Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
I.

Thou aged unreluctant earth who dost
with quivering continual thighs invite
the thrilling rain the slender paramour
to toy with thy extraordinary lust,
(the sinuous rain which rising from thy bed
steals to his wife the sky and hour by hour
wholly renews her pale flesh with delight)
—immortally whence are the high gods fled?

Speak elm eloquent pandar with thy nod
significant to the ecstatic earth
in token of his coming whom her soul
burns to embrace—and didst thou know the god
from but the imprint of whose cloven feet
the shrieking dryad sought her leafy goal,
at the mere echo of whose shining mirth
the furious hearts of mountains ceased to beat?

Wind beautifully who wanderest
over smooth pages of forgotten joy
proving the peaceful theorems of the flowers
—didst e’er depart upon more exquisite quest?
and did thy fortunate fingers sometime dwell
(within a greener shadow of secret bowers)
among the curves of that delicious boy
whose serious grace one goddess loved too well?

Chryselephantine Zeus Olympian
sceptred colossus of the Pheidian soul
whose eagle frights creation,in whose palm
Nike presents the crown sweetest to man,
whose lilied robe the sun’s white hands emboss,
betwixt whose absolute feet anoint with calm
of intent stars circling the acerb pole
poises,smiling,the diadumenos

in whose young chiseled eyes the people saw
their once again victorious Pantarkes
(whose grace the prince of artists made him bold
to imitate between the feet of awe),
thunderer whose omnipotent brow showers
its curls of unendured eternal gold
over the infinite breast in bright degrees,
whose pillow is the graces and the hours,

father of gods and men whose subtle throne
twain sphinxes bear each with a writhing youth
caught to her brazen *******,whose foot-stool tells
how fought the looser of the warlike zone
of her that brought forth tall Hippolytus,
lord on whose pedestal the deep expels
(over Selene’s car closing uncouth)
of Helios the sweet wheels tremulous—

are there no kings in Argos,that the song
is silent,of the steep unspeaking tower
within whose brightening strictness Danae
saw the night severed and the glowing throng
descend,felt on her flesh the amorous strain
of gradual hands and yielding to that fee
her eager body’s unimmortal flower
knew in the darkness a more burning rain?

                    2.

And still the mad magnificent herald Spring
assembles beauty from forgetfulness
with the wild trump of April:witchery
of sound and odour drives the wingless thing
man forth in the bright air,for now the red
leaps in the maple’s cheek,and suddenly
by shining hordes in sweet unserious dress
ascends the golden crocus from the dead.

On dappled dawn forth rides the pungent sun
with hooded day preening upon his hand
followed by gay untimid final flowers
(which dressed in various tremulous armor stun
the eyes of ragged earth who sees them pass)
while hunted from his kingdom winter cowers,
seeing green armies steadily expand
hearing the spear-song of the marching grass.

A silver sudden parody of snow
tickles the air to golden tears,and hark!
the flicker’s laughing yet,while on the hills
the pines deepen to whispers primeval and throw
backward their foreheads to the barbarous bright
sky,and suddenly from the valley thrills
the unimaginable upward lark
and drowns the earth and passes into light

(slowly in life’s serene perpetual round
a pale world gathers comfort to her soul,
hope richly scattered by the abundant sun
invades the new mosaic of the ground
—let but the incurious curtaining dusk be drawn
surpassing nets are sedulously spun
to snare the brutal dew,—the authentic scroll
of fairie hands and vanishing with the dawn).

Spring,that omits no mention of desire
in every curved and curling thing,yet holds
continuous *******—through skies and trees
the lilac’s smoke the poppy’s pompous fire
the *****’s purple patience and the grave
frailty of daises—by what rare unease
revealed of teasingly transparent folds—
with man’s poor soul superlatively brave.

Surely from robes of particoloured peace
with mouth flower-faint and undiscovered eyes
and dim slow perfect body amorous
(whiter than lilies which are born and cease
for being whiter than this world)exhales
the hovering high perfume curious
of that one month for whom the whole years dies,
risen at length from palpitating veils.

O still miraculous May!O shining girl
of time untarnished!O small intimate
gently primeval hands,frivolous feet
divine!O singular and breathless pearl!
O indefinable frail ultimate pose!
O visible beatitude sweet sweet
intolerable!silence immaculate
of god’s evasive audible great rose!

                    3.

Lover,lead forth thy love unto that bed
prepared by whitest hands of waiting years,
curtained with wordless worship absolute,
unto the certain altar at whose head
stands that clear candle whose expecting breath
exults upon the tongue of flame half-mute,
(haste ere some thrush with silver several tears
complete the perfumed paraphrase of death).

Now is the time when all occasional things
close into silence,only one tree,one
svelte translation of eternity
unto the pale meaning of heaven clings,
(whose million leaves in winsome indolence
simmer upon thinking twilight momently)
as down the oblivious west’s numerous dun
magnificence conquers magnificence.

In heaven’s intolerable athanor
inimitably tortured the base day
utters at length her soft intrinsic hour,
and from those tenuous fires which more and more
sink and are lost the divine alchemist,
the magus of creation,lifts a flower—
whence is the world’s insufferable clay
clothed with incognizable amethyst.

Lady at whose imperishable smile
the amazed doves flicker upon sunny wings
as if in terror of eternity,
(or seeming that they would mistrust a while
the moving of beauteous dead mouths throughout
that very proud transparent company
of quivering ghosts-of-love which scarcely sings
drifting in slow diaphanous faint rout),

queen in the inconceivable embrace
of whose tremendous hair that blossom stands
whereof is most desire,yet less than those
twain perfect roses whose ambrosial grace,
goddess,thy crippled thunder-forging groom
or the loud lord of skipping maenads knows,—
having Discordia’s apple in thy hands,
which the scared shepherd gave thee for his doom—

O thou within the chancel of whose charms
the tall boy god of everlasting war
received the shuddering sacrament of sleep,
betwixt whose cool incorrigible arms
impaled upon delicious mystery,
with gaunt limbs reeking of the whispered deep,
deliberate groping ocean fondled o’er
the warm long flower of unchastity,

imperial Cytherea,from frail foam
sprung with irrevocable nakedness
to strike the young world into smoking song—
as the first star perfects the sensual dome
of darkness,and the sweet strong final bird
transcends the sight,O thou to whom belong
th ehearts of lovers!—I beseech thee bless
thy suppliant singer and his wandering word.
yours is the music for no instrument
yours the preposterous colour unbeheld

—mine the unbought contemptuous intent
till this our felsh merely shall be excelled
by speaking flower
                      (if I have made songs

it does not greatly matter to the sun,
nor will rain care
                      cautiously who prolongs
unserious twilight)Shadows have begun

the hair’s worm huge,ecstatic,rathe….

yours are the poems i do not write.

In this at least we have got a bulge on death,
silence,and the keenly musical light

of sudden nothing….la bocca mia “he
kissed wholly trembling”

                              or so thought the lady.
How long will our bewildered heirs
marooned in possessions not theirs
puzzle at disposing of these three
cunning feignings of hard candy in glass-
the striped little pillowlike mock-sweets,
the flared end-twists as of transparent paper?

No clue will be attached, no trace
of the sunny day of their purchase,
at a glittering shop a few doors
up from Harry's Bar, a disappointing place
for all its testaments from Hemingway.
The Grand Canal was also aglitter
while the lesser canals lay in the shade
like snakes, flicking wet tongues
and gliding to green rendezvous.

The immaculate salesgirl, in her aloof
Italian succulence, sized us up,
a middle-aged American couple,
as unserious shoppers who,
still half jet-lagged, would cling to their lire
in the face of any enchanted vase
or ethereal wineglass that might shatter
in the luggage going home.

Yet we wanted something, something small ....
This? No ... How much is ten thousand? Dizzy,
at last we decided. She wrapped
the three glass candies, the cheapest
items in the shop, with a showy care
worthy of crown jewels-tissue,
tape, and tissue again sprang up
beneath her blood-red fingernails,
plus a jack-in-the-box-shaped paper bag
adorned with harlequin lozenges, sad
though she surely was, on her feet waiting
all day for a wild rich Arab, a compulsive Japanese.
Grazie, signor ... grazie, signora ... ciao.

Nor will our thing-weary heirs decipher
the little repair, the reattached triangle
of glass from the paper-imitating end-twist,
its mending a labor of love in the cellar,
by winter light, by the man of the house,
mixing transparent epoxy and rigging
a clever small clamp as if to keep
intact the time that we, alive,
had spent in the feathery bed
at the Europa e Regina.
NoislessShackles Aug 2014
I always tell myself,
when emotions seem to run..
to **** it up, and close my heart,
don't look forward to fun.

I want my mind to lead,
Have a stone-cold inner seed.
One that won't betray me,
and let in foolish need

You see you have to want in life,
take things, with strong strife.

What i always muse about,

is:  focoused brain,

heart of ice.

© J-d S. J
Alissa Grinch Feb 2013
I have the same name,
The same last name,
Same eyes, same blood type.
but I have never had the same self-confidence.
I was never sure of anything except my uncertainty.
All your life you have been doing what you wanted.
Now all my life, I continue doing what you want.
Your gaze, when you ask "so what do you want to be?"
And I answer “I don’t know”
Makes me think that all I want is to be frivolous and unserious.
In fact, I always knew.
Was just afraid of your disapproval and condemnation.

My poor mother.
All you do is brilliant.
except the family.
Your healing hands are able to cure everything but boredom,
Everything but apathy.
My gorgeous mom,
you would always believe in me more than I did.
In your eyes the picture of me was always more colorful and perfect.
I'm anxious for disappointing you.
That’s why I don’t tell anything about myself.
That’s why I keep my interests in a separate apartment.
You are so sick and tired of carrying your life, of carrying my life and dozens of other people.

When I was little I looked at you and never understood.
I didn’t want to be like you, but I never knew.
Now I am about to grown up.
Now I see much clearly.
I admire you.
But still I don’t want to be like you.
Because I have only your eyes, your name, your blood type
But any hint of your strength and certainty.
All I want is to be frivolous and unserious
And try to make you think that I have become all you wanted me to become.
drowned the Earth suddenly.

  underneath honest light,
                                  all
   submerged. this cataract of feeling —
waters pursue beginnings. cradling them
to unknown ends, washed by the shore.
        gluttonously the night swallowed
all — parliament of birds warble no longer.
             midnight, the   Moon
claws the supple skin of organized stone
  displaced
               where all the edges bloom
forth torrid froth of dappled light which kills no less than a brief life of matchflame. tenuous spar of wind on
the unserious twilight; bulge of death
in the stream — a body haul, rafting
  in compost; stench of all topple like
resins held loose in vats. rat **** becomes
           as inviting as moulding bread;
tantric music for no instrument, hoarse
cries unbeheld —

            until the flesh no longer flounders
pressed against sleep-shaped youngness
hewn lissome in the hours of no succor,

       modeling silence in the thrill of
this enthusiastic space,
           hands scouring muddied
  obscure, atremble,
      shadowless hours fill stomachs with
the plump word of rescue yet none
  of these fingers unwished the
ingenuity of dull gods — this twilight
  nor twinight could ever grive
in forethought, striking bells to signal birds
         to arrive again so we could feast
in  silver  fish, with bare hands scaled to callouses,
    
      looking at it twice-over, this battered yolk
of whiteness, with deeds of the viridian
   now atrill in new fragile woodworks

       lurching and
         ameliorating as we all
    stutter and sing
       haunts dabbing open
  lips of small wounds that
   wish to shut quietly,   almost
every threat of gray     or pummel of
   wind startles the flyblown ornate,
  
   hurrying us back to cornerless homes
where all photographs washed away,
    very few hang
               swayed by verdure
  of the gradual throne of sea
        curving perpetually the several stars
we have ignored for a while,
     where everything quite begins
    again to enthrall with a melodic
  leitmotif of the most tender of
       instances loose
            in mouths
                 and in endless recall
                  
                                               breathless—
For Tacloban, the derelict of Typhoon Yolanda.

2 years ago, typhoon Haiyan pummeled and ravished the Philippines, leaving Tacloban in complete disarray.
PK Wakefield Sep 2010
I,ve unclosed
                      (and
                             ­   i
                                  will speak
                                                      slowl­y
                                                               ­    trees

steeply uncrooked breathing 'gainst
the racing moon over the valley bending
swiftly thoughts of ungiant sprigs puckish
in the frailing summers wings

a wig of tender incandescent drops cavort
in silent wetness on petals the)

a cadence of caving murdered light
seamless fluid winsome dusting upon
the unserious lips of night flexing effortlessly
by their touch, and flaccid, upon mine
i am drugged
   of lilywhite tubes; crumbs of hushed love
a draught of limpid steam.    i

laced and foamy the jaw distends
PK Wakefield Nov 2010
were it as rippling as the techno static shoveled obdurately
in the volume of this writhing pit i'd sonic cavalierly with the
fairy dusting eyelids fluttering. stripping accurately the moisture
of my minute organs churning salty crystal obliqueness at the
stunning lounge seriously unserious fractals micturiting. hey it's
youth. what else?
PK Wakefield Apr 2012
girl necks feel like real smooth
under fingers a gentle spindle
a cool pillar of lust when you
creep up them into those tiniest
beginning hairs(at the starting
scalp a little bit courser than the
tousled ocean of finer silken rills
which pour fiercely from)and
you eat the completely small
and unserious round nub of the
back of their head and you pull
the whole teeming perfect sad
sphere into yours

                                and an entire
                                garden of
                                kissing erupts

                                          !
John okon Dec 2018
Never have I seen the moon turn off its light at night,
Never has it leaped into my room to chat with me or for a moment of unserious trite.
Always faithful to shine,
As similar to that of a slick wine.
Running down a stranger's throat,
Swilling as he sips and slurps - those eyes of his like that of a sneaky goat.
Never have I seen the moon turn off its light at night.

                                                Jahmenmuze..
As simple as thought but symbolical in every sense of night.
(The Greater Prairie Chicken: a grouse of open grassland, is known for its mating dance. Males display together in a communal lek, where they raise ear-like feathers above their heads, inflate orange sacs on the sides of their throats, and stutter-step around while making a deep hooting moan.)

So how you gonna keep ‘em
Down on the farm after they’d seen Paree?
After “displaying together” in
Their own private lek--
Communal though it was.
It’s May in Hemetucky.
I just got back from my
Twilight constitutional,
As Truman called it.
Harry—since I was born in 1949—
Tribute for my first Commander-in-Chief.
The moon was misted,
More than half full,
Myself half in the bag,
As they say.

As you know by know,
I live in one of those gated,
Golf-coursed, over-55
Lunatic Asylums,
A communal lek, as they say.
I’m stutter schlepping around the block
In my pajamas remembering that big sign,
So full of promise--ACTIVE SENIORS—
A veritable sexually promiscuous
Welcome Mat.
I made an assumption, you see,
That children of the 60s grown old
Would relish a life of legal **** in a
Gated sanctuary with hours upon hours of
“Let’s Hide the Pepperoni.”

I knew I missed those years,
That era of bra-burning &
Birth Control.
“*******,”
Wonton ******* & *******,
A bowl of Won-Ton carnality:
Wild abandon, mature ladies,
Their ******* in a ***,
At the bottom of their purse,
(Thank you, Joan Osborne)


Joan Osborne - Right Hand Man Lyrics | MetroLyrics
http://www.metrolyrics.com/right-hand-man-lyrics-joan-osborne.htmlLyrics to 'Right Hand Man' by Joan Osborne. Let me use your toothbrush / Have you got a clean shirt? / My ******* in a *** /at the bottom of my purse / I walk. (www.advertise/right-in-the-middle-of-*******-poem.com)

Yet, I languish here
Here in the now,
Having shown my cards too often.
After 10 years here no woman
Takes me seriously,
Given my unserious reputation,
Not to be taken seriously.
Which explains why I spend
So much of my time in Italy
Lately.
Jubelle Elisan Feb 2016
I don't fear trusting people, i fear ignorance. I fear disturbing others with my dramas because all people have something that cause them to worry. I know these can be just thoughts, but I hate it. I even remember the pain i felt when my classmate lied to me just not to share her paper, when my friend in third grade choses to sit next to my another classmate. You know? I fear that anyone may not be interested hearing me. I fear that they will not even say something towards me. I fear they will just still be disracted of other things rather than paying attention to what I said. I fear being misunderstood. I fear being judged as to why am I like this. It may be unserious to you, but its killing me. I know I still remember this two or three weeks from now. I can't just easily forget. I always say everything is fine. I can always fake a smile. Yes I always forgive. But the pain I felt every frustration just gets lethal. Its like I have a wound that never gets healed. I don't want this either. I always want to set myself free. Amputate envy. Stop every negativity cause I know I don't easily forget. Every pain reminds of another. One pain, then it all flashbacks like a kaleidoscope. Screaming to me.

Wish I could tell everything without crying. But no friends, I am fine. I'll justify this. Don't worry about me. Worry about every little thing in your lives. These were just thoughts.


I want to stop holding grudges. Help me I'm barely breathing.
Feb 29 2016 11:47
Eric Fraley Feb 2018
S.O.S.

We all used to fear the dark whether we admit it or not.
Just take a few seconds to develop your thoughts…
We used to fear getting lost
The fear of never being found
But then we grow up and our fears are flipped upside-down…
We went from being afraid of the dark,
To fearing spiders,
Then turn 18 and begin going out late,
Pulling all-nighters…
Now let's just think...
Sit-back…
And realize,
Other people could be our real-de-mise…
And since we're now talking about real-life,
Let's look at who's committed the most crimes…
And determine where evil sins really-have-been.
Terrorism provoked by optimism.
A race unwilling to combat conflict without bloodshed.
Unwilling in the fulfilling of world peace…
But instead…
Prefer to count the number of dead…
I am not afraid of the boogie man,
I am afraid of the rich man,
The religious man,
The army man and yes…
Even the police man,
And I know plenty of other people who also aren't a big fan…
I'm terrified because I just can’t-see-why…
So many people die within the borders of a country…
Protected by one of the world’s strongest military.



You see if I become a soldier,
The boogie man may not catch me but a bullet sure can.
Fathers and sons fighting to defend from the outside world…
One we think's so cold...
When children in our own schools have been on the receiving end…
Of gun men.
We look at the world around us and provoke hate,
Yet demand so much peace …
Then behind a closed gate  
We advance weaponry…
To greaten the casualties of our enemies...
Rather than promote farm fields in starving countries.
Think about this…
Now let's look at the sadistic statistics…
Two million seven hundred fifty-six thousand one hundred and fifty-three
That's how many human beings were killed in the in Conflicts Involving the Americans ever since the Revolutionary War happened...
Back in Seventeen Seventy-Five to the present-day Isis,
Not to mention,
The one war with the most casualties and gore
Is known to have the word civil in it and...
Started only because we were enslaving other men…
Need I say more ...
Don’t you wish we could rewind time?
Talk out the problems and maybe all those people would be fine…
Rather than found dead,
Counted,
Then put in a record sheet of weaponry…
To create an effective deterrent against a World-War-3…



We all know somewhere more evil will emerge
Encourage violence…
Form alliances…
And then eventually overpower provinces…
Before anyone deemed powerful can stop-all-this.
Now I’m not saying humanities a monster,
And the only threat to humanity is our own lack of civility,
Even though we hide nukes like every other powerful country,
Or that every American politician emphasizes on the greatness of education…
Yet lack willingness to lower the tuition…
And instead, raises it above the workingman's paycheck.
Causing them to slave on the weekends,
Feeling tired like he’s at his weakest,
Instead of spending time working on his dreams which are now just old friends.
Or the fact everyone blames our access to guns for crimes of society and then begin to obsess
When actually,
Way back when…
Firearms were created by men
Such pointlessness…
How everyone's so unserious and delirious…
Over the lifelessness of our distant relatives,
Our unofficial cousins and sacred brotherin.
WE ARE ONE RACE…
The Human Race,
And I can honestly say that the evil of humanity …
   Seems to outweigh the good when it comes to reality …


We all may hear these words and realize them but there truly just a warning.
You see I’ve been dreaming….
That this generation makes up for humanities sins,
Not punished with pain but are rewarded for kindness,
The reward of fixed bricks of a world rather than ones broke and crumbling; Stacked in an unstable mix of pain suffering lies and tricks.
You have it in you to stay true to what is good and what is great,
All I'm asking is not to succumb to the same fate…
Caused and created by the corrupt governments and dictatorships,
By racist haters and religious degraders,
The unimaginative politician,
The biased lawmen, and created by
Destructive weapons wielded by unmoral nations.
We are America
The land of the free,
Don't be afraid to be young and naive.
Let's make this the world of the free,
Rather than a world full of greed and one so full of need
But one closed off to the free will of evil….
“Freedom is never voluntarily given by the oppressor; it must be demanded by the oppressed” Said Martin Luther King Junior.
If only people had realized his words sooner.
He is an example that one man can change the world.
Don't let a destiny created by others unfold and take hold,
Sometimes a man must first walk alone and on his own path to show simply that he can,
And remember
Life won’t get easier…
You’ll just get stronger,
Holding onto dreams a lot longer than most can ponder so let's allow
Knowledge,
Success,
and Kindness…
Become the roots of our Happiness.
Because right now…
It’s just not fair you see…
That all these blaring sirens…
Are drowning out the sounds…
Of our sanctuary

I sincerely hope this is only temporary
Sirens Over Sanctuaries  is a spoken word speech that I wrote when I was a freshman in high school.
Qualyxian Quest Nov 2021
Some think our life unserious
Their practice: to laugh at themselves

I, however, delirious
So many books upon my shelves

Sacramento
Mission bells

                    Book of Kells
Qualyxian Quest Dec 2022
I'm a serious person
In an unserious world
I'd stop writing poems
For one woman girl

I love American music
But hate American guns
Above all
She was a lot of fun

Time is the Cross
Everything dies
George W. Bush
George W. Lies

Christmas is coming
Lights green and blue
Not much hope
2022

          Seattle U.
rstlss May 1
i know i can see past my own history
as it's something i consistently work through,
but for a moment, as you took my history for jokes,
i didn't know you

it was quick,
short,
unserious,
but i felt my soul shatter to a billion pieces
leaving me terrified,
lonely,
delirious.

i know i can see past through it,
i have always done so,
but oh my ******* god it hurts so much
it hurts, it hurts, it hurts so
i try to resort to therapeutic painting by numbers but i just end up having more panic attacks

— The End —