"wearily" poems
Why Men Cry in the Bathroom
For so many reasons.
I will tell you the why.
I think you know,
Or perhaps, you think you know.
Men are always O.K.,
Even when not.
We expect the worse,
Accept the worse,
Nonetheless,
We are forever unprepared.
Wearily, we cry,
In the bathroom, in private,
Lest sighs slip by,
We be unmasked,
Early warring, strife signs warning.
Copious, tho we weep
Before the mirror confessor,
It is relief untethered,
Unbinding of the feet,
An uncounting
Of beaded rosaries,
Of freshly fallen hail stones,
Of night times terrors
By dawn's early edition's light,
and welcomed.
But look for the mute tear,
The eye-cornered drop,
*** tat, that never drops,
But never ceases formation and
Reforming, over and over again,
In a state of perpetuity of reconstitution,
*The tippy tear of an iceberg revealing,
And I see you peeping, wondering,
What is beneath*
Look for:
the torn worm-eaten edges of spirit,
thrift shop bought, extra worn,
grieving lines neath the eyes,
where the salt has evaporated,
discolored the skin.
worry lines,
under and above,
browed mapped, furrowed boundaries.
the laugh line saga,
where better days are stored,
recalled, as well as recanted,
publicly, privately.
Why just men?
I don't know,
Perhaps,
it is all I know. end.<nml>
Jan 6, 2013
Jun 22, 2013
Jun 22, 2013 at 10:46 AM UTC
I'm having tea with Life,
And his band of Disappointments.
They dine at my expense,
And they're a hungry bunch of guests.
Tea turned into Supper,
Where the Disappointments drank
My finest wine,
And Life wiped his cruel mouth
On my tablecloth.
You can't have supper without dessert,
So they ate up more of my
Food for thought.
And if you stay for dessert,
You may as well spend the night.
So they did
And burgled my pantry of hopes
For a midnight snack.
One night was lovely,
So Life cackled, "Why not stay two?"
And two turned to a week,
And a week turned into
My sickeningly merry guests
Moving into my dreams,
And inviting in Doubt,
To live with them too,
And of course
Pay no rent.
So I watch my chaotic household
Of a skull,
Where Life has made himself at home
And brought all of his friends.
I stare dully at my ruined
Dining room of thought,
Which they have dominated.
And look wearily for a spare idea
In my raided cupboards.
I've never been one
To evict friends,
So I suppose they're here to stay.
But learn a lesson from me,
And don't ever
Have Life over for tea.
Jul 18, 2016
Jul 18, 2016 at 1:38 AM UTC
She was dancing on the edge with a giggle
Teasing and taunting him
with the danger of all he loved to be lost
Careless
Reckless was her exsistence
and he looked on wearily
but kept his distant
Pleading
"Please let her fall I've grown so tired of this"
Feb 16, 2013
Feb 16, 2013 at 10:46 PM UTC
The weight of the world
is love.
Under the burden
of solitude,
under the burden
of dissatisfaction
the weight,
the weight we carry
is love.
Who can deny?
In dreams
it touches
the body,
in thought
constructs
a miracle,
in imagination
anguishes
till born
in human--
looks out of the heart
burning with purity--
for the burden of life
is love,
but we carry the weight
wearily,
and so must rest
in the arms of love
at last,
must rest in the arms
of love.
No rest
without love,
no sleep
without dreams
of love--
be mad or chill
obsessed with angels
or machines,
the final wish
is love
--cannot be bitter,
cannot deny,
cannot withhold
if denied:
the weight is too heavy
--must give
for no return
as thought
is given
in solitude
in all the excellence
of its excess.
The warm bodies
shine together
in the darkness,
the hand moves
to the center
of the flesh,
the skin trembles
in happiness
and the soul comes
joyful to the eye--
yes, yes,
that's what
I wanted,
I always wanted,
I always wanted,
to return
to the body
where I was born.
San Jose, 1954
6.5k
I remember best coming out of that factory into the
night
none of us saying much
glad to get out
but needing the job
---getting into our old cars
one could hear the grinding of the starters
the sudden roar and explosions as
the worn engines fired up once more
---as we backed wearily
out of the parking lot
to pull away
leaving the factory back there
---each of us to a different place
---some to a wife and children
---others to empty rented rooms or to
small crowded apartments:
as for me
I never knew if my woman would be there or
not
or how drunk she would be
if she was home
---but for each of us
the factory waited back there
our timecards punched and neatly
racked.
for me somehow
the best time was that moment
driving from the factory to where I lived
stopping at the signals
looking at the crowds
suspended
between a place I didn't want to be
and a place I didn't want to go
---I was caught between my two unhappy lives
but so were most of the others there
not only from that warehouse
in that city
but in the world
entire:
we had no chance
yet still we all managed to continue and
endure.
5.5k
The readers of the Boston Evening Transcript
Sway in the wind like a field of ripe corn.
When evening quickens faintly in the street,
Wakening the appetites of life in some
And to others bringing the Boston Evening Transcript,
I mount the steps and ring the bell, turning
Wearily, as one would turn to nod good-bye to Rochefoucauld,
If the street were time and he at the end of the street,
And I say, ‘Cousin Harriet, here is the Boston Evening Transcript.’
5.3k
Erstwhile, i cared for none
But now i have a promise
To the Lord that i can be
As worthy as a servant should be
The earth is my battlefield
Amid in the evil, wearily i stand
A relentless battle to survive
Trying hard to stay alive.
Each day I'm faced with opponent
In an arena crowded with temptation.
Masters of the dark distort my spirit,
In their deadly game, i am but a pawn.
So weak, i tremble with fear.
This unutterable battle, i am bound to lose.
Lord, send forth thy holy warrior
And save me O Lord, make haste.
He knows my every weakness.
My weakness his console,
But, Lord have mercy on me
For you said "My power works best in weakness."
Permit me as your lowly servant if i deserve,
And send me forth to justify the truth.
Nurture me under Your grace
And i will build in You a strong faith.
As a roaring lion he may come,
But i will stand still and never move.
For i have faith in You Lord
I will rejoice and forever be glad.
Lord, make me wise
That i may know his cunning ways,
Make a shield around me
And wrap me in Your loving arms.
I will watch and pray
Lest i get weary,
I have a life to sacrifice,
A heart to give.
Lord, have patience with me
"O Lord, do not rebuke me in your anger,
Nor chasten me in Your hot displeasure."
For i am but dust and You are my saviour.
I will prove to be your worthy servant,
I will honor Your grace and love,
Till the day i hear the trumpet,
In that day, i will greatly rejoice. AMEN..
Apr 15, 2016
Apr 15, 2016 at 8:08 PM UTC
Walking along on the shingle spit
At Keyhaven near to Milford on Sea
You can almost touch the Isle of Wight
Less than a mile away o'er the lea.
Crab-fishing next at Mudeford Quay
With Lizzie and Sam on the nets
When off flies my hat which then lands in the sea
Chase is given but I’m taking no bets.
Later, me new-hatted, we sit by a pub
Enjoying our lunch and a chat
And we laugh at the turn of events in the day
Particularly at the flight of my hat.
Wearily later to our lodgings we go
Chicken Cacciatore for dinner, by me
We then all collapse and nod off to sleep
This just always will happen by the sea.
©Joe Wilson – A Windy Day by the Sea…2014
Sep 3, 2014
Sep 3, 2014 at 10:50 AM UTC
And I sit here once more,
Sun beginning to fade over the makeshift
Horizon of wooden plank fences and shingle
Roofs, glued to the homes with tar whose
Invading smell has long since passed.
On the shore I sit, a shore made of
Overgrown weeds whose leaves look no different
From the eruption of water that juts out
Of the center of the lake,
The ripples seeming to roll over themselves,
As if they are trampling over each other to
Reach me, and looking away from the metallic
Distraction in the center of this pool of wonders,
It's as if a river is to be flowing in place of the lake,
Lapping across rocks and echoing splash of ducks and
Geese dismounting their current of air,
Swiftly gliding along the filmy surface,
Like a mirror smeared with lubricant,
For the reflections this lake cast cannot
Easily be told apart.
Dark beckons the lights' full departure,
And with it the warm is swept solemnly from
The land, and my bare hands burn like the
Approaching summer's heat.
I thankfully clutch my leather coat against
Myself, and I gaze upon the lake, wishing
Its limited stretch could further.
As I trace my eyes across its
Waves, a young woman in a pink sweat
Coughs roughly and spits in the water,
As if it's beauty must be destroyed along
With that miserable soul of hers.
The willow tree I sit under,
Oh how massive it seems, its coarse bark
Digging through my jacket and on the verge
Of penitrating my skin, but, it is worth it.
Its vines hang down wearily,
Like an old man, reaching to grasp the
Water, leaning so close, its reflection can
Be seen from shore, and its desperate vines,
Swaying in the wind ask me to come closer.
I shall not, of course, for it needs to
Grow on its own, and needs to rid of
Its reluctance if it ever wishes to achieve
Its reward.
This, somewhat reminds me of myself,
But, this is only yet another wonder,
Collection of thoughts,
From under the willow tree.
Jan 7, 2015
Jan 7, 2015 at 4:01 PM UTC
Life lays before me in dark broken paths
All the roads look so good but are so wrong
Evils entangled hands reach out in wrath
Days on these paths have been weary and long
So which path is the right one to go down
Maybe it's the path showered in roses
I see the many thorns reaching around
The path fades, I see that option closes
I swing around to find what path is next
I am then greeted by angry darkness
This path is a chasm, I become vexed
Wearily, I jump into the abyss
No more paths to choose I am just falling
I look up, none can hear my voice calling
Nov 4, 2012
Nov 4, 2012 at 9:07 PM UTC
Dwelling where the tears cry blood
echoed nightmares ghost my tortured shell
In streets not paved in gold
but misery mountains that I scale everyday
wearily sauntering around their slippy slopes
As I die a little bit more everyday
Sitting on my concrete throne
chained to the only thing I know
an abyss of loniless
my friend
my foe
As I die a little bit more everyday
Aug 29, 2021
Aug 29, 2021 at 1:42 PM UTC
Ah, woe is me for pleasure that is vain,
Ah, woe is me for glory that is past:
Pleasure that bringeth sorrow at the last,
Glory that at the last bringeth no gain!
So saith the sinking heart; and so again
It shall say till the mighty angel-blast
Is blown, making the sun and moon aghast,
And showering down the stars like sudden rain.
And evermore men shall go fearfully,
Bending beneath their weight of heaviness;
And ancient men shall lie down wearily,
And strong men shall rise up in weariness;
Yea, even the young shall answer sighingly,
Saying one to another: How vain it is!
2.7k
Don't let me Lord into the ripe old age
when delirium is the only thing in my head
I don't know when I **** or wet the bed
my mouths can't open a tube in my nose
takes not but teases the end looming close.
Don't let me Lord into the ripe old age
when my legs just wouldn't stand by themselves
can move me nowhere without a hand to help
I don't know when I would fall on my face
flirts me but fails me that last cold embrace.
Don't let me Lord into the ripe old age
when the marks of time are mind crunching pain
the ones around me don't see a gain
in the struggled breaths that force me to live
defer their tears to mourn and grieve.
Don't let me Lord into the ripe old age
I beg to leave before my mind leaves me
before the loved ones ask wearily
O Lord why not spare us the agony
hasten the end let him die quickly.
Jan 12, 2017
Jan 12, 2017 at 3:39 AM UTC
Under a stagnant sky,
Gloom out of gloom uncoiling into gloom,
The River, jaded and forlorn,
Welters and wanders wearily--wretchedly--on;
Yet in and out among the ribs
Of the old skeleton bridge, as in the piles
Of some dead lake-built city, full of skulls,
Worm-worn, rat-riddled, mouldy with memories,
Lingers to babble to a broken tune
(Once, O, the unvoiced music of my heart!)
So melancholy a soliloquy
It sounds as it might tell
The secret of the unending grief-in-grain,
The terror of Time and Change and Death,
That wastes this floating, transitory world.
What of the incantation
That forced the huddled shapes on yonder shore
To take and wear the night
Like a material majesty?
That touched the shafts of wavering fire
About this miserable welter and wash--
(River, O River of Journeys, River of Dreams!)--
Into long, shining signals from the panes
Of an enchanted pleasure-house,
Where life and life might live life lost in life
For ever and evermore?
O Death! O Change! O Time!
Without you, O, the insuperable eyes
Of these poor Might-Have-Beens,
These fatuous, ineffectual Yesterdays!
2.3k
Light cloud pavilion light rain
Dark yard day weary open
Sit look green moss colour
About to on person clothes come
There's light cloud, and drizzle round the pavilion,
In the dark yard, I wearily open a gate.
I sit and look at the colour of green moss,
Ready for people's clothing to pick up.
2.1k
At six o’clock of an autumn dusk
With the sky in the west a rusty red,
The bells of the mission down in the valley
Cry out that the day is dead.
The first star ****** as sharp as steel —
Why am I suddenly so cold?
Three bells, each with a separate sound
Clang in the valley, wearily tolled.
Bells in Venice, bells at sea,
Bells in the valley heavy and slow —
There is no place over the crowded world
Where I can forget that the days go.
2.1k
Inside my four walls,
Not much is seen.
The same people day after day,
Their actions always precise and clean.
"What's out there?" I wonder,
"Outside of my four walls?"
"Only horrible things," my tenants explain
"It's a place you don't belong."
When my bricks were fresh, this was enough
To help me press wearily along.
"What's out there?" I wonder still,
"Outside of my four walls?"
My curiosity eventually overcame my build.
I needed to experience the outsiders' guild.
My bricks ached, my woodwork choked,
Until finally
clouds birds sun wind lights chatter
These sights and these sounds,
Some beautiful and some not,
Flung debris on the ground
And to my architecture brought
A beautiful hypethral view
Oct 1, 2014
Oct 1, 2014 at 11:25 PM UTC
paralyzing.
a black hole ******* me in
nausea creeps in waves starting in my stomach
hot then cold
and sweating
I can't get comfortable
I can't bear it.
I gag and *****
until there's nothing left
but something claws me to
dizzying spells anyways.
I cry to spill the fears inside
but none the less they continue to reside.
I travel wearily through the evening
just to find a hopeful feeling
I am met with,
all the more nothing.
so why move? I stay rooted in
a single position,
waiting for it to find me.
but my hearts in my throat and I'm starting to choke
on the nothingness that surrounds me.
I can't breathe,
I find no solace in sleep.
This must be the final chapter.
(II)
I suppose it makes sense,
I'm so broken
beyond repair anyway
what's the point?
my paint is peeling
my walls are cracking
my floorboards creak with every step
I'm a mess
I'm a wreck
no really, save yourself
leave me dead.
you don't have to stay
just do me one last favour?
put a gun to my head
paint the walls with blood and lead
and take my pain away.
Aug 1, 2018
Aug 1, 2018 at 10:40 PM UTC
Not a wanderer stuck on the crest of lonely waves.
Nor running ragged on the sands of time.
Traipsing wearily through the wracks of sodden salty ****
As cold water laps over their feet abandoned on craggy rocks.
Not always at sea.
Vagrant migrants.
From rock to rock.
Hark,
Ungodly whistling, clicking and howling.
Wailing and bemoaning.
Poseidon knows that they're around.
They strut around the rocks, all knowing.
Their lives they live as one of two.
Choose their one for life.
Should you see one in your salty path.
Foreboding spirit, a warning of turbulence to come.
A past sailor boy seen in totem of bird.
Not so swell, an evil omen.
Moons long past, the only witnesses to a killing crime.
Saw Albatross have his feet cruelly hewed.
Tobacco pouch for jack tar and his pals.
Ancient mariners in a doctrine of distortion.
Sky sailors slept on the wing over night.
Such misdemeanour,
Their perceptions were not right.
The birds perished in the dead of night.
As they did not ever rest in flight.
By ladylivvi1
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
Dec 28, 2013
Dec 28, 2013 at 8:46 AM UTC
Drinking at the bar, I suppose it was that time of night
When the Drink itself starts doin' most of the talking
And the guy says "I've been through the **** man, in this life, I've waded knee deep through it... the deep ****
And the other guy says "What **** you talking about ?"
So he told him, yea! He spins out his tale of woe
Of hurts and grievances, injustices and false accusations, bruises and batterings received both physical and mental
A whole sorry catalogue of troubles, of fights and quarrels, anxieties and illnesses, struggles with various multiple monsters..."
When he's finished the Other says rather dismissively "You call that **** that ain't **** that's ******** Sure my **** was bigger than that, much bigger
The **** I went through, Man! Some of the **** I seen...indescribable man'
So then he starts to spin his tale of woe... more ****
And when he's finished the Other comes back at him saying
**** You call that **** that's horseshit!
My **** was bigger than that, much much bigger!!
Your **** it's just... it's just *****
And so, there they were the two of them, at the bar arguing to and fro
About whose **** was the bigger
Till suddenly over in the corner, out of the shadows, with his face half obscured
This man, he clears his throat rather loudly
Causing them both to momentarily stop their bickering and look over
He then slowly raises a glass of JD (Jack Daniels) to his lips and takes a long sip
Then he says "What do you know about... the **** ?
Huh! (said in disgust) You don't even know what **** is
Why, my shit's bigger than both your two ***** put together"
Then he smiled a menacing smile and said "You wanna hear my **** story"
So he spins his tale of woe, a real shitstorm...
A real Moby **** of ****
The others they listened in awe
When he'd finished, One said very impressed
"Man!..Man That's... that's some ****
Then another said "That's Big **** !"
And another "That's real Elephant **** Man!"
Then silence reigned in the bar
Until one sighed and said wearily
"It's all **** this ***** isn't it?
Nov 23, 2022
Nov 23, 2022 at 7:53 AM UTC
Poem of prosy
I am so sorry
to relay this story
of ending glory
knowing
your suspenseful stories
await my attentions.
Your suspenseful showy
purposefulness I feel,
I do!
I read and write and breathe
and cry!
Just as you.
I slay dragons daily,
carry princesses away,
I live in castles
like you!
I walk every word wearily,
or crawl away , but always go forward.
Oct 1, 2014
Oct 1, 2014 at 2:50 AM UTC
*the droplets of water are singing a trail down the bricks of the houses
through the alleys of the glassy-eyed broken people with soft hearts, a pre-disposition for death
weaving a tabooed trail across the sidewalks that when gazed upon reeks of obscurity
and leaving faint lines on the creased skin of all the sinewy fatalities
the mildewed rain peaks across the rusted windowsill that sighs with familiarity
it sloshes against the children’s playground and slaps at the pavement with a sudden clarity
it empties itself into the spiked maze of the tree branch hoping the leafs will cling onto to it dearly
it mellows into a pond that breaks apart with sharp staccatos when mushy feet run down the street
and it hurls itself into the bitterly sweet lips of two frost-bitten lovers who will soon meet
it daintily steps into the burning embers of the flame, only to be flushed out in shame
it turns to the shower as a last resort, but whines in dismay when it’s slurped down the drain
it embraces the eyelashes until it’s shaken in misery and then watches wearily as it’s blinked away in positivity
it lumbers down the path of the bruised ego, a shattering of phrases that leaves the person’s mouth
and before it has the chance to drop it is scooped up and chastised until it moves no more
the tears and the rain drops wander listlessly for all of eternity
only to be hastily thrown away or brushed into cotton for fear of a restless divinity
it is never to reach a destination and only doomed to be forgotten
and so it seems dear friends, that raindrops are simply you and me*
Sep 18, 2013
Sep 18, 2013 at 9:51 PM UTC
In melancholy moonless Acheron,
Farm for the goodly earth and joyous day
Where no spring ever buds, nor ripening sun
Weighs down the apple trees, nor flowery May
Chequers with chestnut blooms the grassy floor,
Where thrushes never sing, and piping linnets mate no more,
There by a dim and dark Lethaean well
Young Charmides was lying; wearily
He plucked the blossoms from the asphodel,
And with its little rifled treasury
Strewed the dull waters of the dusky stream,
And watched the white stars founder, and the land was like a dream,
When as he gazed into the watery glass
And through his brown hair’s curly tangles scanned
His own wan face, a shadow seemed to pass
Across the mirror, and a little hand
Stole into his, and warm lips timidly
Brushed his pale cheeks, and breathed their secret forth into a
sigh.
Then turned he round his weary eyes and saw,
And ever nigher still their faces came,
And nigher ever did their young mouths draw
Until they seemed one perfect rose of flame,
And longing arms around her neck he cast,
And felt her throbbing ***** and his breath came hot and fast,
And all his hoarded sweets were hers to kiss,
And all her maidenhood was his to slay,
And limb to limb in long and rapturous bliss
Their passion waxed and waned,—O why essay
To pipe again of love, too venturous reed!
Enough, enough that Eros laughed upon that flowerless mead.
Too venturous poesy, O why essay
To pipe again of passion! fold thy wings
O’er daring Icarus and bid thy lay
Sleep hidden in the lyre’s silent strings
Till thou hast found the old Castalian rill,
Or from the Lesbian waters plucked drowned Sappho’s golden quid!
Enough, enough that he whose life had been
A fiery pulse of sin, a splendid shame,
Could in the loveless land of Hades glean
One scorching harvest from those fields of flame
Where passion walks with naked unshod feet
And is not wounded,—ah! enough that once their lips could meet
In that wild throb when all existences
Seemed narrowed to one single ecstasy
Which dies through its own sweetness and the stress
Of too much pleasure, ere Persephone
Had bade them serve her by the ebon throne
Of the pale God who in the fields of Enna loosed her zone.
2k
Life is a journey with hills and winding roads for me to travel as I bestow. There are paths that cross and dead-end streets. There are plenty of detours and obstacles to meet. One day I found myself on a lone highway when I became aware I had lost my way. I looked around to my concern and wondered when I had made a wrong turn. I looked for a sign to tell me my location and found myself reflecting upon my initial destination.
My passage through life has lost its intention. I wander across trails of no ambition. Wearily I struggle to fight dejection... as I span the horizon contemplating my direction. East, South, West, or North, I must decide in order to go forth. Feeling overwhelmed I fall to my knees and ask Goddess Diana to help me please.
I hear a voice inside me say, ”My dear child, you know your way. Follow your heart it will always lead to paths of splendor and the way to succeed. Remember the words of our Wiccan Rede, and the three fold law must you heed. Be of true heart and goodwill, and ye harm none do what ye will.”
I rise to my feet and look to the west remembering now my journeys quest. I watch an eagle fly towards the sea and knew all was well, So Mote It Be!
Jun 12, 2010
Jun 12, 2010 at 11:30 AM UTC