then will be, there is the Faith,
Transubstantiation, whipped blood, ripped flesh
A solid reality, not a wraith
Of shop-soiled heresies labeled as fresh.
Where Peter is, O Lord, there let us pray,
Poor battered wanderers along Your way.
Apr 21, 2019
Apr 21, 2019 at 8:18 AM UTC
*Verum quaerimus, studiose poetica in hoc situ
Ubi autem poetas
Ubi est artificiose conscripto*
Dec 1, 2017
Dec 1, 2017 at 11:09 PM UTC
o tempestas
ira caeli
moles ingens nihili
te pervertis
ubi aestas
aerum pulsat calide
nunc appares
vorax nubes
tenebrarum columna
tum evanes
tam occulte
quam intrasti resonans
Nov 11, 2018
Nov 11, 2018 at 7:34 PM UTC
He washed his hands until they bled
And then a little more
He bolted every window
And he locked every door
Through the cracks he peered out at his neighbors
And said “oh for heaven’s sake!
Those bat-eating chinks
We outta burn them at the stake”
Like that no-good ****** Yang
They’re infecting our country
UBI’s for lazy *****
Though he could really use the money…
Cause he’s been out of work for days
And has not received a raise
For the last 10 years
Amid corporate fears
of the left’s socialist craze
Yet he still angrily paces
Says “I don't mean to be racist
But they’ve gotta go - all of ‘em!”
As his face turns pale and fever runs
Poor sick thing, he doesn't know
That the hate is just for show
A trick, a guise, a twisted rouse
To turn me against you
Amidst our misguided attacks
They extort and contort the facts -
Our communities decay
We rot and waste away
You think it’d gone undetected?
We were always infected
Mar 20, 2020
Mar 20, 2020 at 11:16 PM UTC