"wearies" poems
(Rock Lake, Canada)
In this country there is neither measure nor balance
To redress the dominance of rocks and woods,
The passage, say, of these man-shaming clouds.
No gesture of yours or mine could catch their attention,
No word make them carry water or fire the kindling
Like local trolls in the spell of a superior being.
Well, one wearies of the Public Gardens: one wants a vacation
Where trees and clouds and animals pay no notice;
Away from the labeled elms, the tame tea-roses.
It took three days driving north to find a cloud
The polite skies over Boston couldn't possibly accommodate.
Here on the last frontier of the big, brash spirit
The horizons are too far off to be chummy as uncles;
The colors assert themselves with a sort of vengeance.
Each day concludes in a huge splurge of vermilions
And night arrives in one gigantic step.
It is comfortable, for a change, to mean so little.
These rocks offer no purchase to herbage or people:
They are conceiving a dynasty of perfect cold.
In a month we'll wonder what plates and forks are for.
I lean to you, numb as a fossil. Tell me I'm here.
The Pilgrims and Indians might never have happened.
Planets pulse in the lake like bright amoebas;
The pines blot our voices up in their lightest sighs.
Around our tent the old simplicities sough
Sleepily as Lethe, trying to get in.
We'll wake blank-brained as water in the dawn.
3.8k
I looked for that which is not, nor can be,
And hope deferred made my heart sick in truth
But years must pass before a hope of youth
Is resigned utterly.
I watched and waited with a steadfast will:
And though the object seemed to flee away
That I so longed for, ever day by day
I watched and waited still.
Sometimes I said: This thing shall be no more;
My expectation wearies and shall cease;
I will resign it now and be at peace:
Yet never gave it o'er.
Sometimes I said: It is an empty name
I long for; to a name why should I give
The peace of all the days I have to live?--
Yet gave it all the same.
Alas, thou foolish one! alike unfit
For healthy joy and salutary pain:
Thou knowest the chase useless, and again
Turnest to follow it.
2.2k
Diamante falso y fingido,
Engastado en pedernal, &c.;
"False diamond set in flint! the caverns of the mine
Are warmer than the breast that holds that faithless heart of thine;
Thou art fickle as the sea, thou art wandering as the wind,
And the restless ever-mounting flame is not more hard to bind.
If the tears I shed were tongues, yet all too few would be
To tell of all the treachery that thou hast shown to me.
Oh! I could chide thee sharply--but every maiden knows
That she who chides her lover, forgives him ere he goes.
"Thou hast called me oft the flower of all Grenada's maids,
Thou hast said that by the side of me the first and fairest fades;
And they thought thy heart was mine, and it seemed to every one
That what thou didst to win my love, from love of me was done.
Alas! if they but knew thee, as mine it is to know,
They well might see another mark to which thine arrows go;
But thou giv'st me little heed--for I speak to one who knows
That she who chides her lover, forgives him ere he goes.
"It wearies me, mine enemy, that I must weep and bear
What fills thy heart with triumph, and fills my own with care.
Thou art leagued with those that hate me, and ah! thou know'st I feel
That cruel words as surely **** as sharpest blades of steel.
'Twas the doubt that thou wert false that wrung my heart with pain;
But, now I know thy perfidy, I shall be well again.
I would proclaim thee as thou art--but every maiden knows
That she who chides her lover, forgives him ere he goes."
Thus Fatima complained to the valiant Raduan,
Where underneath the myrtles Alhambra's fountains ran:
The Moor was inly moved, and blameless as he was,
He took her white hand in his own, and pleaded thus his cause.
"Oh, lady, dry those star-like eyes--their dimness does me wrong;
If my heart be made of flint, at least 'twill keep thy image long;
Thou hast uttered cruel words--but I grieve the less for those,
Since she who chides her lover, forgives him ere he goes."
1.6k
as none for me comes,
as none for me cares
the loners hug i embrace
there where eerie shriek sings
there i go alienated
i hope for hope
i feel for feelings
i longed for long
till my melancholy heart wearies down
till the collection of hours gathered my day in woe
as i return to my bed of misery
as i dream in a jaded world
as none for me comes
as none for me cares
there the loners hug i embrace,
Sep 23, 2013
Sep 23, 2013 at 5:01 PM UTC
It is in, the how,
not the why, the where,
or, the when,
no, no, it
Is the how,
that provisions and provides
all the answers
that any lover needs, for
In the how, one revels,
but also,
unbeknownst, unwillingly, reveals
what one's heart wishes to secret, and conceals
and with
The single stroke
of a single finger,
lightly across thy cheek,
raising sky colors upon
thy skin's patina and,
How commences the matina,
with petals of white cloud roses,
blushing anew in your cheeks,
loveliest of failed cover ups,
laughing, I airbrush your
almost, invisible tears away,
residue of melodramas of troubled sleep,
stilled and stolen, mine,
to pacify, keep,
tranquilized in my breast
It, Is In, The How,
What, You Are Thinking.
What vincible arrogance
humans possess when we pray,
we hope, knowing that we are infidels,
hoping to mislead
the eyes that glance upon us
You give up the shadows painted for me when
filtered beams, rays of
a, and of...kind,
lance shield of densest lead,
lain upon the chest to cloak
the tremors of volcanic hearts,
the eyes of hurricane thoughts,
containers of need that
Are so full of oh so
many questions, yet,
singularly resolved,
with the answer of
a single stroke,
of a single finger,
lightly across thy cheek,
knowingly full well you are
Thinking there is no exit,
no right of way to negate
the sum of what we let to ail us,
O disbeliever, how simple be,
for all, all of
It, Is In, The How,
What, You Are Thinking,
I soften and modulate,
your conflicted complexion,
with the answer of
a single stroke,
of a single finger,
lightly across thy cheek,
all that is mine,
to encapsulate,
recharge, refill thy vessel
with Bocelli tones of
passioned, gloried harmony
Worry not if my eyesight dims,
be unconcerned if
my hearing, my voices
wearies and weakens,
for all the answers
we shall ever need
remain, contained in
a single stroke,
of a single finger,
lightly across thy cheek,
and
this is how I know now,
and forever more,
what you are thinking
As long as skin is the coverlet
o'er the bell jar of mind n' heart,
as long oxygen defies gravity,
I will know how,
unveil, open secret chambers,
now and forever more,
what you are thinking
Sep 18, 2013
Sep 18, 2013 at 10:53 PM UTC
Some steps are hard to take
Some people you just can't let go
That first step
When you hold your breath
And tread onto the ice
You pray in your mind
With your hands tightly clenched
That it won't break
That you won't break
Like you have before
So many times
You know it can hold you
But you don't know
If it can bear your scars
You carry them proudly
But not for all to see
A secret burden
They lighten some things
And others they drag down
But will they crack the ice
You reach for the edge
Something to grasp
But just out of reach
Just like your nights
You reach for someone
But they are just out of reach
It's not so much the fact of being alone
Than feeling alone
No one wants that.
Yes, you love your solitude
You crave the dark
Yet you need a friend
You want hands
To reach for you
To catch you
Before your fall
Before the ice cracks
In the moment of opportunity
That is where you find yourself
In that moment
In the moment of opportunity
You are not afraid
You have felt pain before
It still lingers, yet
You are not timid
You have walked this road
Yet it wearies you
You are apprehensive
Of who you are
In the dark
You do not know
If this is your last night
Maybe you wont return to the light
The sun kisses your face
But does not shine in your eyes
Like the light in those around you
The moon, your dark Queen
You bask in her light
And serve her temporal being
A balance you seek
A scale you weigh
Of light and dark
Both a beautiful half
Of a bigger part
The light all the of days
So territorial, you are
Of all you hold dear
Of all that lies
Just out of reach
You wish to hold it
All in your arms
Keep all you love
Safe from harm
But it tears your wounds open
Your scars burn like fire
In gaze of unknown eyes
And you turn to the shadows
But my friend
My dearest friend
I know you
I have walked the halls
Of your sorrowed heart
I know the corridors
The doors you hide behind
And the pain behind your eyes
And still I love you
I would save you from yourself
Never, to destroy again
Battles you would not have to fight
I do not know
How long wars last
One day is enough
Half of your heart
Is cold and dark
But not barren
Half of you heart
Is warm and light
But still not beating
Your mind an expanse
You let me inside
So I would find
A place to hide
A place to know
A place to fight
Gentle songs
Ring from your lips
And bid the demons shrink
Strong words
Of forgotten days
Tremble on the brink
And cascade into victory
A crown of golden stars
To be placed upon your head
A ruler, all her own
A ruler, of her own
A ruler, never alone
Jan 7, 2016
Jan 7, 2016 at 8:34 PM UTC
Come to the meadow and the midnight flowers will steal your woes
Follow the river and the water will welcome your winding wearies
Glance up at the sun and the birds will soar your fears
Dance through the trees and the leaves will whisper away your tears
Spring into the ocean and the tide will sooth your mind
Dig in the ground and the soil will root out your weeded nerves
Wander into the world and mother nature will hug you mighty tight
Mar 18, 2019
Mar 18, 2019 at 6:10 PM UTC
*The Poet
Words of beauty grace the page
and images spring to bloom
Tenderness, heartbreak, rage –
sunshine bright or shadows darkly loom.
Such is the world of the Wordsmith;
of the poet’s heart, within.
The scent of apple blossoms with
the brisk zephyr for it’s kin.
The poet reaches to impart
the fitting metaphor
to open up the heart
as one might open up a door.
His bag of tricks, near magical,
his words ring clear and fine
to sing the world a madrigal
with the taste of summer wine.
Later in the evening
even the poet takes his pause
and an aging hand picks up the pen
to further shape his cause.
The body wearies with the years
but the mind stays young, and bold.
For all his laughter and his tears
the poet’s heart does not grow old.
Night has come upon him
as he closes tired eyes
sleep takes him to the rim
of sweet dreams and brighter skies.
Lin Cava©*
Oct 25, 2010
Oct 25, 2010 at 4:26 PM UTC
UHm, let's see
This one time in high school a girl liked me
Cute, small, played sports
(^ yeah ^)
Knew about this for four months
Flirted with her all along
Homecoming came around
didn't grab the bull by the horns
Asked pretty late
so she said no
My high school was loaded
had an all concrete and brick courtyard
I remember popped ketchup packets
and boys shooting bottle caps at each other
Now the graduating class is really uncool.
I don't say that to be ironic either.
they make really bad rap videos
literally a line:
"Polo's and Sperry's is all we wearies,"
Would have rather asked a girl out
late to homecoming.
Dec 9, 2013
Dec 9, 2013 at 8:41 AM UTC
brandy is handy
wine is fine
*** is far from humdrum
***** makes me polka
whisky frisky but hopes decline
gin I grin
beers wearies
real ale without fail
alcohol over all
until I fall
Apr 5, 2014
Apr 5, 2014 at 5:23 PM UTC
That life as we heard of
For those who live it
There's a kind of sad happiness
I enjoy differently,
Incurable is this weight
Descending with the smoke
Rainy landscape is the only
Attitude worthy.
During three straight days
Cruel fate of the dead and punished
Love wearies or disappoints
On the God's march,
No inner dimension
O tarnished happiness
Wondrous lands sheltered me
Left in peace so cold and large.
Jun 26, 2016
Jun 26, 2016 at 4:04 PM UTC
(A gloomy, rainy Sunday...4:50 pm)
Sundown comes, and takes with
it, the spirit, the lilt of the day.
it wearies, and wanes...restless
minds succumb to acquiescence
and introspection at day's end,
the dark calms the world...
we thank God, for saving us one
more long day...from misfortunes,
diseases, from the evils of humanity.
on lengthened gloomy days,
ashen hues of displeasure
ebb and flow, born from hushed
questions...dying unanswered,
it's hard at times, to keep on loving
all that we love...do everything we
love doing, with the same longing
and enthusiasm...as before.
to be, or not to be,
to do, or not to do,
to love, or not to love---
how do you practice continuance,
while reeling upon the murky
mid streams in life?
what if, we are suddenly,
summoned...to back off from
existence, take a final break?
do we carry resentment
wherever we may end up?
whatever second life awaits us?
our weary souls take rest, these
wonderings fade, as we close our
eyes at night...rising to a hopeful
sunrise, to wondrous chirpings of
birds...to rooster's calls...to water
flowing from the faucet...the sweet
smell of maple syrup and freshly
made pancakes, and sniffs of coffee
brewing...songs and scents of a new
morning, then, sun peeps through
slits and spaces, melting last night's
dark perspectives...a continuance
occurs...another day to tackle.
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sally b
© Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
August 25, 2021
#morning #continuance #sallyb
Sep 12, 2021
Sep 12, 2021 at 5:04 AM UTC
With might and power earth springs forth
out of earth;
Then earth moves over earth with dignity
and pride;
And earth from earth builds palaces for
Kings,
And lofty towers and godly temples for
all people,
And weaves strange myths, strict laws,
and subtle dogmas.
When all these thungs are done, earth
wearies of earth's labour,
And from it's light and darkness it creates
Grey shadows, and soft drowsy fancies,
and enchanting dreams.
Earth's slumber then beguiles earth's
heavy eyelids,
And they close upon all things in deep and
quiet slumber.
And earth calls out unto earth, saying:
" Behold, a womb am I, and I am a tomb;
A womb and a tomb I shall remain forever,
Ay, even until stars are no more,
And until the suns are turned into dead
ashes."
Sep 4, 2015
Sep 4, 2015 at 9:53 PM UTC
the error rate of rage and snarl,
so very high
the youthful intolerance of every sad slight,
wearies me
the political correctness of the day spoils,
both the day and the night,
words can never harm me
who owns the truth?
the truth I belove is the opened arm,
the child comforted,
the kiss of the
parent and the child
not a fleer, or unafraid,
a grown man who has raised his fists in anger,
I defend fierce mine and my rights,
attack me with stick and stone,
and you shall run into my knife unsheathed
but the snarlers and the goose steppers
almost always fail,
choking on poisoned vitriol,
their own petard does not hoist them,
except to the gallows of the nothingness of infamy
I fight for tranquility and green pastures
where all shall lie down with whom they want
yet all I see is the valley of the shadow,
all I hear is the rattling from the valley of the bones
strange is the calm I feel, for rage is an old companion
my weapons are neither dull or rusted,
or put away for never to be used
come to me in peace, one by one,
come to me with chivalrous acts and kindness
spread like thick butter on dark country bread
I will easy embrace, protect and defend,
all the days of my life
rage against the dying light if you must,
but do not deny that rage hasten the dark
Jun 9, 2014
Jun 9, 2014 at 4:41 AM UTC
In truth, I know naught. Why I am so sad?
It worries me; you say it wearies you.
In lieu of times much simpler much happier;
sandbox wars, creaking swings, afternoon swims
we’ve essays, tutorials and internships,
then sales meetings, social events and the
occasional blind date. Entwined by work
and a distinct loneliness, we clutch at
fragile things, irrational whims; silence
rings a mutual suffering. So bring me
back to bygone days, revisit the ways
you raced me to the pool, we crafted sand-
castles, walls higher than Jack’s bold bean-
stalk, we tried coaxing winds to whistle as we
reached our toes to touch the sky, to dream of
walking the moon, firefighting, saving
animals, or even following Tom
Sawyer into his cave in search of gold.
So, darling, take me back to the past, what
gilded sands of time cannot quite bury,
to reclaim the lost innocence of a
spotless mind, to relive a time when life
was not measured by schedules, to regret
ever saying: “I can’t wait to grow up”
Jul 15, 2015
Jul 15, 2015 at 8:18 AM UTC
Time was getting away.
Time was traveling through space.
Time was balling into wax
Of ear dirt in the mind.
At the break
Neck,
It warped the world.
Interstellar.
Intergalactic.
Interloper.
Break neck into your arms.
Kisses, a candy of crushes,
Wrapped in coated yesterdays.
You can’t mean that,
That you are gone,
And I am here?
What means you to hit the high road,
Alone.
It cannot be.
It must not be.
It was the scene
Cut, and deleted like the control v
It was.
Defeated and deflated
On wings of storied lightning bolts,
Storied in minds of
Men.
Lock the door
To the heart.
Why try again.
The pain the pain
So saddled in gore.
Glory to all.
The goodnight, he said.
The Good night, he said.
The good Night, he said.
In finalized democracy,
He took in his own hand,
Decide what was right.
It’s a collaboration,
Not a solo project.
Correct the situation,
Correlate the situation.
She tires and wearies,
And bids, him
Fare
Thee
Well
Farewell, fare well.
A near month of sorrow,
Drawn out,
Of fear of confrontation
With an analytical
Destroyer of resolve,
Seducer of good intentions,
Hot lips of caresses.
Your work is done here,
These aren’t the droids
You seek,
And care on into the night,
In passion and in fright.
Fear of the leaving.
Fear of the staying.
Fear of the ground leaves
Buried deep in the soil.
The fresh smell of the rain,
Into dirt.
He’s still,
Gone.
Mar 22, 2017
Mar 22, 2017 at 11:05 PM UTC
When this life flashes quickly across the lens of my eyes and all the truths that I've known,
(...the chickens coming home)
and the lies stripped away of my life in that day and I'm shown new horizons, with the lens of my eyes on the flash that always dies on the third stroke of three,
I wonder
what will I see?
Will it be angels with harps or cherubs and tarts?
Death must be like Christmas for some, the last
present to unwrap before the sinking of the Sun,
and the newborn infanta is Jesus
dressed up as a Santa, ** ** ho,
Oh, is that ecclesiastically correct?
I direct several queries but the boatman, he wearies of the same old rock to the roll and he tells me to wait,
I wait but don't see,
I'm in a blindfold with a pin in my hand trying to stick it into the tail end of a promise that was the promised land and if that's all there is to it
I may as well wait a bit or at least until the next boat comes in
Apr 22, 2015
Apr 22, 2015 at 4:53 AM UTC
God,
Have mercy upon the extortionist's,
The distortionists are all ********
Some dead,
None life-like!!!!
Fighters draw blood through their ****** syringe,
Through hateful revenge,
Their devils in tattooed disguise!!
Some wearies of pain,
Others forth along for thine ride!!!!
Im not meant for such desire of madness,
All attire vamped out mapped by state,
Some come early and some come late!!
To the gates of hell and back that is.....
I'm sick of hiding behind the cache ,
Behind the decanter of who we really are!!!!!!!
May 16, 2015
May 16, 2015 at 9:46 AM UTC
This is the place of love gone dormant for the sake of sanity;
Exiles from the hearths of home and kin's polite society.
The caravan of broken sleep/dreams file past the border,
And leave the world alone to hash out it's social order.
The loneliness of the frozen plains stretches and wearies
The hazy eyes of the dreamscape denizens in 1010 series.
The poverty of beggared imagination lies dark in the soul,
And I know too well the losing of what once did console:
Embraces, tender touches, guileless looks and intimacy,
Eyes that touch upon the music of the stars glowing;
And yet more is there you may have ceased knowing...
Merging as one by the fires beneath the mantelpiece.
Jun 18, 2015
Jun 18, 2015 at 1:15 PM UTC
fabrication does come from ones imagination
imagination does come from ones thoughts
70,000 thoughts a day give or take a thousand
how many do you react on
how many do you ponder on
how many drive you
how many hurt you
how many make you cry
how many are real
how many are make believe
how many are grotesque
how many do you care about
how many do you continually think about
thought
the product of mental activity; that which one thinks :
a body of thoughts.
a single act or product of thinking; idea or notion:
to collect one's thoughts the act or process of thinking; mental activity:
thought as well as action wearies us.
the capacity or faculty of thinking, reasoning, imagining, etc.:
All her thought went into her work.
a consideration or reflection:
Thought of death terrified her.
meditation, contemplation, or recollection:
deep in thought.
intention, design, or purpose, especially a half-formed or imperfect intention: We had some thought of going.
Expand
Feb 7, 2015
Feb 7, 2015 at 10:03 AM UTC
What a curious feeling
To mourn a dream
And to know the dream has shifted
I didn't want it anymore.
Life moves on
Swirling and shifting around me
Its colours glow
Its colours shrink
A new love
For us each
And I know she is your perfection
Now.
How beautiful.
And exhausting.
Hug me tight won't you?
This world wearies me.
Don't tell me I'm perfect.
I'll never believe it.
They all say that at some point.
We're all perfect, in different ways.
Real life doesn't fulfill our fairy tale fantasies
Much as we try to make them
Force it to fit the narrative
Spun by yearning minds
Real life is much more dull
And twisted
And interesting
But so much less romantic
I believed in soul mates once.
But only for a moment.
All eternity is now a myth
A concept
A failed dream
We jump from one to another
We jump;
Learning our lessons
Discovering self
Reinventing self
Do we ever settle?
How can we?
We realise
Each person has an aspect
Of that which we desire
Perfection would unite them together.
We realise
A mirror bears little interest
No contrast
Perfection is boredom, complacency.
We realise
We don't want
What we thought we desired
Perfection would leave us unsatisfied.
Don't call me perfect.
I'll let that one down.
Or you'll forget.
Let the value slip away.
I'm just another human, full of complexity, uncertainty, longing.
You're just another human, full of mystery, contrast, yearning.
Together we may spiral a while.
What does this life hold for us who embrace the imperfection?
Oct 9, 2014
Oct 9, 2014 at 8:30 PM UTC
I have no peace in me tonight
I have waged this war against all my days
It wearies me as never before
I fight with words
Yet you have lain such a seige against me
With the fire licking flames from off your tongue
My gates, they will not hold
I will succumb to the fire and she will burn me up from the inside
As if I were made of dry kindling and oil
The thought of smoke fills my lungs
I bite the back of a cigarette like it was a shell between my teeth
She tastes of death and the promise of hope
It is just a thought
Yet it eats away at me as if it were a famine
Still there is no peace to be found
Not in the palm of either of these fists
Or in the dreams that will pass through my sheets tonight
Oh that you would find a quiet thought that I could hold
To change the way the world creeps into my mind while I sleep
No peace for me tonight
Sep 16, 2018
Sep 16, 2018 at 11:46 PM UTC
***the vine
a new name coloring I am..
the shepherd is now the vine
the hired hand the branches..
the colors change
but I am..our identity..remains..
branches express the separation
which we all experience..
we live in what seems as
a subject-object world..
as branches we seek the vine
unaware that we already are
the vine..!
then it happens in a moment
as the seeking wearies
our false identity as branches
is burned..at last revealing:
I am the vine..and the
fruits of joy burst forth...***
Apr 25, 2018
Apr 25, 2018 at 1:17 PM UTC