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ENDYMION.

A Poetic Romance.

"THE STRETCHED METRE OF AN AN ANTIQUE SONG."
INSCRIBED TO THE MEMORY OF THOMAS CHATTERTON.

Book I

A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:
Its loveliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.
Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing
A flowery band to bind us to the earth,
Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth
Of noble natures, of the gloomy days,
Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darkened ways
Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all,
Some shape of beauty moves away the pall
From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon,
Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boon
For simple sheep; and such are daffodils
With the green world they live in; and clear rills
That for themselves a cooling covert make
'Gainst the hot season; the mid forest brake,
Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms:
And such too is the grandeur of the dooms
We have imagined for the mighty dead;
All lovely tales that we have heard or read:
An endless fountain of immortal drink,
Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink.

  Nor do we merely feel these essences
For one short hour; no, even as the trees
That whisper round a temple become soon
Dear as the temple's self, so does the moon,
The passion poesy, glories infinite,
Haunt us till they become a cheering light
Unto our souls, and bound to us so fast,
That, whether there be shine, or gloom o'ercast,
They alway must be with us, or we die.

  Therefore, 'tis with full happiness that I
Will trace the story of Endymion.
The very music of the name has gone
Into my being, and each pleasant scene
Is growing fresh before me as the green
Of our own vallies: so I will begin
Now while I cannot hear the city's din;
Now while the early budders are just new,
And run in mazes of the youngest hue
About old forests; while the willow trails
Its delicate amber; and the dairy pails
Bring home increase of milk. And, as the year
Grows lush in juicy stalks, I'll smoothly steer
My little boat, for many quiet hours,
With streams that deepen freshly into bowers.
Many and many a verse I hope to write,
Before the daisies, vermeil rimm'd and white,
Hide in deep herbage; and ere yet the bees
Hum about globes of clover and sweet peas,
I must be near the middle of my story.
O may no wintry season, bare and hoary,
See it half finished: but let Autumn bold,
With universal tinge of sober gold,
Be all about me when I make an end.
And now at once, adventuresome, I send
My herald thought into a wilderness:
There let its trumpet blow, and quickly dress
My uncertain path with green, that I may speed
Easily onward, thorough flowers and ****.

  Upon the sides of Latmos was outspread
A mighty forest; for the moist earth fed
So plenteously all ****-hidden roots
Into o'er-hanging boughs, and precious fruits.
And it had gloomy shades, sequestered deep,
Where no man went; and if from shepherd's keep
A lamb strayed far a-down those inmost glens,
Never again saw he the happy pens
Whither his brethren, bleating with content,
Over the hills at every nightfall went.
Among the shepherds, 'twas believed ever,
That not one fleecy lamb which thus did sever
From the white flock, but pass'd unworried
By angry wolf, or pard with prying head,
Until it came to some unfooted plains
Where fed the herds of Pan: ay great his gains
Who thus one lamb did lose. Paths there were many,
Winding through palmy fern, and rushes fenny,
And ivy banks; all leading pleasantly
To a wide lawn, whence one could only see
Stems thronging all around between the swell
Of turf and slanting branches: who could tell
The freshness of the space of heaven above,
Edg'd round with dark tree tops? through which a dove
Would often beat its wings, and often too
A little cloud would move across the blue.

  Full in the middle of this pleasantness
There stood a marble altar, with a tress
Of flowers budded newly; and the dew
Had taken fairy phantasies to strew
Daisies upon the sacred sward last eve,
And so the dawned light in pomp receive.
For 'twas the morn: Apollo's upward fire
Made every eastern cloud a silvery pyre
Of brightness so unsullied, that therein
A melancholy spirit well might win
Oblivion, and melt out his essence fine
Into the winds: rain-scented eglantine
Gave temperate sweets to that well-wooing sun;
The lark was lost in him; cold springs had run
To warm their chilliest bubbles in the grass;
Man's voice was on the mountains; and the mass
Of nature's lives and wonders puls'd tenfold,
To feel this sun-rise and its glories old.

  Now while the silent workings of the dawn
Were busiest, into that self-same lawn
All suddenly, with joyful cries, there sped
A troop of little children garlanded;
Who gathering round the altar, seemed to pry
Earnestly round as wishing to espy
Some folk of holiday: nor had they waited
For many moments, ere their ears were sated
With a faint breath of music, which ev'n then
Fill'd out its voice, and died away again.
Within a little space again it gave
Its airy swellings, with a gentle wave,
To light-hung leaves, in smoothest echoes breaking
Through copse-clad vallies,--ere their death, oer-taking
The surgy murmurs of the lonely sea.

  And now, as deep into the wood as we
Might mark a lynx's eye, there glimmered light
Fair faces and a rush of garments white,
Plainer and plainer shewing, till at last
Into the widest alley they all past,
Making directly for the woodland altar.
O kindly muse! let not my weak tongue faulter
In telling of this goodly company,
Of their old piety, and of their glee:
But let a portion of ethereal dew
Fall on my head, and presently unmew
My soul; that I may dare, in wayfaring,
To stammer where old Chaucer used to sing.

  Leading the way, young damsels danced along,
Bearing the burden of a shepherd song;
Each having a white wicker over brimm'd
With April's tender younglings: next, well trimm'd,
A crowd of shepherds with as sunburnt looks
As may be read of in Arcadian books;
Such as sat listening round Apollo's pipe,
When the great deity, for earth too ripe,
Let his divinity o'er-flowing die
In music, through the vales of Thessaly:
Some idly trailed their sheep-hooks on the ground,
And some kept up a shrilly mellow sound
With ebon-tipped flutes: close after these,
Now coming from beneath the forest trees,
A venerable priest full soberly,
Begirt with ministring looks: alway his eye
Stedfast upon the matted turf he kept,
And after him his sacred vestments swept.
From his right hand there swung a vase, milk-white,
Of mingled wine, out-sparkling generous light;
And in his left he held a basket full
Of all sweet herbs that searching eye could cull:
Wild thyme, and valley-lilies whiter still
Than Leda's love, and cresses from the rill.
His aged head, crowned with beechen wreath,
Seem'd like a poll of ivy in the teeth
Of winter ****. Then came another crowd
Of shepherds, lifting in due time aloud
Their share of the ditty. After them appear'd,
Up-followed by a multitude that rear'd
Their voices to the clouds, a fair wrought car,
Easily rolling so as scarce to mar
The freedom of three steeds of dapple brown:
Who stood therein did seem of great renown
Among the throng. His youth was fully blown,
Shewing like Ganymede to manhood grown;
And, for those simple times, his garments were
A chieftain king's: beneath his breast, half bare,
Was hung a silver bugle, and between
His nervy knees there lay a boar-spear keen.
A smile was on his countenance; he seem'd,
To common lookers on, like one who dream'd
Of idleness in groves Elysian:
But there were some who feelingly could scan
A lurking trouble in his nether lip,
And see that oftentimes the reins would slip
Through his forgotten hands: then would they sigh,
And think of yellow leaves, of owlets cry,
Of logs piled solemnly.--Ah, well-a-day,
Why should our young Endymion pine away!

  Soon the assembly, in a circle rang'd,
Stood silent round the shrine: each look was chang'd
To sudden veneration: women meek
Beckon'd their sons to silence; while each cheek
Of ****** bloom paled gently for slight fear.
Endymion too, without a forest peer,
Stood, wan, and pale, and with an awed face,
Among his brothers of the mountain chase.
In midst of all, the venerable priest
Eyed them with joy from greatest to the least,
And, after lifting up his aged hands,
Thus spake he: "Men of Latmos! shepherd bands!
Whose care it is to guard a thousand flocks:
Whether descended from beneath the rocks
That overtop your mountains; whether come
From vallies where the pipe is never dumb;
Or from your swelling downs, where sweet air stirs
Blue hare-bells lightly, and where prickly furze
Buds lavish gold; or ye, whose precious charge
Nibble their fill at ocean's very marge,
Whose mellow reeds are touch'd with sounds forlorn
By the dim echoes of old Triton's horn:
Mothers and wives! who day by day prepare
The scrip, with needments, for the mountain air;
And all ye gentle girls who foster up
Udderless lambs, and in a little cup
Will put choice honey for a favoured youth:
Yea, every one attend! for in good truth
Our vows are wanting to our great god Pan.
Are not our lowing heifers sleeker than
Night-swollen mushrooms? Are not our wide plains
Speckled with countless fleeces? Have not rains
Green'd over April's lap? No howling sad
Sickens our fearful ewes; and we have had
Great bounty from Endymion our lord.
The earth is glad: the merry lark has pour'd
His early song against yon breezy sky,
That spreads so clear o'er our solemnity."

  Thus ending, on the shrine he heap'd a spire
Of teeming sweets, enkindling sacred fire;
Anon he stain'd the thick and spongy sod
With wine, in honour of the shepherd-god.
Now while the earth was drinking it, and while
Bay leaves were crackling in the fragrant pile,
And gummy frankincense was sparkling bright
'Neath smothering parsley, and a hazy light
Spread greyly eastward, thus a chorus sang:

  "O THOU, whose mighty palace roof doth hang
From jagged trunks, and overshadoweth
Eternal whispers, glooms, the birth, life, death
Of unseen flowers in heavy peacefulness;
Who lov'st to see the hamadryads dress
Their ruffled locks where meeting hazels darken;
And through whole solemn hours dost sit, and hearken
The dreary melody of bedded reeds--
In desolate places, where dank moisture breeds
The pipy hemlock to strange overgrowth;
Bethinking thee, how melancholy loth
Thou wast to lose fair Syrinx--do thou now,
By thy love's milky brow!
By all the trembling mazes that she ran,
Hear us, great Pan!

  "O thou, for whose soul-soothing quiet, turtles
Passion their voices cooingly '**** myrtles,
What time thou wanderest at eventide
Through sunny meadows, that outskirt the side
Of thine enmossed realms: O thou, to whom
Broad leaved fig trees even now foredoom
Their ripen'd fruitage; yellow girted bees
Their golden honeycombs; our village leas
Their fairest-blossom'd beans and poppied corn;
The chuckling linnet its five young unborn,
To sing for thee; low creeping strawberries
Their summer coolness; pent up butterflies
Their freckled wings; yea, the fresh budding year
All its completions--be quickly near,
By every wind that nods the mountain pine,
O forester divine!

  "Thou, to whom every fawn and satyr flies
For willing service; whether to surprise
The squatted hare while in half sleeping fit;
Or upward ragged precipices flit
To save poor lambkins from the eagle's maw;
Or by mysterious enticement draw
Bewildered shepherds to their path again;
Or to tread breathless round the frothy main,
And gather up all fancifullest shells
For thee to tumble into Naiads' cells,
And, being hidden, laugh at their out-peeping;
Or to delight thee with fantastic leaping,
The while they pelt each other on the crown
With silvery oak apples, and fir cones brown--
By all the echoes that about thee ring,
Hear us, O satyr king!

  "O Hearkener to the loud clapping shears,
While ever and anon to his shorn peers
A ram goes bleating: Winder of the horn,
When snouted wild-boars routing tender corn
Anger our huntsman: Breather round our farms,
To keep off mildews, and all weather harms:
Strange ministrant of undescribed sounds,
That come a swooning over hollow grounds,
And wither drearily on barren moors:
Dread opener of the mysterious doors
Leading to universal knowledge--see,
Great son of Dryope,
The many that are come to pay their vows
With leaves about their brows!

  Be still the unimaginable lodge
For solitary thinkings; such as dodge
Conception to the very bourne of heaven,
Then leave the naked brain: be still the leaven,
That spreading in this dull and clodded earth
Gives it a touch ethereal--a new birth:
Be still a symbol of immensity;
A firmament reflected in a sea;
An element filling the space between;
An unknown--but no more: we humbly screen
With uplift hands our foreheads, lowly bending,
And giving out a shout most heaven rending,
Conjure thee to receive our humble Paean,
Upon thy Mount Lycean!

  Even while they brought the burden to a close,
A shout from the whole multitude arose,
That lingered in the air like dying rolls
Of abrupt thunder, when Ionian shoals
Of dolphins bob their noses through the brine.
Meantime, on shady levels, mossy fine,
Young companies nimbly began dancing
To the swift treble pipe, and humming string.
Aye, those fair living forms swam heavenly
To tunes forgotten--out of memory:
Fair creatures! whose young children's children bred
Thermopylæ its heroes--not yet dead,
But in old marbles ever beautiful.
High genitors, unconscious did they cull
Time's sweet first-fruits--they danc'd to weariness,
And then in quiet circles did they press
The hillock turf, and caught the latter end
Of some strange history, potent to send
A young mind from its ****** tenement.
Or they might watch the quoit-pitchers, intent
On either side; pitying the sad death
Of Hyacinthus, when the cruel breath
Of Zephyr slew him,--Zephyr penitent,
Who now, ere Phoebus mounts the firmament,
Fondles the flower amid the sobbing rain.
The archers too, upon a wider plain,
Beside the feathery whizzing of the shaft,
And the dull twanging bowstring, and the raft
Branch down sweeping from a tall ash top,
Call'd up a thousand thoughts to envelope
Those who would watch. Perhaps, the trembling knee
And frantic gape of lonely Niobe,
Poor, lonely Niobe! when her lovely young
Were dead and gone, and her caressing tongue
Lay a lost thing upon her paly lip,
And very, very deadliness did nip
Her motherly cheeks. Arous'd from this sad mood
By one, who at a distance loud halloo'd,
Uplifting his strong bow into the air,
Many might after brighter visions stare:
After the Argonauts, in blind amaze
Tossing about on Neptune's restless ways,
Until, from the horizon's vaulted side,
There shot a golden splendour far and wide,
Spangling those million poutings of the brine
With quivering ore: 'twas even an awful shine
From the exaltation of Apollo's bow;
A heavenly beacon in their dreary woe.
Who thus were ripe for high contemplating,
Might turn their steps towards the sober ring
Where sat Endymion and the aged priest
'**** shepherds gone in eld, whose looks increas'd
The silvery setting of their mortal star.
There they discours'd upon the fragile bar
That keeps us from our homes ethereal;
And what our duties there: to nightly call
Vesper, the beauty-crest of summer weather;
To summon all the downiest clouds together
For the sun's purple couch; to emulate
In ministring the potent rule of fate
With speed of fire-tailed exhalations;
To tint her pallid cheek with bloom, who cons
Sweet poesy by moonlight: besides these,
A world of other unguess'd offices.
Anon they wander'd, by divine converse,
Into Elysium; vieing to rehearse
Each one his own anticipated bliss.
One felt heart-certain that he could not miss
His quick gone love, among fair blossom'd boughs,
Where every zephyr-sigh pouts and endows
Her lips with music for the welcoming.
Another wish'd, mid that eternal spring,
To meet his rosy child, with feathery sails,
Sweeping, eye-earnestly, through almond vales:
Who, suddenly, should stoop through the smooth wind,
And with the balmiest leaves his temples bind;
And, ever after, through those regions be
His messenger, his little
Denel Kessler Nov 2015
In the silence and misunderstandings that separate us
I need to believe there is a place where we can meet
a place of mottled light where the only shadows
are painted by ancient firs who conspiratorially lean
open, welcoming hands down to greet us.

It is a place where all thoughts of judgment and jealousy
are simply too petty for consideration
love being implicit in the moisture of the air
words are unnecessary for our eyes reveal
everything we ever want to say.

Fear and resentment are unknown here
we refuse to recognize them if they slither
into this haven while we are sleeping
restful, innocent, unworried
history does not exist, the moment held is enough.

If this vision were dispelled, my soul could not sustain
reality’s weight.  I would be battered, fragile
as a spiraled whelk on deceptively smooth rocks
splintered by hate and unwillingness
to be as the sea, fluid and graceful, all encompassing.

Will you come with me here?  
Or is the hour too late?
We can meet in this hollow sacred space
and begin again, let loose misconceptions
clouding the life we share.          

The path is faint
trust your weary heart
it will lead us to each other.
I'm new to HP and my experience here has been amazing.  Thank you to all who have supported and read my work.  Beloved Oath - you were the first person to "like" one of my poems and I will be forever grateful for your kindness.  To those of you who have had a bad experience here, come find those of us who support each other and create a sacred space in which to share and be heard.
Declin James Feb 2010
30 seconds.
The translucent window of dreams gets blown open by the quivering baseline, that echo’s throughout this Technicolor city. The distant horizon of reality, depression and cracked council estate morals are long forgotten. The piercing taste of alcohol stings the back of my neck but melts my stomach and helps free the tormented thoughts that plague an overworked mind. Smoke another joint, dance another dance; my feet emulate feelings that cannot be described. ***** sits heavy in my mind, delaying my reactions and isolating my judgment. An old friend who takes the **** dances pasts with a former lover that once kept my heart safely locked up beside hers. Even though the blood of that love dried months ago, the scars are still visible beneath my skin and they scream across my truthful eyes. I decide to let myself drop further into the ever deepening baseline of the city; I feel my eyes plummet into the empty space of my head. The beat of my heart has been removed and replaced by the pulsing nerve of the city. The blinding lights dazzle my imagination and urge me to forget the grey concrete that surrounds this city, the music pumps and drives life’s blood around my clogged veins and the vibrations shake my fragile frame.

I pull another slightly crushed cigarette to my cracked lips, and let the cold night begin the battle against the warm tobacco that flows into my once pure lungs. Poisonous substances help me feel the sweet taste of life, of love, of music. Realism is forgotten about, the boundaries of life are melting in the bottom of a pit somewhere, let them dissolve and never return. Sober problems twist their ankles and fall into the **** soaked gutter, whilst I let myself drown in a moment of sweet nothing. There is no time to be thinking about girls or love, there is no time for idle conversation under the glare of the moon. For a brief moment I watch packs of men move like wolfs circling on the innocence of girls, buy them another drink, crush them another pill. I stumble back into this disillusioned factory that was once a foundation of an honest wage and the reliable structure of a family dinner. Now it is falling to pieces, unable to cope with this tormenting beat that is shaking through my body.  This place is like a time warp, hours feel like minutes yet seconds feel like days.

The first step is admitting defeat; the second is allowing the ******* to begin. I allow the liquor to not only caress but baptize my tongue. I am a puppet to the baseline, a slave being held by strings that are attached to the stars. These stars rise higher than any city skyline can imagine they refuse to be beaten by man; they stay a part of our superstition, a character in our dreams.  In the corners of intoxication the weak fall, unable to cope with the choice of freedom. They recline into a murky puddle of sweat and fear. Their eyes vibrate subconsciously and their legs twitch to the ever changing beat. For me there is no murky puddle, I am lost at sea rolling between the waves, letting the current take me where it pleases. The breeze caresses my consciousness and tickles my sedation.

Without hesitation my feet start moving again, finding a groove that my mind didn’t even know existed, I feel myself slip into a new unknown level, finally even the strings attached to the stars snap from the tension. My mind is free; it is no longer a hundred mile-an-hour switchboard that is overrun by lights and flashes. Frozen fireworks that were once subdued by the oppression of reality, become lukewarm and vibrate on the verge of ecstasy, I feel them take off into the night, one after another, throwing images into the dark sky. Like 1940 they blitz the city and people run for cover shouting screaming for their loved ones.  Yet the nightly residence of this factory remain unworried and free. We are the last of the human race not to flee into our suburbia homes, so listen to this erratic baseline and forget about the yellow hooded figures that patrol the streets, let the night lurch you into a sudden paradox where nobody belongs yet everybody searches for. This is true euphoria.
Him
Suspended in time
Weightless and unworried
We hang on to the moment
Sedated magic unhurried

His scent is captivating and wild
Forever embedded in my brain
Masculine and crisp
A few hints of the earth after a rain

Insecurities held at bay
I live inside your sanctuary
Your embrace keeps me safe
My senses relaxed and unwary
Paul R Mott May 2012
More time runs away as fast as it can
More lost dreams lie wasted, not part of the plan

If the future could share a warning
It would see our concern growing

A light in the night can’t be so bad
But it kills you if darkness is all you have
The light can take your sight
It can rob you blind tonight

With the light on the horizon getting brighter
The burden on our back isn’t getting lighter

So the hopeless soldier on in vain
And the champions stay out of the rain

Only to find their fulfilled hopes flimsy imitations
Of a life spent unworried of negative connotations

A bad dream never wakes the tired souls
A grim future doesn’t worry those with no goals
kelly pye Feb 2010
we are flowing, growing. like flowers
twiddling away the syrupy hours
feverantly running, we
have nothing but our breath
free from gravity;
we are tripping, skipping. through parking lots
weary of these individual thoughts
syrup flowing over pages
times is nothing, we are ageless
conscious-less, in bliss. like serenity
but full with unearthly energy
we are chances, advances. like wild fire
running through night without tire
we are harmony, calm sea. potential
unworried by what's consequential
we are youth, love. surreality
Desiree Feb 2017
a steady calm, a deep knowing
unhurried, unworried

Soul growth is primary,
a journey, never stationary
independant, yet woven together
always honouring one another
Love does not boast or confine
if one must go, give them time

birds in the sky, snakes in the sand
they never worry about being fed
or by which Hand

God is all-knowing
though we are gifted with free will,
there is a plan for each life
woven together by His intricate skill
Eroshu Homaj Mar 2011
I need a motion
A movement to move.
A being born placid
I am here to be acted
You are the pen
Make me a page
Act on me
My life is a sea.
By the moon I move.
Unworried and frayed
The burning I have cannot be stayed
Yet these bones break broken
I am tree to be trimmed, cut, burned.
But make me portrait  
Something like the man in the gray
As I keep aging like this I do Stay.
© Joshua Ohmer 2011
Original work: Sept 17, 2010
John Apr 2016
The clock ticks and ticks
The seconds, minutes, hours pass
The clock looks down from it's perch on the wall
The heart questions its validity
And sighs.

The body grows and prospers
The thought of degenerating, down-grading persists
The body takes itself in and wants to embrace the only moments it has
The brain becomes distracted and lost in its own perception
And sighs.

The Earth, the only planet where love is known to exist
The clock has no jurisdiction over it
The Earth, in all its cosmic glory and all-knowingness
The body, such a sin to let it rot from the inside out,
Sighs.

The clock, the body, the brain, the heart, the Earth
The ticking, the rotting, the thinking, the sighing, the all-knowing
The clock measures the body, and the body, the Earth
The Earth, with no heart or brain of its own, spins unworried
Yet sighs.
Nahla Nainar Mar 2017
Yarn over needle
In the fond hope
That something
Will come out of this union

Stitches that create
Filled squares and empty
Walls that end a cell
Start off another

Like the Maker’s design
The pattern emerges
Unhurried,
Unworried by its beauty
Heather Butler Sep 2010
Forever in a heartbeat, beat, beat;
a thousand heartbeats; a thousand forevers.
Somewhere the sunbeams catch your hair
alighting gently like sparrows at the tips,
turning each fly-away in turn a subdued golden hue
which radiates softly from your eyes.
Quiet sighs echo through the sheets;
Good morning, my love.
Unhurried, unworried;
Let's spend the day here.
Fading in and out, in and out of consciousness
to the sound of you breathing beside me;
waking up to feel your arms loosely pulling me back.
It's still too early yet;
though the sun has long since turned dark.
A crooked smile—the most beautiful thing I have ever seen—
and your voice telling me to
Dream sweetly. We'll eat in the morning.
Morning comes to rain; rain falls to autumn.
Beside me a yellow slip on the pillowcase reads
I don't love you.
I smile and listen for the sound of your footsteps.
I hear you, whistling tunelessly, and you call to me;
Have you woken yet?
As I meet you in the kitchen I find your eyes
and silently shake my head.
*I suppose one more day couldn't hurt.
Heather Butler; 2010
Mad
Furious
Rage
Enraged
Hostile
These are all the words that don’t describe who I am as a person

Forward
Brash
Bold
Unfrightened
Unapprehensive
Words that I wished that described who I am.

Reserved
Calm
Brassy
Free
Easy
Words that other people say that describe who I am.

Angry
Tranquil
Unworried
Unease
Words that describe who I am.
Now ask yourself
Who am I?
copyright Randy Wiafe 2010
Jowlough May 2016
A thing of the graved past
Is not relevant at all.
But things you did not disclose
Is a deep dark nightmare call.

There was this noble boy
Who you've said have courted you.
You said he's a good friend
And he liked you.

I see he loves cars and travel
More often than you do,
A noble inheritor of a family firm
With an atlethic frame and hue.

But,  the way you describe him
Sounded like he has no mere value.
And me: I believed in the light
Of your tongues' sweet fondue.

Of all this precious time,
My mind have held your stories
Grasped and chained
Optimistic and unworried

Of all this time, doubts.
Yes doubting was never an option
Nor an attempt to juice
Even the slightest blood potion

Until Unexpectedly time came,
Yes on your twentieth birthday,
Expectant was not in the thoughts
Of positivism I've had for years.

Unaware and extremely honest
Smiling with a chance to navigate
Your smart phone's veins
Having a funny faith.

Until someone peeped and popped
From the large screen landscape.
And I never knew
That it was the pivot of my life
Nor a wrist sliding through a knife.

The SMS said, "I love you".
Then blah blah, "missed you"
And all of the mumbled I've seen,
Numbed my soul and ego.

I got wounded. Deeply wounded.
Every word, there's a stab
In my heart, cutting every veins
Feeling the friction and I rub

My eye, it has water I see flowing,
You loved him more than the sun
And I see the young persona of you
Blinkering infront the gun

Like a gun, Pointed at my temples
I've found my self humbly destroyed,
As I knew you missed the guy,
And how you were overjoyed.

Devasted in every word
Knees are trembling with grief
I never knew that I could,
Incorporate you with disbelief.

And as you came in the room
I immediately handed your phone,
And pulled the "surprise" curtain
And greeted you with a nice tone.

"Happy birthday, Darling"
I love you so much. With tears,
Streaming, spine shivering,
Caught off guard by the latch.

Then I stayed. Yes I'm invinsible
And strong as a boxer in the ring.
I've faced your family
Despite of the heavy sting.

Then the lights activated
And someone whispered me
And said "hey sweetie"
"The breakfast is ready"

I quickly jumped up out the bed,
And sip my good coffee
As I think of memories
Escaping the reality.

Looking at the kids
My heart beats faster than the bullet
As I look at your picture
In my treasure box's closet.

Then my wife whispered to me,
"Hunny, who is she?"
I said she is an ex giflfriend
Who cheated me nasty

As my wife and I are alone
She asked me, "why?"
I wrote this poem,
And I almost died.

Then I woke up again
Realizing it was just another dream;
I've found my 26 year old self
Decided to empty this bin

A bin full of trash
From memories who hurted my home
My heart and my brain woke up
Feeling pained and all alone.
Art in my head is dying and the passion is hanging in the hole of a needle.
zb Apr 2018
we're driving home.
it's raining and
car lights shine through rain-splattered windshields
like angry neon brushstrokes.

sometimes i think i can see
every single color of the rainbow
when i stare at white streetlights.
sometimes those chromatic hallucinations
make me think
of all the beauty trapped
under our skins.

water splashes under the car's tires.
the sound lulls me to drowsiness.
how long has it been, i wonder,
since i last fell asleep in a car seat
unaware and unworried.

the sky is dark.
it darkened hours ago.
i can still feel its warmth on my skin,
if i close my eyes, and think of noon.

if i breathe in,
moisture fills my throat and my lungs
and everything becomes just a little clearer.

i live for rainy days.
Jim Hill Feb 2017
Shivering in the tempest of his eye,
go to him, martyred spirit, go
where sleep is like oblivion, pure,
and pain falls from the broken soul.

Washed by the gaze of a dreadful god,
pursued through the years, Io, chaste, unheard,
in the dust of a somnolent world, you
have gone where darkness bathes the naked.

You have traced the silent correspondence,
have seen, smelled, tasted infinity
where life is a distant flower, where
to sleep is to wake in an empty bower.

The touch of a mother's hand upon
your quivering arm, c'est goût Néant;
the life of oblivion for the ravished soul,
the *****, the wine of dreamless sleep.

What the infinitude sought so long?
Where behind confused words
lives unity, crepuscular, deep,
where entropy is order, order is complete?

Now, translated beneath this ground
you may sleep  un sommeil profonde,
undisturbed by setting suns,
still unheard by clamoring men.

Sleep, pious poet, sleep, beneath
the unworried sway of timeless worlds,
where sound, smell, touch, and sight
blend as in a sensed but senseless night.
1985
Apparently theres actually a bad time for love.
Apparently theres a lack of sentiment from those above.
Apparently were being watched by fed and all his homies.
Apparently if i **** up ill end up far below me.

Gradually the trees will grow and give of lots of zen.
Gradually our bodies break apart while we pretend.
Gradually we find ourselves until we meet our end.

I miss the feeling of being young,
knowing nothing at all.
Blissfully running through life,
unworried if you'll fall.
Life is but a dream,
Until you are awakened.
Rising abrupt from slumber,
feeling chopped like lumber..
Q Mar 2016
the night is empty and calm and quiet and dead and no animal or human or organism has the want or reason to fill it
  somewhere someone and something and nothing at all is dying or is dead and all the silent people and all the silent animals and all the silent organisms will do nothing to save them
  the time passes slowly at mach speed and the earth ceases to turn and the people and the animals and the organisms are crushed by the force of the lack of movement
  the sun implodes and the universe is momentarily covered in beauty and debris and particles of carcasses before there is nothing of what had and could have been
  in a different galaxy and cosmos and timeline the sun shines brightly as it was meant to with no intention to change its routine
  the people and the animals and the organisms cohabit earth peacefully having unlocked the secrets of life and death and all in between before and after
  earth turns lackadaisically and nothing and no one and no being could ever persuade or force it to stop
  the night is full and loud and boisterous and bright and alive and filled with joyful chatter and excited calls and unhurried and unworried din

  particles float in space and smash gently together and greet each other with nonexistent smiles and impossible words in unknown languages
  asteroids soar by with inaudible how do you dos and vanish before there is any answer or inquiry as to where they plan to go
  black holes swirl happily inviting all the particles and asteroids and stars and matter and antimatter and dark matter into their vapid embrace
  solar systems cry noisily as their bedtime approaches and fight against the current of time and space and emptiness and nothingness and struggle against the flow
  atoms and molecules find romance within one another and bind themselves and break apart and bind themselves and break apart and bind themselves
  the stars grow agitated and burst into dull rock and grow agitated and burst into flame until the can no longer explain their agitation and burst into nothing in an enraged fit
  just past all the things is a small planet that was in the past and has passed and will pass in the future and is passing right now
  and the night is empty and calm and quiet and dead and no animal or human or organism has the want or reason to fill it
Triale Soran Dec 2017
In a far off land where
Lions and bear
Roam around inciting no Fear

Where, the lion can be small
And the mouse big
And the unicorns can prance through halls

And the birds do not need to fly
Where mice don’t need to be afraid
And foxes have no need to be sly

Where the ****** past of the rabbit,
Is solemnly and regretfully acknowledge
By its many oppressors and killer in ways deemed fit

Where the ***** and the *****
Do not need to bow their heads in shame
As victims of Sin

Where the fish can love the butterfly
And the leopard plays with the lamb
A world in where the sky

Is lit by the lights
Of ten thousand moths
Unworried about danger of sight

And in where the sparrows swim
And the fire burns in the lake
Where the conflict has at last

Been resolved in ways thought impossible.
Do you know what this means?
Or is this a confusing scene?
Refrain from a peek at the tags
See it when understanding snags.
Caterina Correia Aug 2018
The slow breathing,
Before the fast;
Until my body is shocked with the sudden reaction.
My mind that takes over my heart,
Will never learn to be controlled.
I will never know what it feels like to be relaxed.
Just to be unworried,
Fearless,
Brave,
& to trust.
& through the darkness,
The light appears dead in silence.
Only the sound of fear,
Plays in my head.
Only the sound of my breath,
When I try to gasp for air.
My mind pushes strong;
There is no limit.
My heart is pushed so far;
It works so hard.
& then the air within my body,
Cannot be controlled.
My breathing,
So hard.
So heavy.
So fast.
& Im at the point where I cannot breathe.
It feels so harsh,
So painful.
My body weakens.
My body is dizzy.
My fingers & toes are so numb as I shake.
It just feel like there is an earthquake.
Im unable to walk.
These attacks are controlling me.
& with the dehydration my body goes through,
The water that is finally taken into me,
Drowns me when I need the moisture.
Its so hard to think with confusion.
Its so hard to focus with distraction.
Its so hard to try and catch my breath,
When hyperventilation takes over.
Kurt Miller Jul 2015
A fleeting whisp of eternal glory,
Developing the reflective protagonist in one's own story.
The heat and sun, describable only as warm,
Reflect youth in spirit, even when age's experience grows worn.

To subsist freely, unencumbered in an unworried state of time,
Already aware that this seasonal pleasure lies predominantly in the mind,
Remain conscious to yourself and your life's plot,
For love will last, while your life will not.

Radiant heat on the toes of my feet,
Tingling sun supplies vibes describable only as upbeat.

An unexplained aura of melodic euphoria,
Supplying the vigor emanating out of nature's own formula.
Summer's enticing gaze lucidifies the bulk of this year's haze,
Incorporating without a doubt the height of our own glory days.

A summer long repose from school and servitude.
Shape your own destiny, practicing all year to maximize the magnitude,
Of a precious few chances to make the most of something great:
The solidarity of choice, a free and open space.
The kind of unique youthful place,
Available only in summer break.
Melody Jan 2011
Hollow beating filling the silence.
Flutter of a butterfly's wings.
Is all I hear.
I turn around
In all my dreaming;
he's here.
To get me done with.
To ruin my life.
To destroy my life.
I'm dreaming.
Probably not the most violent of them all.
He sees me.
I look and he's got a tear dripping from his chin only to dissolve into his cotton shirt.
I look unworried.
Because I'm dreaming.

All the sudden
It switched total different perspectives.
I'm him.
The body limp in a chair.
It's me.
The face of a girl I never knew.
I never knew truly.
I know this is the happiest of dreams when he doesn't put a finger on me.
One of my dreams.
I didn't end with silent death.
:)  This was actually a dream!! XD- From Unreplacable.
Antino Art Sep 2017
We in South Florida pride ourselves on getting hit by hurricanes. We take photos of how bad it is and post it on Instagram with appropriate doomsday event hashtagging.

Riding these things out is like riding a bike.

If you can shop for Black Friday and Christmas every year, you can shop for this. Take pride in your water divination skills and line-standing endurance feats. We are the state of Disneyworld ride lines that wrap around corners in swamp heat, and lines of red light bumper lights on i-95 Monday through Friday: this is another day in the office!

Putting up shutters is like putting up Christmas decorations: we get creative

Like today, we wedged pink and blue floatation noodles against the frames of the windows in arcs resembling a post-storm rainbow. My 2 year old daughter said it was beautiful.

One day of this is someone else's seven months of winter. Remember, people evacuate to here annually! So do not feel bad for fleeing north to them.

The news keeps saying stay calm as they embellish how dangerous this storm ride is going to be like some death stunt on a David Blaine TV special. He went underwater in "Drowned Alive": he didn't drown. He got buried underground: he rose from it. Per the broadcasted hype, the payoff is we won't die!

Here's some good news: you can leave what's out of reach and in the sky to the heavens, and what's in your mind to the steps you took on the ground below: all doors closed, stuff unplugged, things that resemble missiles stashed in closets, flashlights ready like lightsabers to battle this named foe from above. It will hit the worried and unworried just the same, revealing the gas station line cutters from the people who help you with shutters; the faith from the fear of those who choose to pray; the human heart and its varying sizes as it beats faster with the darkening of the sky.

At least we aren't trees: they cannot hide from this revealing event. See how they all remain serene up until the second the wind arrives, leaves rattled only then, roots of varying depths being that which holds them together

either they bend with grace or they break.
Your eyes meet mine
Piercing, I'm
Caught unaware
Scared, unprepared

Your stare leaves me naked
I can no longer fake it
I'm so confused and unsure
Hesitant, wanting more

Your hands trail slowly
I'm losing all control of me
Intimate, scorching heat
My heart can't help but skip a beat

Your fingers tracing down my spine
Makes me think we've nothing but time
Their path is leisurely, unhurried
Winding, arching, and unworried

Silence falls, cheeks flushed red
Leaning in, I press my head
Soothingly, against your chest
Hearing each and every breath

You inhale deep
Open your mouth to speak
At a loss for words
All unsaid is heard
blurry
not in a hurry
trying to remain
unworried

but the more we talk
and the more i stalk
the more i wanna
cut this off

don't wanna be a ****
but i'm trying to save you as much
heartbreak as i can
since i don't know what i want
PK Wakefield Feb 2015
say numbers the little white toothed
sliver of a grin
hair breathlessly tousled
about fingers stairs
(winding)
upwards constantly
tall moments of absolute singleness

into 4 hands
2 fingers inside
lips strictly around
to eat 2 lips
30 minutes of
ultra caressed
hyper scrupulous
tense heaving                      ;


say numbers
7,205 seconds
until reaches
the startling pinnacle
of über sensuous
gangling drugged
with blonde milk
suddenly supple
between, "my dear,"

count as to count
by more than 20
digits to feverishly
blunder through
hurried wanting
to crush,

( say numbers and speak not numbly
  of the nimble bumbling of thy pale
  fracas an earth will be born from
  within wishing will to will unworried
  a fraction cut beneath the navel by
  a tremendously incalculable urging
  to rush              

                                            )
wordvango Nov 2016
for living creatures have to eat
breaks  my heart to see a young gazelle
go down her throat surrounded by razor lion teeth
or a squirrel      scurrying
in the middle of the road hearing destiny roar down on him
not knowing which way to turn
that crunch is part of life
hard distasteful but natural
and,  still nature has that giving side ,
the acorns from oaks
the prairie grass
so it is not all bleak,
just chance again,
someone wins the lottery every week
some get killed in cars,  by teeth get eaten
or become food for the insects,
or bar fights or  by a lion or tire;
and some make love like rabbits in the sun and have
wild onions in abundance and comfortable burrows
strong tree limb nests
to sleep in unworried it seems,
or are they?
Jon Faux Nov 2015
He's been out for a while now
Roaming the woods beyond the walls
Angered by his fellowmen's betrayal
After they drove him out into exile

They closed the gates behind him
And left him all alone
No one to help nor care for him
Loneliness he always hated, now his friend

From above a hill, he usually saw
Over the walls, his people happy and unworried
"All those smiles are because of me,
and this is how they repay me?" he said to himself

He vowed to himself one cold hearted thing
To seize the chance for him to come back in
And make them all suffer, as he did their enemies
With the same means he used, ones they hated but needed

His exile was for all the cruelty and pain he conjured
Against the enemies his people long feared
He was the necessary evil they clung unto reluctantly
The savior they feared, more than they did their enemies

Days, months, and years passed by
And he continued to watch them day and night
All were happy, happier than each passing day in fact
Until one day, everything fell into the man's foretold fate
.
The people were frantic and in despair
He knew not what was happening there
But even so, he saw his chance has opened
And smiled as he went and make true his return

The Exiled, that's what he chose
To name himself for his return
Expecting fear to overtake the whole place
He was ecstatic to start the slaughter he savored since that day

The gates were open, just as he expected
He walked right in, giving off the same presence
He had emanated when he went out the gates
And expected the people to wallow in fear and hopelessness

What he saw was one he never imagined
They all saw him and asked for his forgiveness
They asked for his help, and offered their allegiance
He was no longer to be only their savior, but their king as well

The Exiled was shocked at the reception he received
Taken aback, confused and not knowing how to react
Until he thought of what he was given
And laughed menacingly, like those of the battles of old

He saw the chance to put out all the pain he felt
After being exiled before, and now he's back
To fully control the people who chained him with weakness
And free to do whatever he wickedly wishes
Just ******.
SN Oct 2016
Elm
Where beneath I sleep
Taller in dreams
With autumn leaves, colours to bleed
Glory because it fades away

Slowly seeping under skin
Rooted where this tale begins
I can begin to read it
Under your burning coloured eaves

Far away echoes the beating heart
To sound out longing, like a sigh
Escaping from your solemn boughs
Unhurried, unworried your goodbyes

To be as you are
Silent, quiet, calm, serene
Rooted to soil
Growing evergeen
Places we knew together lie in wait, still as I’ve ever seen
for our return.

And we will return, but
it will never be as it was.

I’ll never again hear my brothers’ shrieks as they climb
and break the weak lower branches from our tree.

We will have dinner at our table, but you won’t have grass-stained knees
and we won’t study on your bed afterward until a new day comes.

And still you wear a white uniform, but not the stained jersey we knew.
Now it is pristine and reminds me that you’ll never again be mine as you were.

Though you wear the cover of an officer and make me proud every day,
I will always miss the boy that this man used to be.

Even now as I too seize everything I want, I fear I am the only one
who would give it all right back to return to what we were.

Untainted,
Unworried,
Careless,
Naïve.

But mostly,
Together.
Arlene Corwin Jun 2016
Married Love

Let us try to not/not to
Repeat the stories we have told/we tell
Each other,
Which reminds one more of sister/brother
Than it does of would-be lovers
Who just happen to posses a license
Because that’s what law requires.  
    
Let’s be fresh each day
Without cliché or worn out tale
So stale that wedlock’s
Locked into a place
For always.

Married love should be
Un-harried love, unhurried love, unworried love,
And never tired and overworked old-storied love
If it’s to triumph.

Married Love 6.22.2016
Love Relationships II;
Arlene Corwin
Ryan Nyberg Jul 2016
i feel like im trapped in a cage
and the lock's getting tougher
as i rave in sheer rage
i feel like im wearing a vest
that is too tight to breathe in,
as it crushes my chest.
the hight never scared me at all
and i've always looked up
traced those firm concrete walls
all the way to the skies
i mistook them for paths
guiding me to the heaven
while hell was where i was.
I could never imagine
how much i'd fall for your gaze
how i'd search for your figure
in this foreign thick haze.
I could never envision
i'd get to taste your stiff lips
wrap my arms round your body
and let go of my shield.
you fall silent for months
nonchalant and unworried
whilst my days are now one
my steps no longer solid.
and im thinking i could
just get rid of you now.
block your way back into
my life.
but if you disappear,
everything i live for
all my hopes, expectations
stay behind the closed door
on the same side as you.
Iz Nov 2018
He has the greenest eyes
That stare right into your soul
He strides on over melting his body onto the bed
Relaxed and unworried
I love this cool cat
Grace Haak Nov 2019
she is put together
twenty-four seven
breath of peppermint
perfume of floral heaven
she is perfectly mannered
exceptionally kind
you'd never notice
everything else on her mind
she is incredibly smart
her words are so witty
tied off with a ribbon
just to make them look pretty
she is never not smiling
all happy-go-lucky
the best mask to put out
when her days are just sucky
she is friendly to all
personality of bubbles
the kind of person who wants
you to forget all your troubles

but she is more than just
a tin of altoids always on hand
a spritz of marc jacobs to make her smell grand
a perfectly proper dollop of grace
an unworried smile on an unconcerned face
a paper fine-tuned and turned in on time
a colorful poem with many-hued rhymes

she is constantly tired
a string ball of stress
sometimes she can't be bothered
so today her hair is a mess
she is sometimes unhappy
sometimes stuck in the pain
so being silent and distant
might help keep her sane
she is incredibly stubborn
needs to have the last line
born with a hard nose
she refuses to resign
she is not so perfect
she will constantly fail
but if there's one thing she is
it's someone who will prevail

yes, she is a can of la croix
and all things filled with joy
but silver packages all wrapped
can keep treasures trapped
so take her as she is
all the sour and sweet
because without all these things
she wouldn't be complete.
wordvango Jul 2017
The scenery, first I would need to be outside
where birds perch on telephone wires
squirrels scurry away unworried
on crooked limbs of scrub oaks
jump like circus acrobats onto a cedar five feet away
and then I would need to open my eyes to
the vast sky blue receding far away into deep yellows
buzzards on parade so high up,
crimson shadows foretelling the coming turn of day animals
from visual to stumbling creatures
possums  and armadillos
bats
but I am entombed on a stool in my combo
living room kitchen dog port-a -***** cat
highway and playland with last night's fork
a bit of cheese on it still
a cigarette in the ashtray
wafting a trail of gray
into the air while
I study how to make sense of the
inner with outer
the fresh air with stale
the sun midday with
the foreseeable sunset
and sit and wonder in awe at all of it
Wk kortas Apr 22
It stood on a mound, prepossessing in its own right,
But the height of the grim, unadorned steeple
And the tableau it cast when storms would roll in
From the cold gray waters of Lake Erie
Was somewhat intimidating to small children
And others predisposed to being dominated,
Though what awaited one within
Could be equally intimidating, if no more so;
Oh, there was the nod to brotherly love
And coming to God with a joyful noise,
But the occupants of the pulpit
(Invariably square-jawed, gray-maned older men
Whose visages were brewing maelstroms,
Incipient cloudbursts on the very precipice
Of drenching the insufficiently pious)
Left no doubt as to the serious of their mission,
And were equally up front as to the cataclysm
Which would rain down on the congregation,
The mills, the town and all those
Who proved insufficient in their piety,
And while there were questions
Concerning prescience and cause-and-effect,
Most of what they threatened came to be
(The Montmorenci Company shuttered and silent,
A sad procession of U-Hauls, all on one-way rentals
Tottering out of town after the muted goodbyes)
Though, as an unintended and unforeseen consequence,
Taking the church as well, its grounds now only visited
By mothers and small children
Clambering upon the playground equipment
The church begrudgingly installed
Shortly before it closed its doors for good,
And when the gunboat-gray clouds
Rolled on down from up near Buffalo,
They would hurry on home
As the droplets, relative leviathans
Slapping on the pavement as they scurried home,
Came at increasingly frequent intervals,
And though they could hear the rumbles of thunder
Grumbling with a certain portent as the storm moved closer,
Their procession, though quite brisk,
Was more unless unworried,
The adults knowing full well the downpours
Were merely succor upon the carrots and gardenias.

— The End —