"vere" poems
Ah, broken is the golden bowl! the spirit flown forever!
Let the bell toll!—a saintly soul floats on the Stygian river.
And, Guy de Vere, hast thou no tear?—weep now or never more!
See! on yon drear and rigid bier low lies thy love, Lenore!
Come! let the burial rite be read—the funeral song be sung!—
An anthem for the queenliest dead that ever died so young—
A dirge for her, the doubly dead in that she died so young.
“Wretches! ye loved her for her wealth and hated her for her pride,
And when she fell in feeble health, ye blessed her—that she died!
How shall the ritual, then, be read?—the requiem how be sung
By you—by yours, the evil eye,—by yours, the slanderous tongue
That did to death the innocence that died, and died so young?”
Peccavimus; but rave not thus! and let a Sabbath song
Go up to God so solemnly the dead may feel no wrong!
The sweet Lenore hath “gone before,” with Hope, that flew beside,
Leaving thee wild for the dear child that should have been thy bride—
For her, the fair and debonnaire, that now so lowly lies,
The life upon her yellow hair but not within her eyes—
The life still there, upon her hair—the death upon her eyes.
“Avaunt! to-night my heart is light. No dirge will I upraise,
But waft the angel on her flight with a paean of old days!
Let no bell toll!—lest her sweet soul, amid its hallowed mirth,
Should catch the note, as it doth float up from the ****** Earth.
To friends above, from fiends below, the indignant ghost is riven—
From Hell unto a high estate far up within the Heaven—
From grief and groan to a golden throne beside the King of Heaven.”
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A poem for my beloved grandmother, Omi
A beautiful heart brought across on the gliders,
Forced away by Red pride, the awful black spiders.
She cried cross oceans in Grandpa’s camo embrace,
Safely gone from the 30’s, and end to the chase,
*“Zese mountains vere safe, Deutschland re-pborn.
Ve vere ‘ere vhen this town bekan, Cyril.”*
Omi’s voice pauses, marred by our Western smog,
Christmas we sit at her feet and her eyes again fog.
This story we hear, we’ve heard, but it is not cheap,
Our roots are revealed and we cringe as Omi weeps,
*“I vont drive, no and I can not vote,
Pbut this landt is safe, Cyril ve are free!”*
As her amber eyes ripple, it’s now time, we know,
This country she loves, yet it’s pain the more so.
The airs tightens thickly as we wait the remark,
The blame she gives freely makes this land so dark,
*“Bobby diedt and Monica followedt.
Cyril, I bpuried my childt and ‘ushband here”*
It wasn’t the Cancer or Smoke in their lungs,
This country she blames and it’s pitch-forked tongues.
So we hug to apologize for ‘ol Uncle Sam,
Not ****** but Freedom she says poisons this land.
Aug 27, 2012
Aug 27, 2012 at 12:33 PM UTC
Lady Clara Vere de Vere
Was eight years old, she said:
Every ringlet, lightly shaken, ran itself in golden thread.
She took her little porringer:
Of me she shall not win renown:
For the baseness of its nature shall have strength to drag her
down.
"Sisters and brothers, little Maid?
There stands the Inspector at thy door:
Like a dog, he hunts for boys who know not two and two are four."
"Kind words are more than coronets,"
She said, and wondering looked at me:
"It is the dead unhappy night, and I must hurry home to tea."
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Blompen ; dompen
My pen lè los in my hand ,
Bibberend soos 'n straatkind in die kou;
Net so blinkoog - net so hol,
Vol drome wat in die agterkop brou
Maar die ink loop hortend oor die blou
Treinspore, mompelend soos 'n man
Wat die vreemde dialek van opgee praat
En sy laaste vloek op die hemel inspan
*** sku sluip die musa in die skemerson
Waar net echoes van haar in die droewige letters lê
En die gebeendere van hol woorde waai met die wind
Tot waar sal net die uitgedroogde môre kan sê?
My pen is nietigvaal teen die goudskrif teen die muur
En hunker uit desperaatheid na 'n siggaret
, want die ander het vere en woorde wat vlieg...
*** skep ek 'n wereld met die dors pen wat ek het?
My môre lyk puntloos en onvoltooid.
My gemoed knak en splinter oor die papier.
Die ink loop meer kunstig onder fisika
As die hand van die skrywer, Die verlepte Angelier
Oct 26, 2014
Oct 26, 2014 at 11:41 AM UTC
This moment,
Now,
I hear your soft voice.
The one you use only for me.
I feel my arms around your hips
as you stand **** before me.
I smell you.
My god, your smells!
I am listening to the London Symphony Orchestra
perform Carmina Burana.
One of your many favorites.
Tough morning. Enough said there.
The air is cool and a slight breeze is coming through my windows.
I hear the incessant traffic on cuming street,
the fans I have in my bedroom and living room,
the music of Carl's primo vere,
and your voice.
It whispers to me across centuries,
softly, sweetly.
No trace of sarcasm
or acrimony.
It speaks to me of mountaintop cabins,
of quiet moonlit ponds,
of autumns last victim slowly falling to the ground
to join it's cousins.
It speaks to me of music,
timeless and universal.
It does not harangue, or plead or spout.
Instead it soothes me, caresses my body
with an undeniable comfort.
This moment,
Now,
I feel you deep within my core.
You are safe there.
Mar 11, 2012
Mar 11, 2012 at 2:58 PM UTC
The world,
Full of hope,
Full of hate,
Full of love,
Turns as it does,
Up, down, and thereof.
It has beauty worth saving,
Love worth the infinity,
But it would mean little,
Without you.
You are the world that I see,
The thing that matters most,
You set me free.
If the feelings you feel,
Mirror not how I feel,
I will respect your decision,
And accept all as real.
No arguments,
No fights.
Disagreements,
Not worth it.
We deserve our own freedom,
And I know that you've earned it.
You have become part of me,
And the further we go,
You become half of who I am,
I adore you so.
Sep 7, 2010
Sep 7, 2010 at 4:59 PM UTC
nello spirito del vento
amo il cuore e non la mente
parlare con l'anima e non le mani
amare se stessi per quello che sei
amo le tue idee anche se non sono vere
Hai cuore di amore, anche se non si tratta di pura
amo la tua verità
solo che ti amo così si può essere liberi
la verità è la verità
sarà l'ultima
il freno di cuore sarà valsa la pena il dolore
il tuo cuore
il tuo amore
il vostro libero arbitrio
sarà su e lo stesso
Tu ami
Hai detto
si cercano avventure lungo e in largo
solo per dire "voglio nascondere"
nello spirito del vento
Correrò e percorrere la distanza solo per vedere la bellezza nei colori
Vorrei cambiare il mio spirito per tutte le gambe per toccare la montagna
Correrò con il cielo e l'amore grande
(it is in italian.....please dont steal this one this is really personal.)
Jul 8, 2015
Jul 8, 2015 at 11:05 AM UTC
La amistad es algo hermoso.
Es algo spectacular.
Algo que nunca olvidaras.
Porque siempre la tendras.
Yo ana bella cavazos
scribo este poema porque
es por lo que yo estoy
pasando mi amiga joan
se cambiara de scuela y talvez
nunca jamas la vere.
La primera vez que la vi senti
que iva hacer mi amiga y si
fue mi amiga no la quiero dejar
porque mi corazon se rompera.
Si tuviera un deseo seria que siempre tuviera a
joan la duena de mi corazon.
May 7, 2015
May 7, 2015 at 3:13 PM UTC
** sceso, dandoti il braccio, almeno milioni di scale
e ora che non ci sei è il vuoto ad ogni gradino.
Anche così è stato breve il nostro viaggio.
Il mio dura tuttora, né più mi occorrono
le coincidenze, le prenotazioni,
le trappole, gli scorni di chi crede
che la realtà sia quella che si vede.
** sceso milioni di scale dandoti il braccio
non già perché con quattr'occhi forse si vede di più.
Con te le ** scese perché sapevo che di noi due
le sole vere pupille, sebbene tanto offuscate,
erano le tue.
950
Yearning her
Needing her
Wanting her
Loving her;
Adoring her
Kissing her
Holding her
Feeling her;
Making her
Mine wife;
With one ring
Romantic poetic life.
Diving down
Into her core;
Inside mine reyna
Mine true amour'.
©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poets poetry
©Earl Jane Nagley dedicated-Filipino rose
Nov 6, 2015
Nov 6, 2015 at 10:15 AM UTC
What verses are these,
Not worthy of thee...
Lost in words that
Would not let me be
In phantom misery
I chase this allegory
To chance upon your grace,
Oh, that I would trace
The now familiar,
Unfamiliarity
And stumble
Into that I mumble
For in your rhyme
No rhythm ever broken
Brand the mark,
In hidden cost
So much confusion
In this unholy fusion
What hast thou done?
Why push the quill,
In secret shadow?
I can not utter one more syllable
I can’t construct another phrase
But let me see ,the final draft
In your benevolent hand
Create a masterpiece, divine.....
There’s plenty more
Inside your core
Words flow like river,
Keep me whole
For no mask can hide
Nor lies, deny
Thou art,
The master of thine art
And in thee resides the words
Beating in thy heart
Love rages...
Thou art the soul of the ages!
(There are those who claim that the works attributed to William Shakespeare were actually written by Edward de Vere).
Dec 20, 2015
Dec 20, 2015 at 7:23 PM UTC
Udii tra il sonno le ciaramelle,
** udito un suono di ninne nanne.
Ci sono in cielo tutte le stelle,
ci sono i lumi nelle capanne.
Sono venute dai monti oscuri
le ciaramelle senza dir niente;
hanno destata nè suoi tuguri
tutta la buona povera gente.
Ognuno è sorto dal suo giaciglio;
accende il lume sotto la trave;
sanno quei lumi d'ombra e sbadiglio,
di cauti passi, di voce grave.
Le pie lucerne brillano intorno,
là nella casa, qua su la siepe:
sembra la terra, prima di giorno,
un piccoletto grande presepe.
Nel cielo azzurro tutte le stelle
paion restare come in attesa;
ed ecco alzare le ciaramelle
il loro dolce suono di chiesa;
suono di chiesa, suono di chiostro,
suono di casa, suono di culla,
suono di mamma, suono del nostro
dolce e passato pianger di nulla.
O ciaramelle degli anni primi,
d'avanti il giorno, d'avanti il vero,
or che le stelle son là sublimi,
conscie del nostro breve mistero;
che non ancora si pensa al pane,
che non ancora s'accende il fuoco;
prima del grido delle campane
fateci dunque piangere un poco.
Non più di nulla, sì di qualcosa,
di tante cose! Ma il cuor lo vuole,
quel pianto grande che poi riposa,
quel gran dolore che poi non duole;
sopra le nuove pene sue vere
vuol quei singulti senza ragione:
sul suo martòro, sul suo piacere,
vuol quelle antiche lagrime buone!
752
She found a bottle on the shore.
A missive within.
All sealed and dry, for his heart 'twas broke.
Communication from far off shores.
A flagon of glass,
bore his heart.
A ladies man wrote to a lady of note.
"Lady Annabel, I trust this letter finds you well.
My ship of war, she transcends the waves,
I was moved to write to you a note,
I trembled as I wrote these words,
A covenant to our love,
a declaration,
Sadly I doubt that you will ever see.
Being stolen from thy passion.
Let pen upon paper be writ.
My tumescent heart be broken."
Such grief felt as relieved by his pen,
Into the sea from his almighty ship.
His words forthright tossed.
Unto the stormiest swell.
By the grace of Neptune,
his vessel was caught,
rode the tide of time.
Now 'tis warm upon the summer sands.
An unexpected blessing found,
grounded upon the shore as was said.
A name and address of his lady,
She, for whom the note was meant.
Penned perfection from her beau,
the sailor whose heart so bled.
The spirit of Annabel, the lady so dear.
Found by her Grand-daughter,
The Lady Annabel De Vere.
The first lady Annabel, long since passed away.
Young Lady Annabel, went to out to play.
Regardless.
(C) Livvi
Dec 26, 2014
Dec 26, 2014 at 8:34 AM UTC
Non dies transit, ut non **** te
Sed, putatis de me?
Numquam erit vere scio,
Quia ego sum non a mente lector
Aut via, possum tamen te amo,
Non possum?
O bene.
Apr 26, 2019
Apr 26, 2019 at 8:46 PM UTC
Be careful of the darkness, be careful of the night
Don't you ever walk alone, beneath the full moonlight
Lurking in the shadows, could be victims first blood bite
The luna cycle is complete, now the moon is fully bright
Hiking across the countryside, it may turn into a sham
Don't get lost and find yourself, inside the Slaughtered Lamb
What exactly is the meaning, of the five point pentagram ?
A star to warn of evil, or an ancient symbol scam !
If you find yourself alone, and your walking in the dark
Don't ever vere of the roads, and don't go in the park
Be weary of the shadows, and beware of
full moons bark
Stay out of the subways, or you'll be the lupins mark
Traveling on the underground, well this would be your choosing
Empty platforms late at night, could turn out quite confusing
A jagged tooth's awaiting you, your life you may be losing
Claws severing your mortal soul, and you wont find it amusing
You will know the moon is full, when the werewolf roars
A soft throat is easily torn, if you stroll on the Moore's
I don't know if you'll be safe, being locked behind closed doors
The wolfs curse is haunting you, a scratch from blooded claws
You'll suffer an unnatural death, if you don't watch where you tread
Condemned to walk in limbo, and be part of the undead
Decaying flesh on rotted bones, untill the last bloodline is bled
A silver bullet should be used, to sever the cursed thread
So don't dismiss the wolf-man, as a convict or a loon
With supernatural forces, it means that no one is immune
Cycles of the werewolf, well they come round all too soon
The Lycanthrope is watching you, so beware the moon
Dec 12, 2019
Dec 12, 2019 at 5:48 PM UTC