"uppermost" poems
After so long an absence
At last we meet agin:
Does the meeting give us pleasure,
Or does it give us pain?
The tree of life has been shaken,
And but few of us linger now,
Like the prophets two or three berries
In the top of the uppermost bough.
We cordially greet each other
In the old, familiar tone;
And we think, though we do not say it,
How old and gray he is grown!
We speak of a Merry Christmas
And many a Happy New Year;
But each in his heart is thinking
Of those that are not here.
We speak of friends and their fortunes,
And of what they did and said,
Till the dead alone seem living,
And the living alone seem dead.
And at last we hardly distinguish
Between the ghosts and the guests;
And a mist and shadow of sadness
Steals over our merriest jests.
4.4k
SHE is foremost of those that I would hear praised.
I have gone about the house, gone up and down
As a man does who has published a new book,
Or a young girl dressed out in her new gown,
And though I have turned the talk by hook or crook
Until her praise should be the uppermost theme,
A woman spoke of some new tale she had read,
A man confusedly in a half dream
As though some other name ran in his head.
She is foremost of those that I would hear praised.
I will talk no more of books or the long war
But walk by the dry thorn until I have found
Some beggar sheltering from the wind, and there
Manage the talk until her name come round.
If there be rags enough he will know her name
And be well pleased remembering it, for in the old days,
Though she had young men's praise and old men's blame,
Among the poor both old and young gave her praise.
3.6k
http://hellopoetry.com/search/poems/?q=Betterdays
**as is my wanton wont,
when stumbling
upon a new voice,
the passed baton
is herein handed off**
am old man.
my poetic voice is just
memories that are
repetitive lies and lines.
speak in simple sentences declarative.
this is nature's way.
darkness approaching is indeed my
au courant poem, mon actuellement.
I have seen better days.
I have read betterdays.
now I am upset, distraught.
here come another young
hot bright votive voice,
and I am being asked to believe that there are
still words that raise hopes of
betterdays.
her bed chip crumbs, delighting,
leave crumbs of pleasure in my soul.
l like her big word poems,
that leave me, fill me by:
*siphoning all in a parched gluttony
leaving behind a viscous residue
and few glassine portals
into a reflective world*
better yet I love her
mothering little god poems,
letting me remember little boys
who once loved a father
*little god love
radiant is thy smile,
smallboy love, exudes from you,
like a flower god's nectar,
bestowed, with negligent love,
upon a mother's world.
i will drink my fill,
everyday, whilst i can,
for far to soon will you
grow up.*
don't speak eastern Australian,
tackers and doona's, no clue,
blue cats are a foreign breed,
but the cat of this starfish mother,
shares my literary tastes:
*him, nestled,
on the second, to
uppermost stay,
of the third
bookshelf,
in the study.
he has filed
himself,
between,
ogden nash
and proust
and it is there,
he plans to stay.*
let me not go on and in deeper, lest
I delay you from her pleasuring
thy tasted untested senses.
so here I am all grumpified
(at my age, you can make up your own words)
unsure if un or satisfied,
knowing that a woman,
word whips me into a
soothing frenzy of creamy
morning coffee verbosity,
a captive taker of life's
ungrandest moments,
poems of them,
make to glory come.
somewhere in the world,
a woman writes of plain goodness
of simple strife and simple lives,
makes methinks that there could be
betterdays still ahead,
better poets surely, than me,
and the day starts well
Mar 29, 2014
Mar 29, 2014 at 8:50 AM UTC
“that’s a Simpson’s sky,” you say,
pointing to the fluff strewn across the highway sky,
I smile and nod, concentrating on the music
we’re driving to Cornwall in the curb lane,
pointedly avoiding what’s uppermost,
halfway there from Toronto
“driving makes me think,” I think to myself
and turn up the volume on Buddha Bar III
and talking fades into the rearview mirror
black Firebird, racing stripes, eager to pass me
I hold steady – he should know how to use the passing lane!
he bobs and weaves and nips at my fender
it washes in waves over you so palpably
I feel it crash on my shoulder -
your father passed away yesterday
rolling the window down slightly, you light a cigarette
I roll down mine and light up, too
our ritual – one feeding off the other
we’re driving to Cornwall, to family,
to mother, alone now among children
“what will you say to her?” I ask you silently
we’re driving to Cornwall
towards loss, towards hope
with a black Firebird close behind
I move the wheel slightly
to avoid a can of Pepsi rolling in the lane
the rear-view mirror catches the firebird
deliberately swerve to hit it and exlode
its contents in a little puff of vapour -
highway music
bonaventure saptel
Jun 19, 2014
Jun 19, 2014 at 11:37 AM UTC
Tucked away in our subconsciousness is an idyllic vision. We see ourselves on a long trip that spans the continent. We are travelling by train. Out the windows, we drink in the passing scene of cars on nearby highways, of children waving on a crossing, of cattle grazing on a distant hillside, of smoke pouring from a power plant, of row upon row of corn and wheat, of flatlands and valleys, of mountains and rolling hillsides, of city skylines and village halls.
But the uppermost in our minds is the final destination. On a certain day at a certain hour, we will pull into the station. Bands will be playing and flags waving. Once we reach there, so many wonderful dreams will come true and the pieces of our lives will be fit together like a completed jigsaw puzzle. How restlessly we pace the aisles, damning the minutes loitering, waiting, waiting, waiting for the station.
"When we reach the station, that will be it", we cry. "When I'm 18", "When I buy a new 450SL Mercedes Benz", "When I put my last kid through collage", "When I have paid off the mortgage", "When I get a promotion", "When I reach the age of the retirement, I shall live happily ever after."
Sooner or later, we must realize that there is no station, no one place to arrive at once and for all. The true joy of life is the trip. The station is only a dream. It constantly outdistances us.
"Relish the moment" is a good motto, especially when coupled withe the Psalm 118:24:"This is the day which the Lord hath made, we will rejoice and be glad in it." It isn't the burdens of today that drive men mad. It is the regrets over yesterday and the fear of tommorrow. Reget and fear are twin thieves who rob us of today.
So stop pacing the aisles and counting the miles. Instead, climb more mountains, eat more icecreams, go barefoot more often, swim more rivers, watch more sunsets, laugh more and cry less. Life must be lived as we go along. Then the station will come soon enough.
Aug 13, 2013
Aug 13, 2013 at 2:05 AM UTC
It's not the rain
that makes her
wet this time, again
conveying it
to him without
any dillydallying,
revealing her
intentions in
such plain terms
with a sign
language
invented, all
by herself,
leaves the mark
of the genius on this
woman, deeply
in love and lusting
her man,plain and simple.
*** robust uppermost
in the mind.prompts
yes, bold she is,
she takes things
in her hands at times.
She needs to stamp
her nature
unequivocally,
and she does it in style.
Jan 30, 2016
Jan 30, 2016 at 3:29 PM UTC
On the lower rung of the ladder she stands wide eyed,
that ambiguous smile on her lips and my yearning
has a mysterious kinship, with the mysteries of the semi-lit attic,
I could discern from the bits and pieces she revealed
with that sly look as we walked hand in hand
through the garden path as slowly as we can.
The ladies in the neighborhood would stand in groups
and look curiously at us as we walk, a sight rare in the village
where movement in thickets were the symbol of unspeakable pleasures!
A shy boy and a girl unusually bold; no demure Indian girl she is!
"See how she leads the boy, knows how to play her tune, so well
sometimes I spy the pair stand together at
the mouth of that dark cave, contemplating mysteries perhaps"
overhearing their words, I would cast eyes down as if guilty.
Beyond the uppermost rung of the ladder, is the attic
I haven't seen it yet, but she is a girl and a woman in one
who could see far beyond a boy's ken, she acts her age
what her nail marks etched on my skin is the map of her desires.
In our stealthy expeditions through winding paths my lungs
get filled with feminine smells that are intense in certain times,
our feet become slow and stop without prompt at shaded corners
scented by musky orchid blooms, where blue beetles
hum amorous tunes, then longing takes many forms of expressions.
She knew the art of looking in to my heart,
through the peep holes of eyes, then I hear her whisper as if possessed,
"You are full of sweet poetry, it's beats permeate to my body
when I hold you closer to my ***** but you need me to make it loud"
In the dark attic where the scent of black pepper and dry ginger raged
she kept her promise, her lips caressed mine,with such urgency
my eyes involuntarily, close tightly and I hear her murmurs
it was her way of bringing out my inner poetry, making it flow out
such subtle power it had, we rolled uncontrollably on the floor,
when we did we sighed together, plunging in to a wonder moment.
Sep 12, 2014
Sep 12, 2014 at 2:20 PM UTC
An amorous robot asked her out for a date.
One 'inappropriate touch ' by him,
No doubt, would have sent her up in smoke.
Yet, avoiding the danger of war with humanoids
For spurning one of their kind, was
Uppermost in her mind: she thoughtfully gave the nod!
Apr 3, 2019
Apr 3, 2019 at 7:15 AM UTC
i could not fall from my mind because it is uppermost
thought act as spine erecting me comes from innermost
i can see what is good or bad but when i see what i want to see
you can't call me judgmental because i know what is good for me
i can be swayed by my feelings but then i have a mind to decide
it can be coincidence of emotions and mind ultimately who knows who decides
yet i can think i am right and feel bad when told i am not right
it is me who is judgmental or they who say i am not right.
Nov 24, 2012
Nov 24, 2012 at 7:47 AM UTC
you stood across from me with your hands in your pockets
and your bow tie hung loosely around your neck,
not quite on properly
and a smirk on your face as you spoke to me.
you always said that you liked to watch me get ready
and said that it was paramount to getting ready yourself.
blue dress straps slung themselves across my shoulder
and the diamond you bought me for my birthday touched at my neck
in the same way that your breath did a few moments before.
you sat beside me, your eyes fixated on the perplex glass
and the mirror before me,
stating your adoration for the way I smelled of cognac and lilac
and the cheap cigarettes we'd smoked together
not hours beforehand.
the whiskey on your breath did nothing to dissuade me
from leaning in to kiss at the uppermost corners of your mouth
and scorn you from not tying that ********* bow tie up properly.
Jun 16, 2013
Jun 16, 2013 at 6:31 AM UTC
i could not fall from my mind because it is uppermost
thought act as spine erecting me comes from innermost
i can see what is good or bad but when i see what i want to see
you can't call me judgmental because i know what is good for me
i can be swayed by my feelings but then i have a mind to decide
it can be coincidence of emotions and mind ultimately who knows who decides
yet i can think i am right and feel bad when told i am not right
it is me who is judgmental or they who say i am not right.
Nov 23, 2012
Nov 23, 2012 at 10:42 PM UTC
It is of my very genuine longing,
that you might hold me at odd angles;
Inspiring, penetrating angles,
and help my breathing -or lack thereof- to be elongated.
If my moaning cannot express my uppermost gratitude,
then I am afraid, sir,
that we are both at detrimental loss.
It is funny,
I'm not very seductive at all!
I am short,
with an awkward physical disposition.
However, I control you.
It is magnificent, really.
I will moan,
and in your name I will find significance,
a reason for listening to Frank Sinatra;
lighting incense;
Becoming better.
All I have to give,
is my body-- your lust.
Moaning, penetrating angles, and lust.
Mar 16, 2013
Mar 16, 2013 at 9:47 PM UTC
Seems like the only breaks we catch are the ones that follow hearts
We’ve known little glory and volumes of disappointment so far
Every time it seems happiness is within our grasp
Some external forces continue our beleaguered past
We’ve been the best, only to finish second
Held defeat in our hands when it seemed victory beckoned
And the moments may be few, but we’ll hold them tightly
Packing the Ralph by day, and HSBC nightly.
Jimmy Hoffa, Legion of doom and scary good
Reliving those moments as much as we could
Building houses in Pominville, brick by brick
Hoping to bring home the Cup for Rick
Remembering when RJ cried, “Who Else?”
Briere eying the cookie jar on that uppermost shelf
And with Vanek and Roy and Sekera and Weber
We’ll say our chances look better than ever
We are one, we are many, we are young, we are old
We are still believing, because We Are Buffalo
Mar 8, 2010
Mar 8, 2010 at 12:34 PM UTC
Gradually the sun sets, no longer a hero to chase away the darkness of the world, only leaving it's shadow to illuminate the Earth as it slowly spins away from it's bright visage.
A cool breeze begins to blow, enveloping the world in a frigid breath, allowing the last lingering signs of day to fade into the stillness of the night.
I raise my head from my pillow and move towards the window, looking out into a midnight field, as if only to reminisce about the past.
*A tiny child, betrothed to none other than promise, imagination, and potential.
A wayward girl, unknowing of her past or present, lost to dreams of a future untold.
A ruined teenager, lost to her father and mother, stripped of her true friends, known to all as no one.
A blank adult, unknown to all and shrouded in enigma and concern, yet somehow still a hypothesized complete and utter failure.*
I think quietly to myself, and skim my dull eyes over the picturesque view outside of my window, choosing to focus on the moonlight's reflection in the grass rather than on the thoughts that still rebound in my head.
*What was promised can not be unbroken
The ones I claim are my friends could care less about me
He had only done what he had because I was not good enough for him
I am only hurting like this because of the situations that I have created for my own torture and amusement.*
I place my head back down onto my pillow, feeling it dampen against my cheek.
No matter how hard I may try, this cannot be undone.
The moon takes hold of the sky, rising to it's uppermost point as I quickly slip away into the recess of my own mind, wondering what will come next, and how I will combat it.
Wistful thinking and hopes for a sunnier day bid me to sleep, and the world around me begins to fade to black as I tell myself yet again the same phrase I have been repeating for over a month.
Perhaps tomorrow, I will feel better. For now, I can wait.
Nov 11, 2014
Nov 11, 2014 at 6:28 PM UTC
And if your sun should nightly shine
To kiss my most fervent need
And if fevered hands should suddenly seek
Upon mine; inviolate, to feed
If, hand to hand, we fuel that hidden mouth
Which, cavernous, can never sleep
Who can say what the ending will be
Of things giving birth from the deep
Once-bound of heaven; loosed upon earth
To the uppermost firmaments, it must always escape
The clouds ferry sandpipers day-swift journeys,
While on beaches beneath, the dead birds gape.
Mar 25, 2010
Mar 25, 2010 at 6:42 AM UTC
I read a spanish word and teared up because I knew I was feeling a feeling my mom felt when she was twenty. I mean-- she went to the dominican republic and she studied a foreign language in college. She was curious
and I am curious.
When people show me unexpected kindnesses, it makes me tear up.
What did I do to deserve this? and then I remember a little bit.
I wrote down a few notes for a paper:
the setting implies the corruptibility of female bodies.
I walked down the packed streets at night and applied that rough thesis
and it felt sad to be in what Steven calls a world of abstraction
and even now I sound like a liberal-arts university program ***** (I’m not).
I heard and just missed something fall from a tall tree.
I caught the tail end of the leaf debris, and wondered while
I read Ali Smith’s Hotel World, how many squirrels died in freak uppermost tree branch
falling incidents, and if it made a noticeable difference.
The scene, the scene is happening through temporality and that makes it seem empty
Sitting outside alone it is okay I am not the most important person in the universe
Now I’m working on holding all my adolescent memories in a loving embrace.
My ears also perk up at the sound of little kid voices.
Oct 17, 2015
Oct 17, 2015 at 12:39 PM UTC
Hidden underneath her clothes where no one else could check,
they coursed around her body- arms stomach and neck
The bruises that adorned her were tattoos of rage and shame
Put there by a cowardly sot that barely knew his name
All she wanted was a family, her man herself and kids
to form a family unit like her mom and daddy did
She defended him at every turn, despite the things we saw
And only saw the good in him whenever things went wrong.
What little he worked he spent on *** and ***** to wash it down
soon after came the little pills, and then the party crowds
their budget tight and still he spent, taking her pay in the night
"My money is mine and your money is ours" as though that made it all alright
I wanted so badly to shake him, and perhaps as a child someone did
to get him to see his folly, but I refrained at her behest
Though it boiled my blood and seared my soul I checked myself through it all
That was, until the night we got that fateful call
Daddy please come get me, come as quick as you can
He'd put her out on the side of the road, and beat her like a man
Patches of hair were missing, blood dripping down her face
her clothes were ripped and rent, very little left in place
I gave him back what he'd given her, all four years and more
I guess it was too much to bear now my chaplain's at the cell door
My daughter's doing fine I'm told as we walk that last green mile
Was it worth it as they strap me down, I just nod my head and smile
I feel the needle ***** my arm, feel the nerves go dead
My brain the last thing to go, she's uppermost in my head
Some might see a pitiful waste, but I see perfect sense
I gave my all, the torch is yours - End Domestic Violence!!
May 23, 2010
May 23, 2010 at 6:25 AM UTC
the squelch of the Maenads' feet
danced grass into mud.
their murderous waters breaking--
carrying Orpheus' head in their bellies.
their glazed masks of perspiration became
stuck to weedy tresses of hair--loose as the
plucked strings of Orpheus' lyre.
their droplets of sweat premixed with blood.
Dionysus obliterating memories of irreversible
inebriation between his teeth--grape clusters
downing his chin like a handfed babe.
Orpheus' harmonic Sparagmos--where the
eidolon of every G*d reverberates an uppermost
image.
as Orpheus' head meandered, crashed & tumbled
thru the River Hebros--his lyre stayed by this throat.
playing dismemberment.
the goat song of tragedy.
undercurrents of Hades saturating Hebros with the
narrowest name of water--leading out to...
Dec 3, 2023
Dec 3, 2023 at 2:36 AM UTC
It's not a person or what she sees that makes a twitch between her knees.
A gentle rub a closet pressure can make her lips rub together
Once she's off a little moist then a thought is uppermost
Where oh where today can mystery man get me laid
In the park or on the stairs
With or without my underwear
From behind to start or end
Imagination is her friend
Of to the loo she must pop
To finish off her sacred spot.
Returns to desk with inner warmth as shes just strumed and now is calm.
Jan 30, 2013
Jan 30, 2013 at 12:30 PM UTC
On a warm summer morning,
children running, playing.
A large tree; tall, strong, and
majestic.
Uppermost branches swaying in the
air currents high above the
world far below.
Two children climb the Forest Queen,
eager to reach the heights she offers them.
A slip.
A fall.
A scream.
Pain shooting through the boy,
a spear of wood embedded in
his side.
Shot through the ribs, unable
to think, gasping for breath.
“It hurts,” he cries.
Then he closes his eyes and waits.
Help arrives and gently lifts the boy of the spear
piercing him.
Comforts him.
Cradles him.
There is no blood. The spear is stopping the flow.
The boy’s mother performs the surgery of
removing the spike that remains within him.
Again, the boy cries out, and closes his eyes,
and waits for the pain to end.
He carried the reminder of the
Fall from Grace for many years.
Yet, he still admires the Majesty of the Forest Queen.
He still loves nature.
He will always remember.
Aug 19, 2011
Aug 19, 2011 at 11:48 AM UTC
Great Aunt Maria? Oh,
We say nothing of her.
She was your great
Grandfather’ sister; bit
Of a lost cause, I’m afraid.
You found a photograph
Of her? Where? What were
You doing going through
Grandmother’s things and
She not yet cold in her grave.
You show Mother the photo
And she screws up her eyes,
Taking in the woman pictured
There. How could she pose
With her underclothes on and
Smoking a cigarette, too. My
God, Colin, you shouldn’t be
Looking at this, look at the pose,
The way she stands, as if posing
Like that was normal and she’s
Actually smiling. Mother puts
The photo against her breast,
Facedown, the blank off-white
Side uppermost. To think she
Was related to us. If she was a
Daughter of mine…Grandmother
Seldom spoke of her. To have
This photo in her belongings.
Mother takes a quick peep at
The photo, then turns it over
Again. If I posed like that,
Mother says, Grandfather
Would have tanned my hide.
You stand and wish she’d
Hand you back the photo,
Finders keepers kind of thing;
But no, she tucks it away in
Her apron pocket, then wipes
Her hands on the flowered
Cloth as if contaminated.
You’re glad you never
Showed her the other one
Of Great Aunt Maria; that one’s
Raunchier and much more fun.
Apr 22, 2016
Apr 22, 2016 at 3:27 AM UTC
Passed hand to hand, kitchen to kitchen or made of your own strain.
Effervescent, warm as the crook of an elbow.
1 cup starter
Tang of the sea, dried in the sun or
Labored from it's ancient bed.
palm full of salt
Sustainer, banked sunshine
Hacked from the fields, ground in to submission.
7 cups flour
Chipped fired earth, with a blue stripe and lip.
Nouveau ancestral.
1 mixing bowl
Wadded in the corner of the last drawer, found.
Blue checked linen parted warp and weft for hanging.
tea towel
Baby on hip, hair hitched out of view
Hand stands in for a wooden spoon. Mix and rest.
magic bubbles
Forgotten on the back of stove, rediscovery.
Dusted hands slink along, through, around elastic shapes.
second rise
Expansion, gripping uppermost lip of the pan
Night falls, contraction.
bake
Bubbly sigh releases with tightening crumb
Evaporation, setting.
cooling
Slab sliced for breakfast.
Eaten with fork and knife.
peasant meat
Apr 10, 2015
Apr 10, 2015 at 7:42 AM UTC
I wake up everyday
my eyes riveted
to the ceiling
as rainbow flecks
radiate from crystals
that reside in the middle
of the uppermost window
this bedroom marked “private”
on the door
has meant twenty-four months
complete control
freedom to design
every detail, every texture, every nuance
Handpicked
A vivid palette
splashed onto every square foot
hoping to recapture
life’s intense force
while it drowns out
nagging shadows
threatening to swallow
My space
Italian ceramic mask- topped sconces
flanking the empty space
the mosaic mirror
I’m still learning to make
the gilded cream vanity
fit for a princess
still Waits
highlighted memories
fill dusty shelves and cling to walls
called Home now
my queen size bed use to sit quietly
in my guest room
rarely disturbed
now it harbors
my dreams and fears
afloat on a sea of defiantly feminine
pillows and blankets
an eclectic mix of Me
comes out of every nook and cranny
while my inner sanctum takes shape.
May 19, 2014
May 19, 2014 at 1:20 PM UTC
as i draw
the room temperature blade
across my skin
little white marks
scratches like a cat
remain
a hidden sign
of the pain
the torture
of the hopelessness suffered in amongst the peaceful serenity of destruction that is currently swallowing me whole
i wish
i had the courage
to draw on my hands
like normal
or my wrists
for a change
but this time
it must remain my private little secret
my ***** little secret
or those the closest to me will get hurt and that will only
make things
worst
if i had the courage
i’d draw
dainty sparkles of crimson blood
i’d push hard against the mottled canvas of my uppermost thigh
i’d do it properly
but i can’t
bring myself
to push
any
harder
i pause
for the second time
since i began
i think
of those i’ve seen around me
in public
at school
college
wherever
some try to hide their masterpieces with age old techniques which do nothing but cry louder and more desperately than the lines of ink which they so desperately want to keep so secret
it
doesn’t
work
some hang theirs up on exhibition for the whole world and their wife to see
free of charge
no
one
cares
or even
really
notices
as i draw
the room temperature blade across my skin
i finally feel
okay.
Oct 9, 2018
Oct 9, 2018 at 4:33 PM UTC
in the moist dank
hours, of this
rainy night.
the shadow
cat-blue,
has sought, the
high planes of
the house
and can now be
found, only
by glaring
lantern eyes.
we search
and find
him, nestled,
on the second, to
uppermost stay,
of the third
bookshelf,
in the study.
he has filed
himself,
between,
ogden nash
and proust
and it is there,
he plans to stay.
Mar 27, 2014
Mar 27, 2014 at 4:56 AM UTC