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Tammy M Darby Dec 2013
Charge in bravely
Release the components of intent
Seek justice long in coming
Press steadily forward
Refusing to relent
Contumacious in action and thought
Until the last drop of courage is spent

Demand respect from enemies
If given with honor
Return in kind the same
But by no means or reason
Ever concede the game

Instead
Cry Chaos
Inflict stinging blows
Focused
This strange power you now posses
Take hold
Scream chaos in defiance
Unsheath your sword

(This is the result of reading Shakespeare)
My new word for the day   Contumacious    (rebellious or defiant in nature)

This poem is copyrighted and stored in author base. All material subject to Copyright Infringement laws
Section 512(c)(3) of the U.S. Copyright
Act, 17 U.S.C. S512(c)(3), Tammy M. Darby
Full many a dreary hour have I past,
My brain bewildered, and my mind o'ercast
With heaviness; in seasons when I've thought
No spherey strains by me could e'er be caught
From the blue dome, though I to dimness gaze
On the far depth where sheeted lightning plays;
Or, on the wavy grass outstretched supinely,
Pry '**** the stars, to strive to think divinely:
That I should never hear Apollo's song,
Though feathery clouds were floating all along
The purple west, and, two bright streaks between,
The golden lyre itself were dimly seen:
That the still murmur of the honey bee
Would never teach a rural song to me:
That the bright glance from beauty's eyelids slanting
Would never make a lay of mine enchanting,
Or warm my breast with ardour to unfold
Some tale of love and arms in time of old.

But there are times, when those that love the bay,
Fly from all sorrowing far, far away;
A sudden glow comes on them, nought they see
In water, earth, or air, but poesy.
It has been said, dear George, and true I hold it,
(For knightly Spenser to Libertas told it,)
That when a Poet is in such a trance,
In air her sees white coursers paw, and prance,
Bestridden of gay knights, in gay apparel,
Who at each other tilt in playful quarrel,
And what we, ignorantly, sheet-lightning call,
Is the swift opening of their wide portal,
When the bright warder blows his trumpet clear,
Whose tones reach nought on earth but Poet's ear.
When these enchanted portals open wide,
And through the light the horsemen swiftly glide,
The Poet's eye can reach those golden halls,
And view the glory of their festivals:
Their ladies fair, that in the distance seem
Fit for the silv'ring of a seraph's dream;
Their rich brimmed goblets, that incessant run
Like the bright spots that move about the sun;
And, when upheld, the wine from each bright jar
Pours with the lustre of a falling star.
Yet further off, are dimly seen their bowers,
Of which, no mortal eye can reach the flowers;
And 'tis right just, for well Apollo knows
'Twould make the Poet quarrel with the rose.
All that's revealed from that far seat of blisses
Is the clear fountains' interchanging kisses,
As gracefully descending, light and thin,
Like silver streaks across a dolphin's fin,
When he upswimmeth from the coral caves,
And sports with half his tail above the waves.

These wonders strange he sees, and many more,
Whose head is pregnant with poetic lore.
Should he upon an evening ramble fare
With forehead to the soothing breezes bare,
Would he nought see but the dark, silent blue
With all its diamonds trembling through and through?
Or the coy moon, when in the waviness
Of whitest clouds she does her beauty dress,
And staidly paces higher up, and higher,
Like a sweet nun in holy-day attire?
Ah, yes! much more would start into his sight—
The revelries and mysteries of night:
And should I ever see them, I will tell you
Such tales as needs must with amazement spell you.

These are the living pleasures of the bard:
But richer far posterity's reward.
What does he murmur with his latest breath,
While his proud eye looks though the film of death?
"What though I leave this dull and earthly mould,
Yet shall my spirit lofty converse hold
With after times.—The patriot shall feel
My stern alarum, and unsheath his steel;
Or, in the senate thunder out my numbers
To startle princes from their easy slumbers.
The sage will mingle with each moral theme
My happy thoughts sententious; he will teem
With lofty periods when my verses fire him,
And then I'll stoop from heaven to inspire him.
Lays have I left of such a dear delight
That maids will sing them on their bridal night.
Gay villagers, upon a morn of May,
When they have tired their gentle limbs with play
And formed a snowy circle on the grass,
And placed in midst of all that lovely lass
Who chosen is their queen,—with her fine head
Crowned with flowers purple, white, and red:
For there the lily, and the musk-rose, sighing,
Are emblems true of hapless lovers dying:
Between her *******, that never yet felt trouble,
A bunch of violets full blown, and double,
Serenely sleep:—she from a casket takes
A little book,—and then a joy awakes
About each youthful heart,—with stifled cries,
And rubbing of white hands, and sparkling eyes:
For she's to read a tale of hopes, and fears;
One that I fostered in my youthful years:
The pearls, that on each glist'ning circlet sleep,
Must ever and anon with silent creep,
Lured by the innocent dimples. To sweet rest
Shall the dear babe, upon its mother's breast,
Be lulled with songs of mine. Fair world, adieu!
Thy dales, and hills, are fading from my view:
Swiftly I mount, upon wide spreading pinions,
Far from the narrow bound of thy dominions.
Full joy I feel, while thus I cleave the air,
That my soft verse will charm thy daughters fair,
And warm thy sons!" Ah, my dear friend and brother,
Could I, at once, my mad ambition smother,
For tasting joys like these, sure I should be
Happier, and dearer to society.
At times, 'tis true, I've felt relief from pain
When some bright thought has darted through my brain:
Through all that day I've felt a greater pleasure
Than if I'd brought to light a hidden treasure.
As to my sonnets, though none else should heed them,
I feel delighted, still, that you should read them.
Of late, too, I have had much calm enjoyment,
Stretched on the grass at my best loved employment
Of scribbling lines for you. These things I thought
While, in my face, the freshest breeze I caught.
E'en now I'm pillowed on a bed of flowers
That crowns a lofty clift, which proudly towers
Above the ocean-waves, The stalks, and blades,
Chequer my tablet with their quivering shades.
On one side is a field of drooping oats,
Through which the poppies show their scarlet coats;
So pert and useless, that they bring to mind
The scarlet coats that pester human-kind.
And on the other side, outspread, is seen
Ocean's blue mantle streaked with purple, and green.
Now 'tis I see a canvassed ship, and now
Mark the bright silver curling round her prow.
I see the lark dowm-dropping to his nest,
And the broad winged sea-gull never at rest;
For when no more he spreads his feathers free,
His breast is dancing on the restless sea.
Now I direct my eyes into the west,
Which at this moment is in sunbeams drest:
Why westward turn? 'Twas but to say adieu!
'Twas but to kiss my hand, dear George, to you!
mark jarrad Sep 2010
No more to be ..
No more to tell..
Imprisoned in immortal hell
I.. the reaper with the scythe
A  final kiss , none survive
Glares on me a crimson light
I cast no shadow in the night
You are young whilst i am old
I steal your warmth..leave you cold
Fear me , i shall take your life
Unsheath the sword , wet  the scythe
My name is death , i walk this land
life's  journey ends at my command
Your soul is mine and free to sell
No more to be ..
No more to tell ..
Ron Gavalik May 2018
Calling out dead poets
as sexists or rapists or users
is the opposite of woke enlightenment.
The poet’s job is not to censor
his experiences or his madness
for sanitized comforts.
The poet’s truth is his gift
of insight, a naked wisdom
of hard love and difficult choices.
Narrow fools so often absorb
this sweat and blood poured onto the page.
After their souls are satisfied,
that’s when the fools unsheath
the long sword of ignorance
and ****** the blade square
in the poet’s back.
Read more. PittsburghPoet.com
Natasha Teller May 2014
ian anderson wears my father's face,
my small hands in his work-worn palms
as he sings to me: war-child,
dance the days and nights away...


LATER.

my home is barefoot wandering baker street
in the dirt-path days before arthur conan doyle,
rabbits running in the gutter,
arms full of tea-cups,

praying to the gods of war
at the chapel of the bright city mile
on a dusty sunday afternoon--

and every song is home:
like the inside of a tavern,
yellow candlelight dancing across the wooden walls.
i see falstaff, ruddy-faced and drunk in the corner,
roland, passed out with a cup in hand,
my father, the minstrel in the gallery,
smile on his face, piping out a tune.

it is because of him i am a valkyrie, a war-child.
it is by his virtue that i brandish a sword,
that i stand at attention, that my back is unbroken,
that i give no armistice--
and he taught me how
(though it seems inconsequential)
to play solitaire.

OF COURSE.

and while the horses wander the hillside,
while i become the poet and unsheath my pen,
while i join the stage and leave the audience,

i know-- always--
i can follow the flute home.
Listening to "Thick as a Brick" today and realizing that Jethro Tull music has a very specific feel to me. I was raised on Tull music, thanks to my father, and have very fond memories of singing along to the War Child album with him as a very young child. I want to improve this-- this was an attempt to spit a draft onto paper. With Tull music, I'm often reminded of three distinct things: 1.) for some reason, I always pictured Ian Anderson as my father (and, in their old age now, they actually look quite alike), 2.) I get a Falstaff feel, for some reason-- tavern music from the fifteenth century? 3.) Home, undeniably, like I could climb up and make a bed for myself in the lyrics.
Bows N' Arrows Jul 2015
Distributed.
Broken pieces.
My soul unsheath'es;
Shattered pieces
Of glass around my home.
I'm alone, as always, torn
On brightened Wednesdays .
Pieces of him lingered: His cologne,
His scent now a meager
Descent.
I'm dazzled by his long-
Remembered brilliance!
Silent as an iguana, mismatched
In a broken melancholia.
Scarlet Niamh Sep 2016
Shred this paper weight hanging from my mind
and watch me change into someone better.
The mists will clear and I will heal, becoming
new again. The colour will rush back to
the earth and the grey sky will evaporate
into vast stretches of iris. The deathly
creep of rot will fade and I will change,
watch me change into someone kinder. My
evolving personality will cause
this murky world to be shrouded with light,
to be clouded with right. Hatred will dissipate
and so will the hatred I hold for myself.
I will unbutton this skin of self loathing
and unsheath the gleaming within. I will spread
my wings and be free from this cage of expectation,
watch me change into someone stronger.
~~ Life will change you. Let it. ~~
Jordan Stanley Mar 2019
Questions flowing down
the river

piling underneath my feet

Push together, like a mountain

to form the blade that
I unsheath

To find the questions that I
seek

the River pours to you and me

To find the answers, you will plea

the rivers here for you and me


To find the questions that I
Seek

the River pours to you and me

To find the answers, you will plea

the rivers here for you and me


look, it’s only you and me
there’s others too, but they
will see

You are the one you want to be

and you decide reality
Joanna Disch Feb 2014
The Hunt
Joanna Disch

Have you ever heard the saying
“You become
like the five people you spend
the most time with”?
Speaking from experience,
they’re right.

You don’t even realize
the pit you’re falling into
Until one day
You’re stumbling over your words
After being confronted about
the nasty rumor you’ve been spreading.

You see, it’s a slow process,
at first,
you’re still kind,
their critique of community
makes you squirm.

But as you become blinded
by your desperation for human contact
Your guard is lowered.
You want to speak like them,
dress like them,
act like them,
As long as you’re not alone.

They ensnare you with seeming acceptance and phony love.
“They’ve made me who I am today!”
You’ll say.
And you’ll be right.
They created a ruthless hunter,
Just like them.

What you fail to realize
is that while you are slandering your peers,
they’re picking your personality
to pieces.
They’re sharpening the knife
preparing to strike.
Tensed for their
chance to unsheath their claws and go for the ****.
When the time comes,
you won’t expect it,
you’ll think you’ve found
your best friends for life.
But then they leave you broken and alone.
Right back where you started.

But it’s alright.
Sometimes,
in the darkest times
is when you find your light.
I'm starved screams the blank page on the table.  I need food....maybe some italiano....aspeta, aspeta.

Aspeta... perché.  Fine then..anything...even two syllable hillbilly road ****.... anything...just unsheath that pen and feed me.
summer to summer
year to year
moment upon moment, I remember you
unveiling the open secrets of your heart
like leaves upon a tree
cascading upon me
in the fall
I read you
your tongue wrote my sorrows
my pains you kissed with pleasures untold
within your realms of beauty
I basked
and I forgot myself
forgot the aches of time and temper
how hot the summers had become
how dry they became with no lover to bear
but you
you were more than lover to me

pure... inspiration

a forbidden flower, nested
'pon yonder peak, in meadow's midst
treacherous though the journey
in my mind, the ease was paltry
for we met on bridges between us
in visions of grandeur
visions beyond vision
where your flesh was as my flesh
for when I caressed myself, I felt you
your hand was my hand
and your words were my night song
and your grace was my quilt
in the terror of being alone
you covered my nakedness
my fear of a life lived alone, dying alone
you wed me with wonders of

what if

and I paced at the doorstep of desire
bouquet of dreams in hand
before me, as though a fencer
but no walls between myself and thine
and though my thorns may *****
and my beauty be that of a man
a woman's touch I'd unsheath in greeting you
to profess knowing you as you
so deliciously
know yourself
to touch you as if you wert my teacher
and tame you as a man tempers his heart,
should he dare
trust a woman with his soul
and yet

these are naught but fancies,
my dear

naught but frightful desires
unkempt
off the shelf of the gorge between us

still

were I more than I am
I would guard these artful mementos
of heartfelt wanting
as a promise to you
despite your
forlorn embrace

and in the moment of meeting
we would speak these words together
because you'd always have known my thoughts
how could you not,
since you are
the woman
of my dreams...
I always a step behind putting anything into action, in this time of my life.
I'm always feeling, or rather, knowing that I am inadequate.

And the only comfort I have of late is to have no quarrel with that fact.
To not fight being less than capable.

As I've experienced, in wanting love, I always and welcomed, but have never been kept. I've always been ill-equipped.

We men can complain about not having enough money, the right haircut and fashion sense, the right "rizz" (it's a dictionary word now, good God, we are poor in spirit!), the right height, the perfect car, the perfect home to host our counterparts, the right cologne, the right timing, the right smile, the right sensitive, but meaning, touch...

And yet, in my estimation, more than not being Mr. Right, I've experienced not being who 'I' want to, and need to, be. I've searched within myself, in the times when I was lucky enough to meet a woman who would share more than conversation with me, that without my own heart being truly open to letting go of all my doubts, my struggles, my stubbornness, and my ever-present temptations for 'more', I believe I would have more than settled by now.

And, of course, I've seen that same heart not only fail in love, but in the grand scheme of life. I've seen myself crushed by the weight of mere existential questions, let alone true, nightmarish challenges in human affairs.

So, this poem was, in essence, a demonstration of how simple desire can be, but how complex the mission to close that gap between desire and true love is.

I've often been ireful with the phrase:
"All is fair in love and war."

Yet, if there's one matter that I can assert is integral to love, as it is to war, it is that one cannot love unprepared. One must be READY to love. Just the same that if one must war, one cannot war unprepared.

I can imagine that the greatest trick an enemy could pull upon a person is to introduce one to one's soul mate either too early, or at the word time in one's life, despite the prepared circumstances and dispositions.

Given the way life can lead us around and away from that which is meant for us, one could spend another decade looking for love before coming across one's soul mate again in, hopefully, fairer climes.

With all that said, I pray you all have what it takes to work for love beyond what I've been capable of.

I see myself as not being all that interested because, despite my wishes, I am behind far too much work in life to afford being interested in by degrees of genuine effort that can even begin to match my interests.

As always,
enjoy!



DEW
Thebeau Feb 2018
I tried to overstep my bounds,
I tried to spend the nights helping where I had no jurisdiction,
I spent many nights listening to tears that never ended,
I spent many nights feeling the tears roll down my cheeks,

I burned my tounge on the harsh truth I delivered to you,
I deprived the truth of its secrecy,
I handed you a box and told you it was the future,
You opened the box and discovered that it was empty,

You didn't know what I was doing then,
You still may not now,
You didn't know my motives,
Nor may you ever,
But they were coated in positive intention,
And rotted into a negative result,

Never did I try to hurt you,
Never did I unsheath the knife,
Never did I open the mind to the negative word,
Never did I stop the result,

I handed you a box and told you it was the future,
You opened the box and discovered that it was empty,
What I forgot to tell you is that it was my future that was in the box,
Not yours.
A   sight,   a   sound,   an   unheard   voice,
Remembrance's   velvet   claws   unsheath
An   insistent   rapping   on   the
Unsuspecting   mind.

Still'd   echoes   unshackle
The   chains   of   suspended   Time.
In   faint   rumbling   murmurs
Stalk   and   violate   the   consciousness

The   dust   off   lost   days   is   stirred
Like   the   faint   rustlings   of   leaves
Touched   by   the   infant   breeze
Presage   the   storm.

A   first   stray,   drifting   thought
Arrays   the   splendour   of   memories
A   multitude   of   choices   blossom
Like   buds   with   morning   dew.

The   strains   of   lost   songs,
Innocently   echo   from   beneath
The   burden   of   accumulated   years
In   untutored   crescendo.

A   sight,   a   sound,   an   unheard   voice
Transformed the   music   of   forgotten   days,
Lightened   mood;   Time   forsakes   barren   Winter
In   the   embrace   of   an   imagined   Spring.
Love dies like an assassin's victim: caught
completely unaware, the thud of a bullet to the head,
mouth gaping to pronounce its own name. The heart
pumps its leaking reservoir of warm blue blood; the final
breath gurgles in the chest like a baby nursing.

Love dies because we create it in our own image:
two become one become two again. We see ourselves
darkly in its bright, believing face. We wrap our bodies
around it, lusting for ecstasy, with no room left for
the self, for the other. Like St. George and the dragon, we

unsheath a righteous broadsword to make a surgical
separation of locked *****. We dread what we wish for.
We lose our world in passion, empty-handed when
the end inevitably comes. We crave an eternal love,
but are fit merely for a temporal one. Time is love's assassin.
Bobby Copeland Oct 2020
If words could transport, you'd be here,
Come south again romantically,
With Amorous Particulars,
To whisper most emphatically,
Your quil gon penetrate the veil.
Good English words cannot define
The love you sing, the way you wail
This canted language of the vine.
I'll wet your lips with syllables
Your other wouldn't understand.
Come taste new pleasures, break some rules,
And move until you come undone.
These bits well moisten underthings,
Come be my love, unsheath your wings.
Words And Phrases
urban dictionary
Yenson Dec 2023
play it out
with the menchilds
at your local exchange level
where your brain drains are mutual
and thought processes wired alike in base tones

think you not
in my premise alignment
random bewitched strangers
in silly staged drama resonate at will
all roads do not lead to Rome and your latin is crude

you err in epics
for my mind collects
worthy offerings from sages
not whimsical ***** dreams of fisherwomen
nor does it keep rooms for gainsays of pawn hostesses

speak to brain
thats one of your ilk
show to eyes sharing your vision
our tongues differ and my sight is discerning
I cannot see darkness in light for it fails to my gaze

a spartans sword
knows craftmanship at best
and made not to slice cheap offcuts
or gleams unsheath in frivolous sways
where unknowns in empty gestures frolic in wisps

go play commons
where your menchilds
hear your laboured whispers
go give brews of your mud chalice
to your kinfolks with the penchant for dregs

a chasm rears
in deep faithless divide
incantations are your limitations
your altar rebuked as are your rituals
vain priestesses and witless oracles prancing in disregard
what fool feeds the hands that bites him....or see beauty in enemies.....or sensibilities in nonsensicals

— The End —