"ungentle" poems
Away! the moor is dark beneath the moon,
Rapid clouds have drunk the last pale beam of even:
Away! the gathering winds will call the darkness soon,
And profoundest midnight shroud the serene lights of heaven.
Pause not! the time is past! Every voice cries, ‘Away!’
Tempt not with one last tear thy friend’s ungentle mood:
Thy lover’s eye, so glazed and cold, dares not entreat thy stay:
Duty and dereliction guide thee back to solitude.
Away, away! to thy sad and silent home;
Pour bitter tears on its desolated hearth;
Watch the dim shades as like ghosts they go and come,
And complicate strange webs of melancholy mirth.
The leaves of wasted autumn woods shall float around thine head,
The blooms of dewy Spring shall gleam beneath thy feet:
But thy soul or this world must fade in the frost that binds the dead,
Ere midnight’s frown and morning’s smile, ere thou and peace, may meet.
The cloud shadows of midnight possess their own repose,
For the weary winds are silent, or the moon is in the deep;
Some respite to its turbulence unresting ocean knows;
Whatever moves or toils or grieves hath its appointed sleep.
Thou in the grave shalt rest:—yet, till the phantoms flee,
Which that house and heath and garden made dear to thee erewhile,
Thy remembrance and repentance and deep musings are not free
From the music of two voices, and the light of one sweet smile.
2.3k
O Mary, at thy window be,
It is the wished, the trysted hour!
Those smiles and glances let me see,
That make the miser’s treasure poor:
How blythely *** I bide the stour,
A weary slave frae sun to sun,
Could I the rich reward secure,
The lovely Mary Morison.
Yestreen, when to the trembling string
The dance gaed thro’ the lighted ha’,
To thee my fancy took its wing,
I sat, but neither heard nor saw:
Tho’ this was fair, and that was braw,
And yon the toast of a’ the town,
I sighed, and said amang them a’,
“Ye are na Mary Morison.”
O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace
Wha for thy sake *** gladly dee?
Or canst thou break that heart of his,
Whose only faut is loving thee?
If love for love thou wilt na gie,
At least be pity to me shown;
A thought ungentle canna be
The thought o’ Mary Morison.
2.2k
The great sun sinks behind the town
Through a red mist of Volnay wine....
But what’s the use of setting down
That glorious blaze behind the town?
You’ll only skip the page, you’ll look
For newer pictures in this book;
You’ve read of sunsets rich as mine.
A fresh wind fills the evening air
With horrid crying of night birds....
But what reads new or curious there
When cold winds fly across the air?
You’ll only frown; you’ll turn the page,
But find no glimpse of your “New Age
Of Poetry” in my worn-out words.
Must winds that cut like blades of steel
And sunsets swimming in Volnay,
The holiest, cruellest pains I feel,
Die stillborn, because old men squeal
For something new: “Write something new:
We’ve read this poem—that one too,
And twelve more like ’em yesterday”?
No, no! my chicken, I shall scrawl
Just what I fancy as I strike it,
Fairies and Fusiliers, and all
Old broken knock-kneed thought will crawl
Across my verse in the classic way.
And, sir, be careful what you say;
There are old-fashioned folk still like it.
1.8k
Up here it is more temporary; the
Sun has already turned.
In six months, the only light will be
That of the snow piercing through the
Darkness of a
23 hour night.
Words such as swimming and
Barbecue have the same taste as the
Cardboard of the box you are provided
With when being told to
Clear out your desk immediately.
And the winds pick up from
Closer to north with promises of
Ice cold rain in them.
Then just ice.
I fear not bullet nor blade, but look
Down and shiver at the thought of having
A brief, bad summer
Such as this.
I spent a week on Helene's parents'
Boat in the fjords, fishing and eating
Cod still wet with salt water, but yet;
The skies were grey; the breezes
Ungentle; unsoothing.
But I read. I wrote. Saw viking sites
Where the ground still
Smells of sacrificial blood and
Mead, and there
I shrugged the disappointment off as I
Closed my eyes and imagined paddle
Sounds and Norse grunts from a
Thousand years ago; rugged
Travellers returning after months at sea
Under a fierce foreign sun, finally home.
Thinking nothing at all
Of the weather.
Jul 21, 2015
Jul 21, 2015 at 6:03 PM UTC
My eyes so weary were blessed by the sight of you one day.
But you did me not see, and you seemed so far away.
Silver sheen hair, and a face revealing signs of long years,
Yet your smile, your laugh, could still banish all my fears.
I closed my eyes and saw;
A girl in her finest summer dress,
A thousand suns shining upon her head,
While dancing into my dreams so sweet.
I walked on that day, but if my courage was to decide,
I would serve you a smile, then say what my mind has denied:
*”Though time has been ungentle, and I will remain an old cavalier,
Please know that my thoughts sometimes to you wander, dear”*.
Now I close my eyes and see;
A woman in shiny lace so lovely,
A thousand golden roses leading her way,
While floating down the aisle by his side.
Yes, my aged, crooked heart felt its rebirth by this sight of you.
The future never to us belonged, but I believe you once felt it too.
Yet we had our shores just left, setting sail for the sea.
How I wish I knew, that only you could bring me to my knees.
At times I close my eyes and see:
A couple old in their sunday best,
A thousand angles their wings unfolding,
While drifting away, hand in hand.
Mar 12, 2013
Mar 12, 2013 at 6:55 PM UTC
They call it depression, but it's an addiction to something that's not there-
It's an expression that we wear; it's repressed need-worn mentally.
And torn entities are born, but big men scorn with forlorn identities.
Ungentle mouths sending free telegrams to stop everything stop.
Want masquerading as need.
An embedded seed we tried to prune one day, but grew instead.
Weedy tendrils that push out my head.
Bleeding temperamentally internally eventually until it grows aware:
Despite hiding it or changing it, we carry on:
Recognizing our own ambiguity in another person's stare.
Aug 9, 2014
Aug 9, 2014 at 5:26 PM UTC
Bubble
by Michael R. Burch
Love—
fragile, elusive—
if held too closely
cannot withstand
the inter ruption
of its bright,
unmalleable tension
and breaks, disintegrates,
at the touch of
an undiscerning
hand.
Originally published by Neovictorian/Cochlea. I believe this is my only "shape" or "shaped" poem. Keywords/Tags: Love, fragile, delicate, bubble, tension, held, breaks, pops, disintegrates, explodes, implodes, hand, touch, harsh, ungentle
Apr 2, 2020
Apr 2, 2020 at 3:44 AM UTC
sometimes it seems there
is no escape from your mind
when life twists your light.
you can't recognize
yourself anymore after
all your stars collide.
on the horizon
of the black hole in your life
full of lessons past.
self-destructive mind
remembering the heartbreak,
the ungentle death
of a giant cloud,
pain so hot that you explode
birthing brighter stars.
but you still feel small.
smaller than the Earth you walk
that is smaller than
the Sun it circles
around, that is smaller than
the galaxy it
floats in, smaller than
the universe they reside.
But they don't know they're
small, and neither should
you, full of galaxies. you
are a universe.
but a universe
can yield violence beyond
comprehension. with
every heartbreak, and
with every tear, a lesson
making you think twice--
did i do this right?
everything has a lifespan,
not a forever.
these are not times you should wish to reverse,
these are just the actions of a restless universe.
Jul 10, 2018
Jul 10, 2018 at 10:31 PM UTC
Disinfect these
of the myriad seas
of ungentle bees
that fail to cease!
(Instead,)
etch their memories
with friendly geese
that surround trees
and dance to please.
Jul 15, 2012
Jul 15, 2012 at 2:16 PM UTC
in silos in
the dead of winter
North Dakota
Nebraska
nuclear fire wells beneath our toes
you want it to be over and you don’t
normalcy hugs like a father, strong
stronger and taller than you
whatever this is, it holds you
like a sobbing lover
all ungentle tears and
no future
Does it speak? Can we learn something from it?
Like the best enigmas it says nothing
until you feel foolish for screaming.
You want the dead back
so you can grab them by wispy collars or weak wrists
and ask them “what the ****
Somewhere in there is a lesson
about trusting a bad year.
Mar 27, 2018
Mar 27, 2018 at 10:25 AM UTC
sometimes it seems there’s no escape from your mind when life twists your light.
you can’t recognize yourself anymore after all your stars collide.
on the horizon of the black hole in your life full of lessons past,
a self-destructive mind remembering
the heartbreak,
the ungentle death of an interstellar cloud—
pain so hot that you explode
birthing brighter stars.
but you still feel small.
smaller than the earth you walk
that is smaller than the sun it circles
smaller than the galaxy it floats in
that is smaller than the universe they reside.
but they don’t know they’re small
and neither should you,
full of galaxies. you are a universe.
but a universe can yield violence beyond comprehension.
with every heartbreak, and with every tear,
a lesson making you think twice—
did i do this right?
these are not times you should wish to reverse,
these are just the actions of a restless universe.
Nov 3, 2018
Nov 3, 2018 at 9:54 PM UTC
I was born in green valleys to the effort of strong hands
roughened by the harshness of ungentle wintery gales.
Delight permeated space as they smiled to see me flourish,
Showering me with attention, care and compliments.
Perennially making sure I had all I needed as if I was
an incomparable incomplete treasure. For me they went as far
as killing storm clouds to shield me from hail, keep me
warm and protected. I thought they loved me for too much
energy, love and courtesy were devoted to me. Yet,
as soon as I started creatively sculpting blossoms, gems
of garnet concealing ancient praise, on an autumn day,
a distinguished man came to judge me prepared.
And that is when, my gratified father gave the order
to take me to the cellar strip me naked, ****** me
in a large basin, to be trampled over and crushed, shaped
for the pleasure of others. Vampires awaiting a chalice
of blood as my lymph, delicately streamed into barrels.
In agony there I was abandoned, for years secluded until
My release, from wooden prisons to glassed cells.
They dressed me up and took me out to bars,
Sold me to the best bidders promising I would quench,
their thirst and make them forget, sorrows and worries
if only for a night. To date you can still find me at hand,
I’ll be your inebriating servant as I slither into your mouth,
intoxicate your essence with mine.
Jan 12, 2018
Jan 12, 2018 at 8:29 AM UTC
reminder: sight, sound, smell, taste and physical feeling (touch)
~for yocum~
<>
without our five senses, what purpose, we serve?
hindered from the verification of our existence,
great then the irony then that the scourge announces
its presence by taking our presents, our very present,
coming cat quiet, announcing itself by thieving two,
our ability to smell and taste, that, only the beginning
later it steals speech.
but no need, nothing left to say or even hear, speech’s reciprocal,
the throat filled with the tube of oxygen containing no words,
some call it breathing, me, I call it a slower, ungentle, silenced dying
the medications are for the pain,
making the eyes sleep a neutered constant in a closeted body,
still, better not to see your own desiccated withering,
but all this, even this, I could tolerate!
***but not to feel your touch,
oh god, give me that!
sensing your touch informs that I, still, I am!
touching you confirms I am greater than my ossified body!
the sense of your skin means this,
that I will live even if death relieves my entirety
but no, touching is forbidden most of all,
and I am inconsolable, gone the greatest pleasure***
the first is the last final sense taken,
now it’s too late to turn the other cheek,
I touch myself, but it’s evidence of nothing, cause
now that I’m dead, my only pleasured sense remaining is
my inconsolability,
the last remaining sentry,
the immortal and final
guardian of my heart
Apr 14, 2020
Apr 14, 2020 at 11:35 AM UTC
As a younger man he had taken the cloth
had sold his humanity to God
had blessed babies and crossed the dying
had given assurances of eternity
and peace to those for trying
He had been a good father
a passable husband
he had wandered to and from his flock
but mostly he had held fast
and built his house upon the rock
He sat in a pool of his own ****
and was manhandled by ungentle hands
forgetting how to pray he cursed those he had led
in communion he forgave them
as they broke his bones for bread
O father my father your father
forgive us what we do
and I will pray to unknown gods
and beg
that they remember you
https://wolfgarwords.com/2018/07/23/vicar-with-dementia-in-a-pool-of-his-own-piss/
Jul 22, 2018
Jul 22, 2018 at 8:36 PM UTC
the lie will **** to be right.
that's unwise,
very ungentle.
Aug 15, 2019
Aug 15, 2019 at 7:21 PM UTC