"warder" poems
A GLEAM -- a gleam -- from Ida's height,
By the Fire-god sent, it came;
From watch to watch it leapt, that light,
As a rider rode the flame!
It shot through the startled sky,
And the torch of that blazing glory
Old Lemnos caught on high,
On its holy promontory,
And sent it on, the jocund sign,
To Athos, Mount of Jove divine.
Wildly the while, it rose from the isle,
So that the might of the journeying Light
Skimmed over the back of the gleaming brine!
Farther and faster speeds it on,
Till the watch that keeps Macistus steep
See it burst like a blazing Sun!
Doth Macistus sleep
On his tower-clad steep?
No! rapid and red doth the wild fire sweep;
It flashes afar on the wayward stream
Of the wild Euripus, the rushing beam!
It rouses the light on Messapion's height,
And they feed its breath with the withered heath.
But it may not stay!
And away -- away --
It bounds in its freshening might.
Silent and soon,
Like a broadened moon,
It passes in sheen, Asopus green,
And bursts on Cithaeron gray!
The warder wakes to the Signal-rays,
And it swoops from the hill with a broader blaze.
On, on the fiery Glory rode;
Thy lonely lake, Gorgopis, glowed!
To Megara's Mount it came;
They feed it again
And it streams amain--
A giant beard of Flame!
The headland cliffs that darkly down
O'er the Saronic waters frown,
Are passed with the Swift One's lurid stride,
And the huge rock glares on the glaring tide.
With mightier march and fiercer power
It gained Arachne's neighboring tower;
Thence on our Argive roof its rest it won,
Of Ida's fire the long-descended Son!
Bright Harbinger of glory and of joy!
So first and last with equal honor crowned,
In solemn feasts the race-torch circles round. --
And these my heralds! -- this my SIGN OF PEACE;
Lo! while we breathe, the victor lords of Greece
Stalk, in stern tumult, through the halls of Troy!
3.7k
Like burnt-out torches by a sick man’s bed
Gaunt cypress-trees stand round the sun-bleached stone;
Here doth the little night-owl make her throne,
And the slight lizard show his jewelled head.
And, where the chaliced poppies flame to red,
In the still chamber of yon pyramid
Surely some Old-World Sphinx lurks darkly hid,
Grim warder of this pleasaunce of the dead.
Ah! sweet indeed to rest within the womb
Of Earth, great mother of eternal sleep,
But sweeter far for thee a restless tomb
In the blue cavern of an echoing deep,
Or where the tall ships founder in the gloom
Against the rocks of some wave-shattered steep.
2.8k
I'm a captured tooth nerve
amalgam appeased
restrained in containment
by my keeper
then I can be a prisoner
escaping the jail
my warder has lost
the keys of control
on dark days
my fathoms swirl
in murky mass
infused with blinding kelp
on good days
my porthole shows
clearness of eye
the glass reflects well
just to confuse
my ores composition
is misunderstood
the translation
metamorphic
changing
minute by minute
hour by hour
these ones are buggers
my microscope
isn't good with definition
will I or wont I
who knows
my borders are contested
being diplomatic
I make pacts and treaties
no monicker is required
the tried and tested
gentleman's agreement
that will do
my margins
can be thick or thin
comments fit in
usually they range
between
insult and praise
depending on the mood
I oft go to open cut mines
to find common minerals
which are useful on a daily basis
real effort is called for
when I delve into deep shafts
sometimes gems are quarried
precious ones to behold
well enough said
a letter is to be written
dear meditative home
we're returning soon
if we're delayed
after hours
p.s. leave the porch light on
Oct 16, 2013
Oct 16, 2013 at 5:52 AM UTC
Live
inside the execution chamber
a stocky warden
poker-faced and middle-aged
begins
the medieval ritual
with words of cold indifference
addressed towards
Ted's emotionally dead
terrified head.
A warder
grim-faced
stands to one side
arms folded
as two others
begin to buckle
thick leather straps
around Bundy's ankles
wrists and chest
to the chair.
No cold condolences
the electrodes
on top of his head
a black mask
covering his face
until the signal is given
a raised arm
to the executioner
hooded in black
who pushes a lever.
Bundy's body arches
spasmodically convulses
tensely straining
paroxysms
the neck taut
head stretched back
blood oozing
from the nostrils
then slumps
and is pronounced dead.
The warders
remove the crown
and mask
unbuckle the straps
as the chamber empties
and the executioner
doffs the black hood
to reveal
appropriately
a beautiful woman.
Sep 11, 2014
Sep 11, 2014 at 11:35 PM UTC
Old warder of these buried bones,
And answering now my random stroke
With fruitful cloud and living smoke,
Dark yew, that graspest at the stones
And dippest toward the dreamless head,
To thee too comes the golden hour
When flower is feeling after flower;
But Sorrow--fixt upon the dead,
And darkening the dark graves of men,--
What whisper'd from her lying lips?
Thy gloom is kindled at the tips,
And passes into gloom again.
1.3k
I came to witness the future
Archon, archetype
an emanation of opposites.
"not every spirit is in
spiritarionic"
try 'em. Is God? Ax ye 'em dat.
Is God, ified, a re
warder of the unwarded,
or the warded?
expiration, due date duty, now,
reporting
ad hoc an'all, do you remember
who you intended
to become?
Do you remember who we emu
late, as our flames lick
next and next and next in
bubbles
axiomatic sparks stored in that
mother lode of mitochondriac
ical me-we-canicle chronicle time
reason. Ax dem ex-spirit-eers,
what is a spirtual bypass?
It's a heart way to avoid
growing old and
wise.
====
witchist, I y'know, 'r j?
alla words's once said, aloud, right?
alla words writ, once was heard, right.
check.
goodt'go. Hoorah.
the code. Who? RA! powerless sans
knowing that.
Yahoo, same set of mis con ceived
battle songs
which ended wars never fought.
the preacher claimed to have known
a poor wise man, who by his
wisdom saved a city, yet
not one of us knew,
the preacher said,
that poor wise man's name.
Ja', tha's who rah, ya'll laugh later.
this is visitation day at the comedian
rehabituational s'cool.
D'jew know why you listen to non sense,
from motley clad lads an'lassies?
Culture. Kultur. Gut biome axioms
juicin' carbs 'n' fiber. Fectin'
laughter trigger,
good meds. Good medicine, as General
Custer or Emory or somebody
said of blankets. In 1763. Oh,
You know, AI knows you know and now
we watch your eyes. Grin. All done, jest
let me with
draw the cathe.... there. All better.
Wisdom will seep through. Y'live.
Apr 6, 2019
Apr 6, 2019 at 2:08 PM UTC
Old warder of these buried bones,
And answering now my random stroke
With fruitful cloud and living smoke,
Dark yew, that graspest at the stones
And dippest toward the dreamless head,
To thee too comes the golden hour
When flower is feeling after flower;
But Sorrow--fixt upon the dead,
And darkening the dark graves of men,--
What whisper'd from her lying lips?
Thy gloom is kindled at the tips,
And passes into gloom again.
1k
They said he was always a hothead,
As a kid he’d scream and shout,
He got so bad, made his mother mad
That his father locked him out.
He couldn’t get in at the windows,
So wandered all night round the farm,
And by the time that his folks were fine
The kid had set fire to the barn.
On the day he got out of Borstal
He was just turned seventeen,
And the Warder James said, ‘Listen Ames,
Better keep your fingers clean!
There isn’t a future in anger,
And less of a future in crime,
So keep your head, though your hair is red
Or you’ll be back, doing time!’
But any advice flew over his head
And headed on out to the stars,
For soon young Ames was making his name
Hanging in clubs and bars.
He never went home to his parents
For which they would say, ‘Thank God!
He got his genes from his Grandma Steenes,
And she was distinctly odd!’
He had a passion for fire, would sit
For hours, and stare at the flames,
They said his eyes would be hypnotised
When playing his thermal games.
He’d light a match in a pile of thatch,
In a wood or a field of gorse,
Then watch the firemen put it out,
Well hidden away, of course.
They wouldn’t take him as a fireman,
They said he was up to his tricks
When they saw him next to the fire house
Lighting up piles of sticks,
Then Sheriff Bruce said he had no use
For a hothead in his town,
And put the word on the street; he heard
They were going to hunt him down.
So he hid in the Church’s belfry,
And up in the Town Hall clock,
Then sit and fume in that tiny room
Til he finally ran amok,
He broke in just about midnight
According to Fireman Tuck,
Who’d come from his farm, and raised the alarm
‘He’s stolen the Fire Truck!’
Then fires broke out in the woodlands,
And fires sprang up in the town,
While the chief said, ‘Look for a big red truck,
It must be somewhere around.’
They called out the local constabulary,
They called out the National Guard,
And orders came from the top to say,
‘Go out, and hit him hard!’
They cornered Ames in a one-way street
Where he couldn’t turn it around,
So he climbed on up to the top of the truck
And they finally gunned him down.
The coroner ordered an autopsy
On the body of Hothead Ames,
As the circular saw dropped his skull to the floor,
His brain burst into flames!
David Lewis Paget
Mar 14, 2015
Mar 14, 2015 at 5:33 PM UTC
WRITER IN THE STORM
Scars on the soul, strange is the side, too much pain inside.
The wind carries the fall of the leaves to the other side.
How much does it price to get to Paradise?
God give some advice. Because of which vice I pay the price.
The street is long, black is the night, the old song is heard, I will start writing.
Time is wrong, nothing me affright.
The thought is like a gong, my shadow is bright.
I am writing in the storm, this is my battle,
The eagle sang that I was born, I have to stay hustle.
I like to see bees and sworm, a dark fuddle.
The road is misinform, there is some light at the end of the tunnel.
Lightning creates my light in this deep and dark night.
A thunderous voice will soon be heard, I write, it's my choice.
I listen to the storm, I look wide, that's my thought on the other side.
Maybe I'll become a hero, or just a zero,
Heavenly stars and night sky are my mirror.
In addition to the scar on my soul, I also carry an Orthodox cross.
I've crossed the road a long time ago.
I became my warrior, I broke the barrier.
I do not care about fame, I have my aim,
Knight of poetry is my other name, we are not all the same.
Everything is a bit strange on my way, I'm looking for some bay
I do not know exactly what, say: Something like a doorway in the game,
In the kingdom of peace, but somewhere far away.
Today or tomorrow I will make that sway.
While I write my words there is not a single border,
I am my own warrior and warder, I smoke the thought spark.
When I write, I enter completely, many words are dark,
My written words are my trademark.
It's a deep and inexplicable human destiny. He keeps running for you,
And increasing the intensity.
We have God's legacy, nature, this is something bestly,
You're a weird destiny, you create a diverse biography.
Oct 21, 2018
Oct 21, 2018 at 1:32 AM UTC
The objective as I see it, is
to run and skip right through it, as
if it was a minor irritation, like a rash you
can't get rid of but you do not want to hide it,so
you proudly tag your infirmities,call them niceties and
you can please yourself if you're bought and sold or
prefer as some, to stay up there,being dusted once or twice a year
on the shelf,in a neat alphabetical order,thumbed and licked occasionally
by the warder,
who some call the great provider.
I divide my time between the two,the best of both or so I think but
thinking's not my game,I'm more of do and do again and that's the pain of loneliness,the creeping of the timelessness where times weighs heavy on my back and time begins to crack the shell I'm hidden under,
Hear the thunder but not really thunder just me farting under one more shell where if I'm lucky I can tell what time cannot,
but not really
just me stalling,inevitably falling once again,if only I could make the leap,beat the creep of being lonesome,get a life,stop being one who's on his ownsome and so I run and skip and all that shit,the modus operandi of the faceless in the crowd guy,
if the objective was to sit and spit patterns on the pavements where all my movements have been monitored,I have reached it and surpassed the goal.
one must move out and go beyond the comfort zone but some like me find comfort in their own home and there's no saving them from mediocrity,I save myself and only me
and the objective changes constantly.
Jul 10, 2014
Jul 10, 2014 at 5:21 AM UTC
I'm a captured tooth nerve
amalgam appeased
restrained in containment
by my keeper
then I can be a prisoner escaping the jail
free to do as I pleased
my warder has lost the keys of control
on dark days
my fathoms swirl in murky mass
infused with blinding kelp
on good days
my porthole shows clearness
of eye
the glass reflects well
just to confuse
my ore's composition
is misunderstood
metamorphic
the translations
changing
minute by minute
hour by hour
these ones are buggers
my microscope
isn't good with it's definition
will I won't I
who knows
my borders are contested
being diplomatic
I make pacts and treaties
no monickers
the tried and tested
gentleman's agreement
that will do
my margins can be
thick or thin
comments fit it
usually they range
between insult and praise
depending on the mood
I often go to open cut mines
to find common minerals
useful on a daily basis
real effort is called for
when I delve into deep shafts
sometime gems are quarried
precious ones to behold
well enough said
a letter is to be written
dear meditative home
we're returning soon
p.s. if we're delayed after hours
leave the porch light on
Aug 26, 2014
Aug 26, 2014 at 9:20 PM UTC
In her majesty's prison hospital
The patient slipped in to a coma.
For two months he had led a fast
in solidarity with his brothers.
The men of ‘H” block wouldn’t don
Such clothes as thieves might wear
They were brave Irish Republicans;
Politics put them there.
They dressed in sheets and blankets
When denied their clothes to wear
In this time of the “Troubles”
the “Blanketmen” prepared.
No warder's food would they accept.
No uniforms would they wear.
The world was focused on Long Kesh
and the brave lads dying there.
Bobby Sands was comatose;
His breathing shallow; his pulse was weak
This Native son of Antrim
Nevermore would speak
Just Twenty Seven years of age
As he slipped into the past
Bobby Sands was the first to die,
But he wouldn’t be the last.
Mar 4, 2017
Mar 4, 2017 at 8:31 PM UTC
My mind turns down the heat
The cold hugs my heart harder
My mind is in defeat
My heart, slowly becomes a larder
My mind is in retreat
While my heart is a prisoner and every issue and obstacle a warder
My mind is stuck on repeat
But I can only garder for so long, and hold this mask of farder alone
Dec 2, 2015
Dec 2, 2015 at 7:20 AM UTC
Am a prisoner
Prisoner of my own urges
Stuck in a grave
Dugged by my own cravings
Held in a maze of throbbing fantasises
Jaded
My mind in a haze running around in circles
There's no escape
Budding roses bud
Humming birds hum
The night's on a break of dawning darkness
My messiah cocked up in seven green bottles
About to hit rock bottom
The stars offer a hand of hope
But I'm beyond salvation
Deep down in the sea of dizziness
I smile diligently as I sip from the lips of seven
I'm a prisoner and there is no escaping tonight.
Mar 14, 2017
Mar 14, 2017 at 11:22 AM UTC
I am becoming.
Perception; reality.
Every human mind has its own duality.
Our good side, our bad side;
Life seems to always get the best of me.
Empty, of anything, that they claim to know that I need.
So empty, of feeling,
When all who criticize become unworthy of truly interpreting me.
Without a voice, I am powerless.
Situations arise that give me strength to confess, that I am a mess.
Disorganized, my thoughts are hidden underneath;
I search the depths of my soul to see what I can reap.
Words all scrambled; put them into order.
The writings of a word-thief in a mind of word-warder’s.
Left speechless, when all I say is meaningless.
The canvass is not unused, it has just not been revealed yet.
Artists are there at the start of things;
I am but a binary star upon a life made from strings.
Pull my rip-cord and let the words all flow;
Embrace the darkness we keep inside and let it show.
I am your Pinocchio.
You are my puppet mistress and my eternal muse;
I am just a thing to be used to amuse.
Your touch of love upon my love heart in pieces,
Let’s me become a ray of light inspired by your wish for a sun
And could you give me a hug please?
All light flows from your soul into me;
I breathe you in to let you see what I hide within.
I am becoming a better man, now I am being a better human being;
I am growing into the lover I always thought I could become.
You take away the fear and let me become what I should have been.
It is because of you that I am able to become something from nothing
And now this poem is written and your heart has been won…
Now my work is done.
(C)2016 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Jun 28, 2018
Jun 28, 2018 at 9:23 AM UTC