Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Sweet, I blame you not, for mine the fault
was, had I not been made of common clay
I had climbed the higher heights unclimbed
yet, seen the fuller air, the larger day.

From the wildness of my wasted passion I had
struck a better, clearer song,
Lit some lighter light of freer freedom, battled
with some Hydra-headed wrong.

Had my lips been smitten into music by the
kisses that but made them bleed,
You had walked with Bice and the angels on
that verdant and enamelled mead.

I had trod the road which Dante treading saw
the suns of seven circles shine,
Ay! perchance had seen the heavens opening,
as they opened to the Florentine.

And the mighty nations would have crowned
me, who am crownless now and without name,
And some orient dawn had found me kneeling
on the threshold of the House of Fame.

I had sat within that marble circle where the
oldest bard is as the young,
And the pipe is ever dropping honey, and the
lyre’s strings are ever strung.

Keats had lifted up his hymeneal curls from out
the poppy-seeded wine,
With ambrosial mouth had kissed my forehead,
clasped the hand of noble love in mine.

And at springtide, when the apple-blossoms brush
the burnished ***** of the dove,
Two young lovers lying in an orchard would
have read the story of our love.

Would have read the legend of my passion,
known the bitter secret of my heart,
Kissed as we have kissed, but never parted as
we two are fated now to part.

For the crimson flower of our life is eaten by
the cankerworm of truth,
And no hand can gather up the fallen withered
petals of the rose of youth.

Yet I am not sorry that I loved you—ah! what
else had I a boy to do,—
For the hungry teeth of time devour, and the
silent-footed years pursue.

Rudderless, we drift athwart a tempest, and
when once the storm of youth is past,
Without lyre, without lute or chorus, Death
the silent pilot comes at last.

And within the grave there is no pleasure, for
the blindworm battens on the root,
And Desire shudders into ashes, and the tree of
Passion bears no fruit.

Ah! what else had I to do but love you, God’s
own mother was less dear to me,
And less dear the Cytheraean rising like an
argent lily from the sea.

I have made my choice, have lived my poems,
and, though youth is gone in wasted days,
I have found the lover’s crown of myrtle better
than the poet’s crown of bays.
Don Bouchard Apr 2012
The day is ebbing, shadows fall,
While twilite deepens nite birds call
The works of mortals fade away;
In quiet care a sorrow lay;

Soothing evening breezes whisper,
Telling of forgotten lands-
Softly speak of Eden's Gardens,
And of earth's dear no-man lands.

Murmur of sea island countries,
Drowsy birds, faint scents of flowers,
Silver moons and star lit meadows-
Tell of slow, enchantful hours.

But the vision swiftly changes
Northland wastes and solitude
In their place lied coldly calling ,
Luring your adventurous mood...

Beckoning to unclimbed mountains,
Treacherous glaciers, unexplored,
Ice and rivers, frozen fountains,
Long from which Aurora soared.

But the zephyr now has ended,
In the midst of Yukon flats
Come, regretful, to the present-
Just remember where you're at.

But in future desolation
When your thoughts are glum and sour,
Think back thru your "Syncopation"
To the zephyr of this hour.

And when wind and winter harden
All the leafless, loveless land,
It will whisper of the garden--
It will bid you understand.

And the moral of the story-
(For it has one as all should)
Is: "When all are shorn of Glory--
God alone will choose the good."

But let's leave that as it stood...

For from here, where ere you wander,
Whether it be near or far,
Without stopping long to ponder--
Just be thankful where you are.
A thousand unclimbed chimneys but the soot lay heavy on his half starved frame,
and the woman,a name he could not pronounce waited in the darkened street to pounce upon unwary boys and men,
and then the clinging of the silt at low tide on the Thames, where the lens of greedy eyes would spy out,hear the cry out of the mudlarks
but no larking there.
The gears that grind and inner wheels that wind.

Northern towns do not exist
they're just a story that persists in our collective memory,
a nightmare that we waken from.
These mill town dressing gown like nursery rhymes
designed to make us think we live in better times,
wrapped us up in cotton wool.
Until
we were just as full of fear and fantasy
as our collective memory.

Industrialisation was the sow that suckled pigs,
look at them now,
Swines
don't talk to me of better times
don't talk to me at all.
EDWARD PEREZ Apr 2013
A sudden thud I heard it call
A familiar pain I could have sworn.
It wrestled in its fine feathery cloth
As I watched the skies turn to bitter dusk.
It churned inside my head
Down into the place where I laid it…..
And felt perfectly stead.
It balanced all these years and now does it dare to tumble
Break and shatter with all else.
So what does it matter?!
No more room, for ****** things
No more room, untouched by time
No more room, words left unclimbed!
No more room, today it seems
Endlessly dousing the fire set raging before me.
No more room I want to shout!
No more room so let me out!
I cannot breathe in this mess!
How forked tongues lash and break my flesh!
Just another day
Another moment…..
Another thought passes…
Another thud then thump!
how funny and thus ends so..
C F Tinney Jan 2017
A tire swing
with broken rope
Blackberries left on vine
A walking path dense with grass
forgotten bright sunshine

A rusted bike
empty street nearby
A park with no one there
Endless hours of breezes blow
without someone to care

Trees unclimbed -- rain puddles still
No splashing to be heard
For long ago the children grew
and other than my aching heart
Now nothing is disturbed.
Dark is to light, as black to white.
When we write, from what place?

I wrote,
dwelling there,
amongst the shadows,
without face; leeching for love,
my cup empty,
heart scattered into pieces.

I write,
divinely guided;
exploring unclimbed mountains,
where weakness and courage elope,
advancing towards freedom,
My cup fills,
healing below the glimmers of hope.

I accept,
my world of black,
as it mends into white,
for I know, what is in the dark,
is to rise to meet light.
Who am I?
A whispering babe amidst ten thousands shouts and screams of bloodthirsty warriors.
The gentle nudging of a fawn's tender nose against the brazen rack of her father’s antlers.
I am a wayward summer breeze, getting lost in the winds of a hurricane.
A single drop of wine thrown into a sea of water, longing to be tasted on your lips, untraceable in this vast expanse.
I am every blazing sunrise you slept  through and never got the chance to cherish.
I am each tree left unclimbed, each trail you never turned aside to explore.
I am the waters too deep for your shallow lungs to reach; the ocean floor you only dream of.
I am the tip of every mountain this planet has forced up from the depths: and though you know it is impossible, a hidden part of you longs to stand atop each one of them. That is me.
I am the secret locked in the crystals of a snowflake; and no two hold the same treasure.
I am the hidden variance of a delightful scent in every flower petal.
I am the countries, cultures and corners of
The earth you have never seen or known.
Any time you glimpse a view of the galaxies and ponder to whom this splendor belongs, it is my eyes you gaze at.
Each moment you spend longing for something more, yet not knowing what, is a piece of me in you.
I am so much more than a feeling.
So much more than a though.
I am necessity.
I am your audacity.
I am a force to be reckoned with; something that lingers in your soul long after the music has ceased to resonate.
I am the wailing cry of the heart of humanity: the voice that every mind screams, yet every ear is deaf to.
There is, always has been, and forever will be an inherent need for me. For without me, all of creation would fade away. Without exploration, discovery, and mystery, we would surely perish.
So here I am: pounding on the walls around your spirit with desperate, bloodied fists, begging to be let in. I will persist. I will prevail. Because it is essential. You need me more than the very air you breath, whether you should ever realize it or not. Because without me, you can go about your life alive- but not living.
Who am I?
I
Am
Wanderlust.
Jeff S Feb 2018
"Have you ever noticed
how we are always climbing
but never getting
anywhere?

up glass-sheered avocations
and suits with bonus ties—

up **** with temperamental husbands
and secretaries with Monroe thighs—?"

It was a rhetorical question, uncannily rhymed, in the wake of
Collinses. But he didn't know that.

"We are always climbing on
what other backs have built:
the greedy gringos and their
brown-backed buey—

but i'm for Scotch and soda
anyway."

He poured out spirits like amphoras of sin.

"Oh, never mind the mess—
please, sit down.

What's that?

The mess of lives, I mean, or whatever
it is that greases the greenbacked highway
to the corner office coronation."

He knew the prodigal flames that lit the
corporate torch—the cirque
that stood in steel. He said as much:

"Oh what a monstrous architecture
of avarice! What a makeshift it is
and so much lost for all these stacks of
stuff. Sad."

I pointed to the happy pair of smiles in a
company frame. Levity interrupted.

"What's that now?

No, i've been married three times,
divorced a perfect three.

I know what you're thinking—"

And here, he laughed as he slurried his rusty brown transgressions with an index finger.

"—lucky man, he slipped the shackle
three times.

And sure, I'm dynamite by numbers
but ******* say I'm not all that nice."

"So anyway," awkwardly pivoting his grease to grin,

"you'll take the job then,
and I'll be commandeering your soul?" With a ****-******* smirk.

"It's a joke, of course—I can't just give you the job.
You'll have to show me you can climb—"

Starry-eyed empty ensued. It was enough to see
the rungs permutating above his head. Unclimbed.

"But we'll be in touch about opportunities—" he shook.
"You know—**** and stuff."

I didn't have the heart to tell him that I am, and always will be,
a homosexual.
Nabil Jibril Apr 7
This is what YERWA  is all about
It is the uncrossed desert.
And the unclimbed hills.
It is the star that is not reached and the sun that never shun.
It is the harvest sleeping in the unplowed ground.

Is our world gone?
We say YERWA FATO.
It is a new world coming?
We'll welcome it.
And bend it to the hopes of men.

YERWA in my mind
A place where blood flood like water in the ocean
A place where innocent people are abandoned in so called IDP  camp.
A place where only those in government move around with their heads abroad and **** at home, as penned by P.O.C Umeh in his poem "ambassadors of poverty".

YERWA in my mind
Like a virus dangled into the nations.
My fear is for the safety of my brothers and sisters in the IDP camp.
Only the almighty can protect them. Our government is handicapped.

Government is saying people should stay at homes.
Who will feed the idps?
Who will provide their needs?
Who will come to their rescue? Who shall heed the droppings of their silent tears at night?

Let's pray for YERWA
let's pray for the IDPs
Let's pray for our dear nation
Let's pray!  Let's pray?!! Let's pray!!!
Yerwa is a tribal name of Maiduguri, Borno State. Due to the insurgency and people are left in the IDP camp, is a calling to the people and stakeholders in the state to provide for the IDP people's need.

— The End —