"wailful" poems
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;
To bend with apples the mossed cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o'er-brimmed their clammy cell.
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep,
Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers;
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cider-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.
Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,---
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir, the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft,
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
2.4k
I
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.
II
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,
Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.
III
Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,--
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
1.9k
The pervading glumness of this dead air
Ideally filled with wailful tunes
As if a carnival or a fair
With lively and colorful balloons
The greyness of this noiseless strife
Quiet enough for one to hear
The rhythmic bass of life
And to come to grips with fear
Nary a caw of the crow heard,
Searching for a snack
The noises of a carrion bird
Are not enough to break this lack
Nary a thing is audible
Save the busy humming of the mind
And while the desire is laudable
Peace, noises cannot find
The life bringing silence
Spawning thoughts and ideas
In order to escape the noisy violence
And to go to a noiseless panacea
To embrace the unwanted mellow
Is to accept the mind for itself
It’s never truly quiet with you as your fellow
So long as you don’t leave your thoughts on the shelf
Jan 11, 2015
Jan 11, 2015 at 4:30 PM UTC
Recircled czars drenched
In the blood of despotic swayers.
Encircled proteges with the
Aura of treacherous thorns
Keeping vigils in the basilica
Of authority
Year in,
Year out .
Selfsame partners in politics,
Selfsame partners in crimes,
Selfsame partners in progress
Selfsame partners in poor
governance,
Setting subservient subjects
In perilous bays of hopelessness.
Scale of disengagement
Dangling carrots of
Intimidating threats.
Recircled ideas.
Recircled inhuman governance.
Recircled personages.
Recircled wasted years.
Deluge of prognostic plans
Sinking boats of tale.
Decades of experience yielding
Inexperienced tzars.
Torn garb of treachery
Covered up blazers of falsehood.
Stench of stasis enthroned on the
Stool of power, wrenching
corruption from the grip
of guilt.
Populace sitting on sulky
directing the horse of
hardship with the
wailful whips of
perseverance.
Epochal terms of wastages
roll in
and
roll out
like a spiraling
viperine grass
snake
beneath the
hybrids of weeds
on a crest of
spring cress.
Yet, promises promoting
Superannuated gains of
Effortless dividend.
Feb 14, 2019
Feb 14, 2019 at 2:53 PM UTC
Under unfounded skies;
My soul has been buried alive.
A dreadful fear creeps in,
as the treading sound comes closer.
My bones can barely make a move to hide.
The dark creature dwells out every night,
in hunt for skin.
He prowls in;
With the hunger of flesh in his eyes.
His cursed fingers,
Burning my skin.
Not a place left unbruised from the greed of his pleasure.
My Soul bleeds out,
as he thrashes himself into me.
The pain ebbs to my bone
Giving me a wailful cry.
It keeps dragging me down every time I make an attempt to climb out o' this hell.
If only you could listen;
You would hear the crashing pieces of my Hope.
A Hope to escape my Destined World.
***** for several nights.
I'm the voice of a 3 year old girl.
Oct 20, 2018
Oct 20, 2018 at 10:12 PM UTC
Autumn by John Keats
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,
Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.
Where are the songs of spring? Ay, Where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,—
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
Oct 14, 2018
Oct 14, 2018 at 10:46 AM UTC
Wailful wailing l heard
Roiling current of tears from the oasis
Scale of sorrow surged down tears
Turning ashes for ashes
Spiraling echoes of tears recoiling
Will you return again?
Wait for us
On the resurrection day.
Jul 13, 2019
Jul 13, 2019 at 1:05 PM UTC
humility
comes from odd places,
and so oft unexpected,
a comment leads me to
fine lace, of which I see know
nought and naught, and to Normandy and Northern England,
rafting into history
and what the difference is tween
naught and nought (not much)
and my ignorance is stupendous,
really, I know so little about so much, and it staggers me into
wailful willful
and honest
humility
Jun 7, 2025
Jun 7, 2025 at 9:41 AM UTC