"unfrequented" poems
1734
Oh, honey of an hour,
I never knew thy power,
Prohibit me
Till my minutest dower,
My unfrequented flower,
Deserving be.
3.9k
I
I had forgotten how the frogs must sound
After a year of silence, else I think
I should not so have ventured forth alone
At dusk upon this unfrequented road.
II
I am waylaid by Beauty. Who will walk
Between me and the crying of the frogs?
Oh, savage Beauty, suffer me to pass,
That am a timid woman, on her way
From one house to another!
2.3k
there are too many people writing about the moon tonight,
too many hearts lonely from the thought of her greatness,
wondering how it is possible
to love something that makes you feel so small,
that in comparison,
renders you insignificant.
this is how it was to love you.
this is how it is to still do.
to look up at a sky that is too big to notice you
to imagine a selfish lover as the vastness in which
too much attention is granted
this is how it was,
this is how it has always been,
this is how it is,
loving you.
there are too many people staying up late tonight
to watch the atmosphere unfold its secrets
open-eyed anticipating some kind of beauty unfrequented,
I will not be one of them.
waiting is a chore I no longer perform
willingly
the only galaxies I admire
are those I create.
there are too many people writing about the moon tonight,
and I have become one of them.
Sep 29, 2015
Sep 29, 2015 at 1:06 AM UTC
Oh the devil hath found
Interpreting perverse anomalies
Oh the devil hath found
May you sphacelate you worthless antiquity
Oh the devil hath found
You reek of cigarettes and unfrequented deliriums
Oh the devil hath found
What pandemonium!
Oh the devil hath found
An oasis in a wasteland
Oh the devil hath found
A humanoid dichotomy
Oh the devil hath found
A sought after moral wreck
Oh the devil hath found
Love.
.................................................................................
....Que le diable et son amant se chargent........
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Oct 19, 2018
Oct 19, 2018 at 2:55 AM UTC
344
’Twas the old—road—through pain—
That unfrequented—one—
With many a turn—and thorn—
That stops—at Heaven—
This—was the Town—she passed—
There—where she—rested—last—
Then—stepped more fast—
The little tracks—close prest—
Then—not so swift—
Slow—slow—as feet did weary—grow—
Then—stopped—no other track!
Wait! Look! Her little Book—
The leaf—at love—turned back—
Her very Hat—
And this worn shoe just fits the track—
Herself—though—fled!
Another bed—a short one—
Women make—tonight—
In Chambers bright—
Too out of sight—though—
For our hoarse Good Night—
To touch her Head!
1.5k
As the sun beams creep under my skin
this unfrequented place
to find some ease
- ease to the body some, -
trembles to the beat
unknown
Time past, and
what once I was and what am now
has given birth to
a long lost youth
who's bound to
be ascended
in all flames
at once
at last
from Heaven foretold
twice by an Angel,
who once trapped and caught
Jun 7, 2015
Jun 7, 2015 at 6:54 AM UTC
10
My wheel is in the dark!
I cannot see a spoke
Yet know its dripping feet
Go round and round.
My foot is on the Tide!
An unfrequented road—
Yet have all roads
A clearing at the end—
Some have resigned the Loom—
Some in the busy tomb
Find quaint employ—
Some with new—stately feet—
Pass royal through the gate—
Flinging the problem back
At you and I!
1k
I am one,
In a trillion,
Significant enough,
With standoffish movement of air,
Of any velocity.
I will furnish you with an upchucking sensation,
In your solar plexus,
And move your heavy head,
Round and round,
Round and round.
Outdoing the darkness,
Above and beneath,
I will emerge cold-eyed;
I will emerge cold-eyed,
And hit the strong,
And bold,
And black boulders.
And sprinkle moisture droplets on your pale face.
I am one,
In a trillion,
Vying with my facsimiles,
And similar ones,
For reaching the untraced,
Unknown,
And unfrequented coves,
With puissance,
And robbing the possessions,
I will recede.
I will recede,
And submerse everything with me,
And what awaits me,
On my way.
Come,
And dunk yourselves,
Thinking I will wash all your transgresses,
Come,
You puny creatures,
I will,
But wash only your grimy,
And filthy bodies.
Advance farther,
And you will be another meal,
To me.
I am one,
In a trillion,
Significant enough,
Roaring monotonously.
I am a wave,
In a humongous ocean,
Busier than a bee,
Rising and falling,
Forever,
Growing old,
And working harder,
Than ever.
May 31, 2016
May 31, 2016 at 1:36 PM UTC
She is of the opinion that the way to get out
of feeling stuck or dragged in life is
to turn off all lights off in her room
and ****** Fall Out Boy songs
by playing on repeat.
She glows
when silence becomes as a whole
and fritters away every morning;
the hues and harmonies
of unfrequented places
floating
The foretold stories of her hums
to her heartbeat
as to sync with her departed smile
it seems to move such a scope
for hope
from Clouds of Atlas
only to cauterise all in flames.
Time past,
and comes last in sight
when she is at ease
and those unseen awful thoughts in her mind
wane away
Her body stumbles and her words fumble
like life and fear equal shadows
of used things-
Doubt,
that she is.
Feb 15, 2015
Feb 15, 2015 at 11:20 PM UTC
a vicarious piety
plays like a swallow's feather,
emerges cats eyes glare
specifically when its us and them,
an overheard soliloquy
by means of the gaoler's
feigned forgiveness -
plays the darkened corridors
the cobwebbed dust venerates
the curtailment of hope
Dec 10, 2012
Dec 10, 2012 at 6:28 PM UTC
What shall I speak
What caring words
Shall be the attractive
Collaboration in destruction
That will bury me in my death
What shall I speak
That will illicit ambitions
And by their presence
Renew my sorrows
What policy what stratagem
Must I employ and plead my passions
What shall I propose that has unfrequented effects
Where the eye may behold an honesty
Yes, where a charitable tongue
May offer a delightful engine off thought
To cure this unrecuring wound
Leaving speechless the voices
Of unremitting practice
Who would raise their arms in sequence
To hear what I shall speak
Words so piteously performed
Enough to swear all villainies to spotless chastity
Leaving all words to abomnibile untruths
That would shame stone angels
Yet friendly in their blind complaint
What shall I speak
That you may learn my thought
What shall I speak
Jul 25, 2012
Jul 25, 2012 at 6:09 PM UTC
a shower of yellow leaves rain down on me,
at a crossroad in an unfamiliar city.
slick pavements wait in anticipation,
for the myriad lost in translation.
but my steps are careless and they stray,
from the beaten path to unfrequented pathways,
that have,for who knows how long,dreamed,
to feel anew the weight of human feet.
meandering aimlessly once again,
through this unnamed obscure lane,
on this evening,under a few scattered clouds,
two is company,the million left behind,a crowd.
May 22, 2013
May 22, 2013 at 4:11 PM UTC
We are children of lost illusions, nothing more
The guilt and apathy that follows, lingers like shadows
Days pass and nights fade
They become nothing more than a dream
Prayers for reaction silently pass through out jaded lips
Your glass kisses can't bandage my broken heart
Lost in the vacant air, my words fall
Like leafs from the tree of life
Like tears from a mother
Let me live my life
Even if it does feel like a switched-off radio.
Feb 28, 2011
Feb 28, 2011 at 7:29 AM UTC
Maybe what I need
is to stay awake long enough
to watch the sunset again.
But don't pity me, please.
I'm just "lonely;"
It's the teacher I can always look up to.
It thickens the skin and deepens the thoughts.
It reminds me why I enjoy the sound
of a stranger's laugh,
and presses me to admit that
I miss being touched.
Lonely looks a lot like a harvested cotton field,
and if you inhale the air as you drive by,
you'd know exactly how to describe
the smell of neglect.
Lonely proclaims that something empty
is just as beautiful, because you can see through it;
it can only tell the truth.
Maybe what I need
is to stay awake long enough
to watch the sunset again;
to learn that its lonely goodnight
is the most beautiful painting
the whole world gets to witness.
Apr 16, 2018
Apr 16, 2018 at 4:08 PM UTC
The waves are ceasing and the
Sky is grey and unfrequented through the window.
Hold your gaze, forget this room.
Silence so loud it echoes
Through my mind.
Say something.
Tell me you love me, even tell me
You hate me.
Forget it, it doesn't matter,
It's fine.
Dismiss our feeling, act like it's alright.
We don't know what we're
Doing.
We're stumbling.
There is a world out there, I'm sure.
People living their lives,
Oblivious, I'm not really looking.
Glazed eyes.
I know I love you.
I should tell you, but
I can't.
You should tell me, but
You won't.
I should,
You should,
We should just,
There's no way out if this.
Dec 28, 2013
Dec 28, 2013 at 8:54 AM UTC
The waves are ceasing and the
Sky is grey and unfrequented through the window.
Hold your gaze, forget this room.
Silence so loud it echoes
Through my mind.
Say something.
Tell me you love me, even tell me
You hate me.
Forget it, it doesn't matter,
It's fine.
Dismiss our feeling, act like it's alright.
We don't know what we're
Doing.
We're stumbling.
There is a world out there, I'm sure.
People living their lives,
Oblivious, I'm not really looking.
Glazed eyes.
I know I love you.
I should tell you, but
I can't.
You should tell me, but
You won't.
I should,
You should,
We should just,
There's no way out if this.
Nov 23, 2013
Nov 23, 2013 at 7:20 PM UTC
I wonder, when the apple fell from its tree did gravity reinvent itself?
Did the weight of scientific endeavour hang heavier on the branch?
Did the sun cease to affix the earth with his benevolent glare; the moon blush with shame for having - just once - wandered from her orbit, distracted by the stars? I think not.
Would Silvia have hesitated to tread through the unfrequented woods of Mantua, have declined to walk by silvered path to meet her Valentine? And what of Roxane? Could she have failed to be enchanted by the seductive stories spun beneath her night-time balcony, to be inspired by a shining artemisian crescent?
All of life can not be defined and quantified, expressed as an equation and mathematically declared a derivative of time, distance, and mass. We need no formula for beauty, heartbreak, commitment, and courage. For there are more things in heaven and earth, my dear Isaac, than are written in your philosophy. And - what’s more - you **** well know it!
Apr 14, 2019
Apr 14, 2019 at 4:44 PM UTC
*only with the oeuvre: BURN! slayer's mandatory suicide: count the bullet-holes in your head; ***** by machinegun fire; suicide, suicide, suicide, suicide.*
the anglophone world is so unfrequented
by the dualism of keeping one's
native tongue while establishing a
wordsmith perfection of an acquired
tongue...
you know how in see the failures
of assimilation? not in the terrorist,
rather, in their harem's worth of
nunnery...
and backlog of bad ideas...
rancoids of agent orange debacles,
mirroring the current ********** affairs
of the lesser luster-year...
abhorrent ******** koo nee see qua
kuu nee see qua - call that japanese
for variety all you wish...
it still spell out hollywood; ditto:
noah now dies.
problem: a slayer oeuvre -
south of heaven,
before black sabbath was all led zeppelin
but when the native tongue comes,
you're inviting your cousins...
you want to divide the atom,
why not dividing the quanta,
or the kilimanjaro?
can i ask in latin
how little actually means
when you state quantum: how much?
can i ask: so by dividing an atom
we get hiroshima...
what do get obelus quantum?
prior to: how little?
qua questio pro vel qua sors occultus -
as being a question for either,
or, for...
i'll just nut-crack your
******** like the catholic priests / theology
teachers treated me:
kept me in the dark, never taught me
any latin,
blah blah blah, blah,
and a blah later who the **** cares,
the pope sure as **** doesn't...
qua questio pro vel qua sors
occultus is as much latin to him a she latin
you just said is to your: saudi:
a ******* ibrahim judeo mel-frázī:
blah-blah-blee-bi-bi...
**** burns, **** stays oriental
by the limits of ending up in mecca;
sorry to have to add: hey presto!
Nov 2, 2017
Nov 2, 2017 at 8:45 PM UTC
i take a stroll in the software park
to a favorite spot of mine
unfrequented, a solitary retreat
a young lady comes
with such a look on her face
saying “poor teen, why you gotta be so down”
don’t you know miss
there’s no place for me in this ghost town
May 23, 2018
May 23, 2018 at 1:17 PM UTC