"unshorn" poems
to a friend
No! those days are gone away
And their hours are old and gray,
And their minutes buried all
Under the down-trodden pall
Of the leaves of many years:
Many times have winter's shears,
Frozen North, and chilling East,
Sounded tempests to the feast
Of the forest's whispering fleeces,
Since men knew nor rent nor leases.
No, the bugle sounds no more,
And the twanging bow no more;
Silent is the ivory shrill
Past the heath and up the hill;
There is no mid-forest laugh,
Where lone Echo gives the half
To some wight, amaz'd to hear
Jesting, deep in forest drear.
On the fairest time of June
You may go, with sun or moon,
Or the seven stars to light you,
Or the polar ray to right you;
But you never may behold
Little John, or Robin bold;
Never one, of all the clan,
Thrumming on an empty can
Some old hunting ditty, while
He doth his green way beguile
To fair hostess Merriment,
Down beside the pasture Trent;
For he left the merry tale
Messenger for spicy ale.
Gone, the merry morris din;
Gone, the song of Gamelyn;
Gone, the tough-belted outlaw
Idling in the "grenè shawe";
All are gone away and past!
And if Robin should be cast
Sudden from his turfed grave,
And if Marian should have
Once again her forest days,
She would weep, and he would craze:
He would swear, for all his oaks,
Fall'n beneath the dockyard strokes,
Have rotted on the briny seas;
She would weep that her wild bees
Sang not to her--strange! that honey
Can't be got without hard money!
So it is: yet let us sing,
Honour to the old bow-string!
Honour to the bugle-horn!
Honour to the woods unshorn!
Honour to the Lincoln green!
Honour to the archer keen!
Honour to tight little John,
And the horse he rode upon!
Honour to bold Robin Hood,
Sleeping in the underwood!
Honour to maid Marian,
And to all the Sherwood-clan!
Though their days have hurried by
Let us two a burden try.
3k
SWEET daughter of a rough and stormy fire,
**** Winter's blooming child ; delightful Spring !
Whose unshorn locks with leaves
And swelling buds are crowned ;
From the green islands of eternal youth,
(Crown'd with fresh blooms, and ever springing shade,)
Turn, hither turn thy step,
O thou, whose powerful voice
More sweet than softest touch of Doric reed,
Or Lydian flute, can sooth the madding winds,
And thro' the stormy deep
Breathe thy own tender calm.
Thee, best belov'd ! the ****** train await
With songs and festal rites, and joy to rove
Thy blooming wilds among,
And vales and dewy lawns,
With untir'd feet ; and cull thy earliest sweets
To weave fresh garlands for the glowing brow
Of him, the favour'd youth
That prompts their whisper'd sigh.
Unlock thy copious stores ; those tender showers
That drop their sweetness on the infant buds,
And silent dews that swell
The milky ear's green stem.
And feed the slowering osier's early shoots ;
And call those winds which thro' the whispering boughs
With warm and pleasant breath
Salute the blowing flowers.
Now let me sit beneath the whitening thorn,
And mark thy spreading tints steal o'er the dale ;
And watch with patient eye
Thy fair unfolding charms.
O nymph approach ! while yet the temperate sun
With bashful forehead, thro' the cool moist air
Throws his young maiden beams,
And with chaste kisses woes
The earth's fair ***** ; while the streaming veil
Of lucid clouds with kind and frequent shade
Protect thy modest blooms
From his severer blaze.
Sweet is thy reign, but short ; The red dog-star
Shall scorch thy tresses, and the mower's scythe
Thy greens, thy flow'rets all,
Remorseless shall destroy.
Reluctant shall I bid thee then farewel ;
For O, not all the Autumn's lap contains,
Nor Summer's ruddiest fruits,
Can aught for thee atone
Fair Spring ! whose simplest promise more delights
Than all their largest wealth, and thro' the heart
Each joy and new-born hope
With softest influence breathes.
2.2k
A moment recurring
does wash away
like a river rock
The smooth surface
of an eroded stone
is just as hard
as the abraded silence
that rivers
through loneliness
Sometimes terrified
of this foolish
blue moon heart;
of its constant
hunger
for whatever
it is it wants;
the way it stops
and starts ,..
like a revenant whisper
fanning
smoldering embers
of fallen stars
buried deeply
in the catacombs
of an unrequited heart
out of reach,
just a step away,
but close enough
to touch the crumbs
of some other's love
bestrewn sanguinely ―
marking the footprints
calling down
an unshorn pathway
never found
At a deserted crossroads,
many a moon
tiptoe past
inconspicuously;
unnoticed fallen stars
stagnate lightless
in a flash of darkness,
moving back in time
just standing still
harlon rivers ... March 2018
Mar 30, 2018
Mar 30, 2018 at 12:50 PM UTC
1. Headlights glowed like cigarette ends in the twilight
2. As soon as they winked out in the warm, weedy field, and the harsh engine noise snapped into silence, I began to cry.
3. Father stepped quietly towards me and I sniffed as I smelled the earth I was digging, the sweat I was dripping, the carcasses I was covering.
4. Beneath the distant moon Father paused, watching me sift dirt over the remains of two limp goldfish.
5. The morbid scene glittered as moonlight sparkled off my tears and the half-buried scaled.
6. A small tribute to their salty home.
7. As if on cue, the wind ruffled the tops of the grain in the neighboring unshorn field; the undulating stalks mimicked the ocean.
8. Their grave remains unmarked.
Oct 14, 2020
Oct 14, 2020 at 8:29 PM UTC
Perpetuousity of Motive is a
need, not everlasting but maintained
by highest virtue or a desire that is
lacking-- a kind word, halved and
suffixed with an E D
tame paliative of meaning reminds
us all that time's not one, but rather
two things: we reach out for it and
Sense it, but with our mind it is reborn like
each and every thought and deed's encased
in placenta unshorn-- the mind that
holds the key to life rotates what is
worn and evens out the treads below
the tires as we soar; that is, time
is body, time is mind. Two things in one.
More importantly and with impetus: time
IS
What has
Become.
Time is ending and beginning, hence your
time is old yet young.
Oct 16, 2011
Oct 16, 2011 at 11:23 PM UTC
I Am Guilty Of All My Failures
I take the blame for all I’ve done;
Own up to all those failures mine;
Failures from:
Naivetể and laziness,
Unworldliness
An focus-less
Yet I’ve managed to fulfill
Some crude achievements,
Accomplishing on intuition:
Not a bad guide, nor a good one.
All sits in the readiness;
Instinct in the readiness,
Prowess in the readiness.
Even if there’d been instruction
I’d have had to wait it out
Until my twenties – eight or seven
When the background synthesized
Into a foreground wise.
Inborn, unshorn weaknesses
That held one back,
In untold ways,
I could say, ***** it!”
Or complete the work
To fight off other frailties;
Develop and maintain
A lively strain
Of concentrative energies,
So that my foibles will be few-er.
Mea culpa! Mea culpa!
I say, “Do it!”
I Am Guilty Of All My Failures 3.27.2018 Circling Round Egos; Circling Round Energies; I Is Always You Is We;
Mar 27, 2018
Mar 27, 2018 at 6:55 AM UTC
Am I too much?
Hard to swallow, a bitter pill?
Am I raw and unprocessed,
Undiluted, concentrated,
Too spicy for your stomach?
Good.
Choke on it.
I won’t cut myself
To bite-size pieces.
I am not a convenient product.
My feathers are not plucked,
My hair is unshorn,
My feet are unshod,
And the muscle of my thigh
Is for kicking, not meat.
Do you not like the taste?
Poor spoiled glutton,
You cannot acquire it.
Find your refined sugar elsewhere –
I do not come pre-packaged.
Jan 11, 2025
Jan 11, 2025 at 12:58 PM UTC
Mine is a river of smooth sienna and yours is unshorn ivory. I’d love to
swim easy on your skin for a while, to feel it on a molecular
level. If I could travel your body, microsize myself and
embark upon a pilgrimage over your organs and
soul, I’d lay in my canoe cruising down
arteries listening to the music
of your systems. I would
bring plenty of books
to read and water
without
ice.
Aug 12, 2014
Aug 12, 2014 at 6:03 PM UTC
So you want a ******* piece.
A piece of my body? A malfunction?
Then I’ll cut into myself with half chewed nails
And the bread knife by my bed.
I’ll pry out my hope for you.
I’ll pry out this malfunction
For your hungry eyes,
I’ll **** into your voyeurism,
And I’ll cough into your open mouths,
And I’ll pour my hate, the me that you hate
Over your tongue and down your
Quivering throat.
What doesn’t work on me?
My **** doesn’t work after days and days
Of shoveling draino, baby laxative, and *******
Into my face.
My legs don’t work after leaving
The ninth funeral I’ve been to this year,
In a black suit that’s threadbare
Far before it’s time.
My heart doesn’t work after loving,
And loving, and
Loving,
And having her **** my best friend.
I’ve seen myself starve.
I’ve seen myself die.
I’ve seen versions of myself
Come and go like setting and rising suns,
Waxing and waning moons,
That I could count a thousand ******* years
Of terror by their deaths and births
Have my hope, darlings.
Care for it and love it,
And wipe the blood off it.
It is all I have left to give
To you, this hope.
It will remain unwrapped,
Unribboned, unshorn, and
Bare. For you.
I give you my hope.
Jul 7, 2014
Jul 7, 2014 at 3:57 AM UTC
misrepresenting my joy quotient
as it seems I am living in a dumpster
coated with grime and debris
yesterday’s banana peelings
moldy coffee grounds
act like pepper flakes in my teeth
unshorn and raggedy
ripped jeans soot covered…..
it’s just not the case
as my cup
runnith over –
it is east of easy to ease into elation
at least for me
so when I find myself brooding
I embrace the experience
as an artist
as a sculptor
as a balanced human….
As I have a theory:
every atom that creates energy
which is anything in the known universe…
is made up of both positively
and negatively
charged particles
these particles are in balance
or the whole thing falls apart
(see nuclear fusion and fission)…..
therefore,
in order to be a balanced human
we must embrace both the positive
and negative aspects of life….
this marries itself to the idea
perception is reality
and what you perceive as
negative
for another,
might be the bee’s knees
in their eyes…..
which means all balance
is based off personal interpretation
or good or bad
plus or minus
positive or negative…
but Sam, what does this mean?
if it feels wrong to you, don’t do it….
if it feels right, do it…..
so long as these actions do not interfere
with choices of the other humans
you are guaranteed
heaven on earth –
I have lately been ending many social media postings with this gem:
But seriously, what the **** do I know –
May 18, 2016
May 18, 2016 at 5:54 PM UTC
Disregard
My neighbour doesn’t till the land anymore he has sold
it to developers, thought he had got rid of his animals,
I was shocked and dismayed when he led a mule out of
the stable where it had stood, in the dark, for two years
Standing there in the courtyard it was clear that it had
lost interest in life, the winter sun that shone into its
eyes met no reflection, blind and dumb it could hardly
stand on unshorn hooves.
There was a long silence no one looked at the beast till
the truck came to take it away, up the plank it walked
offered no resistance, a being so utterly broken that it
could never be repaired
I looked at my neighbour in the hope of seeing regrets
or shame in his face, there were none, and it struck me
that if humanity has no compassion for all life what hope
have we got to find deliverance?
Aug 31, 2016
Aug 31, 2016 at 5:59 AM UTC