"wearisome" poems
A Robin said: The Spring will never come,
And I shall never care to build again.
A Rosebush said: These frosts are wearisome,
My sap will never stir for sun or rain.
The half Moon said: These nights are fogged and slow,
I neither care to wax nor care to wane.
The Ocean said: I thirst from long ago,
Because earth's rivers cannot fill the main.--
When Springtime came, red Robin built a nest,
And trilled a lover's song in sheer delight.
Grey hoarfrost vanished, and the Rose with might
Clothed her in leaves and buds of crimson core.
The dim Moon brightened. Ocean sunned his crest,
Dimpled his blue, yet thirsted evermore.
25.6k
Cooking is
The mastery of intuition
It is knowing, smelling, tasting perfection
Before the simmering soup completes its wearisome journey
It’s love
Sep 22, 2021
Sep 22, 2021 at 6:40 PM UTC
belaboring hurt-bells
of twilight
outside there is a furious wind
sweeping the sour-faced pavement.
the helm of the morning
fits through the pinecones.
through the dandelion,
the diadem of some mystic flower,
the flurry of children
and the fury of the populace.
i know whence the wind stirs
cold flame from the many a dead
stones, sequined floor and the
dreary stillicide of night.
our bodies rise to the sun
that is a full woman
or a ripe apple
or a half-bitten moon in glare
and when her lips purse
there is pang in the wind that blows austere beneath the foot
of hills in ruin.
let the night come later than
a bird's secret sojourn,
or the cicada's enigma.
let the cathedral of my heart
quiver later than the unsheathing
of the night's bone
but in the twilight,
when the skies are bruised with
silence and somnolent without voice
my hands shall leap into the wind
and make do, the belaboring
hurt-bells of twilight.
no more than a crepuscular twining
of a sad vine on a melancholy hymn
that makes fuller with its tender
maneuvers, the trundling in
love's wearisome vessel.
Sep 14, 2015
Sep 14, 2015 at 11:20 PM UTC
If you give me long enough
I could paint a vivid portrait of myself
with every blemish and pore behind a brush,
and hush the voices that would criticize
unsubscribe and dance it up over in wonderland with the sycophants
put on my bedazzled pants
let the local singles know I'm a dancer
just a beating heart away
From being another square upon a lattice
a writhing mass of hair gel
and cologne working up the ladder to fuckboi status
Imma walk the line between
a marble arch eclipsing the sun
over an angel statue kneeling in prayer
and a black leather boot clad
bad *** with bad habits
but he's so cool he doesn't care
Look at him go
all on his own
with only a thousand or so, little paintings
that are equally as photo shopped or filtered
just floating around waiting to see the show
and letting other people know they liked it
or not
What a spectacle destined
to leave us senseless and restless
what a test of the patience to be a slave to the masses
to see my juxtaposition against the rest of the best of us
and think "I should go with clever with glasses."
What a brutal twist of civilized life
to have an AI made for driving my car
so I can shimmy down and sneak another **** pic
THROUGH SPACE, to some guy who works at taco bell's wife
Laura something or something
I'm so social
What a medium,
Exchanging ideas,
and hunting body heat from out of the ether,
to have the pleasing distortion
of the speakers
drowning out all the wearisome noise
of our contortions
"You gotta learn to love yourself"
She says, and posts another photo
buried somewhere under 60 layers
of dog noses and rainbows, and angel wings
Oh **** this isn't boyfriend material let me change some things
-
You don't ever need to change girl,
there ain't anything, in this world
That I wouldn't do, to be with you.
And the Brief exchanges we had,
didn't reveal any red flags,
that I am willing to skip on *** over.
So somewhere down the line,
when the filters start to fade,
we'll just kick that can down the road,
and neither of us will change.
And the picture's that we painted of our Love
will degrade.
Nov 28, 2018
Nov 28, 2018 at 12:29 AM UTC
Lord,
i pray to You
with a heavy heart
and brittle bones
please let confidence
unfold like flowers
that sprout between my ribs
please take the butterflies
out of my stomach
because they crowd it
and make me sick
please fill my mind with the knowledge
that Your love is stronger than
all of the hate that fills the earth
please inscribe on my flesh
that You have a perfect plan for me,
and with You i can conquer
all of my doubts, all of my worries
please never let me forget
what You have done for me
please hold my hand
while on this wearisome journey
and allow me to find life in You
May 10, 2013
May 10, 2013 at 11:34 AM UTC
In plain sight, the Peacocks ply their wearisome
Colours. Awkwardly swaying, pompously preening,
They cry to be seen, their voices are gurgling
And gawking. The direction of wind is their vane.
Overhead, in the secret sky fleet wings are truth.
In the sun the searing Falcon is seeing all;
His talons turn and steal away, they are mad,
Playful fingers— they will have their say.
Jun 12, 2014
Jun 12, 2014 at 12:10 PM UTC
The yellowed dome cracks upon the surface
Of the moistened soil that stretches to make
Their way, emphatically filling most base
Space between dried stubs of flesh - never fake
Fruitless fingers - cracking, brushing, but now
Healing by comforting the path I pursue
With the wake of the rooster.
Home left warming behind, I gallantly
Saunter toward more humid, fume-fed airs
While leaving the thoughts that so quaintly
Filled my head, forgot to ingrain, and failed,
Allowing growth to myself.
Sun hung, high-noon, the dew fades all too soon
Creating a creaky concoction kept
Together (of sounds) by bare breaking-bones
Feet against gravel, dusty, rocky steps.
Sky set so wearisome and pink, I fall
To my knees in the midst of high terrain
Marked by thin grasses and rolling hill plains;
As I beg for mercy, not from this all-
Endowed sight, but from God(s) who seem only
To make this life right - I'll collapse further,
My hands move mountainous dirt and holy
Diadems of twig, while I decide - worth
When shall I dig?
Oct 24, 2012
Oct 24, 2012 at 10:09 AM UTC
dinner Greenport-side, watching the shuffling ferries do
their sworn duty, a back ‘n forth wearisome toll,
while we sip a rose and a PBR, respectively and with respect
no enthusiasm afterward for anything but an early off to bed,
and slip into pj’s asap
me in my knackered wholly Hanes fundie knickers,
no thinking required
but she
retires, re-attires in a summery combo,
a gray sweat t-shirt and green and white
plaid pj pants
which she is unawares are my favorites
cause they lop off fifty years,
a teenage woman re-incarnate recreated
cause her figure now womanly full,
better than then
morning awake l, a disturbance of the peace,
recall a snuggling a wake up hug,
and her bottoms conspicuously
gone missing
over break fast I inquire
over yogurt and berries and a
smoked mozzarella omelette,
what happened to those plaid bottoms?
assuming I was innocent of any transgressions
as best I could recall
with a sheepish childlike grin,
that made look like she was twenty again,
to match the now yoga toned body,
she confesses:
forgot to tie the bowstrings
and they slipped down to my ankles
blessed and cursed I thought!
too much of a gentleman to take advantage,
AND my situational awareness was slipping badly,
but when a poem comes across,
ready and pre-writ,
I’m still young enough to grab aholt of it
and never let go
6/23/18
Jun 23, 2018
Jun 23, 2018 at 2:42 PM UTC
In plain sight, the Peacocks ply their wearisome
Colours. Awkwardly swaying, pompously preening,
They cry to be seen, their voices are gurgling
And gawking. The direction of wind is their vane.
Overhead, in the secret sky fleet wings are truth.
In the sun the searing Falcon is seeing all;
His talons turn and steal away, they are mad,
Playful fingers— they will have their say.
— after W. B. Yeats
Jul 11, 2012
Jul 11, 2012 at 1:51 PM UTC
I imagine to romanticize my life
I fantisize my drive to work as quirky and cute
My cup of tea is the best thing I've ever tasted
Wearisome tasks are now so compelling to do
Now I start to picture things in such a charming and beautiful way.
Darkness and heterodox philosophies clouded my mind for so long,
I almost forgot to admire goods and breathing trinkets.
Waking up and peaking in, would be the bright sunshine through the blinds
And my frizzed hair all over my face.
Through triumphs and trebulations
This is a film
About a girl
Viewing her life
As a studio ghibli film
Aug 8, 2019
Aug 8, 2019 at 2:17 AM UTC
Together, they built footprints on the
sand, mud, clay, floor
and even on each other's heart.
They took thousands of steps
to keep love running.
Then one of them stopped.
Perhaps,
tired
wearisome,
running became senseless.
They both knew,
it won't keep going.
As they separated ways,
one, took a hundred steps away.
While the other, for only one step away,
and still hoping for a familiar footprint to follow.
-Steph Dionisio, August 24, 2015
Aug 24, 2015
Aug 24, 2015 at 2:16 AM UTC
In plain sight, the Peacocks ply their wearisome
Colours. Awkwardly swaying, pompously preening,
They cry to be seen, their voices are gurgling
And gawking. The direction of wind is their vane.
Overhead, in the secret sky fleet wings are truth.
In the sun the searing Falcon is seeing all;
His talons turn and steal away, they are mad,
Playful fingers— they will have their say.
Oct 23, 2012
Oct 23, 2012 at 2:18 PM UTC
The night falls swiftly,
And yellow flashes
Of northeastern
Fireflies mark
The edges
Of the
Hedge-lined path,
And gnats
Hang in the air
Like suspended gravel
While my flats
Slap the pavement
Like a ****** rap gavel,
In repetition so
Soothing I forget
My sentence
And all that I'm losing,
And everything makes sense,
I feel connected
To the heron
Gliding above
The river
Like messenger
Pigeons follow
The street grid,
Or like a charge down
The neural pathway
That makes me grin
When I realize
I'm not defined
By what's within,
No more
And no less
Than the wilderness
Can be constrained
To the way the wind
Sings its wearisome
Twilight refrain
As the air moves
And spins
Through the spaces
Between the wooden
Masses atop
Parnassus,
I feel the humidity
Flee,
And my breath quickens
As Corycian nymphs
And the nine
Sacred women
Of creation
By man's mind
Surround me and drive
Me to place one
Ancient foot
In front of its partner,
The images they conjure
Like a Reckoner diamond
Encasing me
In a cage of
Liquid iron
While beckoning
Me forward
With 72 hymens,
But I know it's a lie,
I know why
Men fight and die,
And it's not for any
Contrived diatribe
Promoting an
Unattainable
Ultimate prize,
It's to give rise
To the feeling
Of being alive,
That's all we want,
That's all we strive
To find,
And that's why
I'm approaching
Mile five,
And breathing
The life
Inherent in night
With the scent
Of the soundscape
Still burned in
My sight.
Sep 3, 2012
Sep 3, 2012 at 10:59 PM UTC
In plain sight, the Peacocks ply their wearisome
Colours. Awkwardly swaying, pompously preening,
They cry to be seen, their voices are gurgling
And gawking. The direction of wind is their vane.
Overhead, in the secret sky fleet wings are truth.
In the sun the searing Falcon is seeing all;
His talons turn and steal away, they are mad,
Playful fingers— they will have their say.
Feb 8, 2014
Feb 8, 2014 at 12:34 PM UTC
whispering rain tapping on the window
flooding my ears with sound, fluorescent
light screaming inside my brain, lift
your hands towards me again, you
won’t see me de nuevo. Wilt
beneath the demanding life you’ve beaten,
and maybe your fear will agitate
you, into a comatose state you
had put me in.,and hidden
me away from the world, mauling
innocence out of me with incremental,
unwanted touches that cannot be undone.
from handcuffs on wooden poles, foaming
mouths pouncing on my skin, melting
within myself as you drowned wearisome
unhinged fantasies onto me, and use
children for your pleasure to continue
terrorizing freely while we all trickle.
Oct 18, 2018
Oct 18, 2018 at 1:49 PM UTC
Hark, while the wasteland breathes out silent whims,
And see, as night's aura cloaks distant trees;
A sinister echo of ancient hymns,
Floats up, in a creeping midsummer breeze.
As the miles sum up - an anxious bearing,
Rushes a vague fright up the fragile spine;
But with the city lights on watch, nearing,
This unsettling fear slides down the incline.
The unattended anxiety does go,
Which this travel in the dark did arise;
City lights torch a new fret although,
But far less weary, it, in question, lies.
Wearisome measures of the restless nights,
Merit resistance by the city lights.
May 12, 2019
May 12, 2019 at 4:34 PM UTC
Sundays--none would see me
at that corner of the distant park
seated on a shaking wooden chair
under the same, bald and desolate tree--
Sundays (provided they don't rain)
I don't listen to the radio or watch TV
a notebook or a volume of Keats on my lap
I'll be alone in my chosen sanctuary-
Sundays (the faithful win me
over-- hearts have to be comforted--verily)
I take leave of wearisome life and society
with only me as company--
Sundays--time for reflection
from banal ties I set myself free
the toxic air of the public-square
I shun away---nature is harmony--
Sundays---age is sober and looks back
without rancour but with tranquillity
there were mistakes, harshness and folly
hidden pages from an old book reopened by memory-
Sundays--one follow another--how many
would (I wonder) still welcome me?
the young have their lush songs to sing
their most treasured dreams are yet to be-
This is Sunday--the sky is blue and pretty
happy kids are at frolic in the inviting green field
life in all its facets I've known and experienced
in this simple poem I've written my life-history.
Sep 7, 2017
Sep 7, 2017 at 12:17 AM UTC
The journey I must travel is one I must go alone,
Though the trek is wearisome and takes almost a lifetime to accoplish,
I know I am prone to go on this journey alone.
The Wind blows North, but I go South,
I fear for those of the Unencumbered,
Who sit around with all their days numbered.
My time may be short, but I will surely make it last,
I do not know what to do, I am as fragile as glass.
The sky laughs at me while the Winds comfort me.
To this journey I am prone,
On this journey, I must go alone.
Dec 16, 2013
Dec 16, 2013 at 9:18 PM UTC
In plain sight, the Peacocks ply their wearisome
Colours. Awkwardly swaying, pompously preening,
They cry to be seen, their voices are gurgling
And gawking. The direction of wind is their vane.
Overhead, in the secret sky fleet wings are truth.
In the sun the searing Falcon is seeing all;
His talons turn and steal away, they are mad,
Playful fingers— they will have their say.
Dec 12, 2013
Dec 12, 2013 at 3:18 PM UTC
In plain sight, the Peacocks ply their wearisome
Colours. Awkwardly swaying, pompously preening,
They cry to be seen, their voices are gurgling
And gawking. The direction of wind is their vane.
Overhead, in the secret sky fleet wings are truth.
In the sun the searing Falcon is seeing all;
His talons turn and steal away, they are mad,
Playful fingers— they will have their say.
May 4, 2013
May 4, 2013 at 2:20 PM UTC
There is a thief who lives with me
A thief that steals constantly
He steals my sleep my time and my peace
He saps my strength and shortens my reach
There is a thief who lives with me
He steals my hope and shortens my days
He runs his hands along my spine clenching and twisting and he smiles
His reach extends from my spine to my eyes locking me in his vice
He wraps my mind in his dull red haze and he makes me stupid and vile
There is a thief who lives with me
We battle every day every hour waking sleeping
There is no time when he is not a constant companion
He keeps me spinning in bed searching for a place of rest
Every hour it is He that controls my work and my play
There is a thief who lives with me
I try to seal my world from him
I stuff the cracks and bar the doors
Dark the windows and stopper the gates
He finds me no matter
There is a thief who lives with me
But he knows me well, this thief of mine and soon he's found the cracks
The chinks in my Armour he knows so well and soon his art he racks
There is a thief who lives with me a companion old and wearisome
There!! You see he comes stealing minutes and hours
My thief of days
My Pain
Solita _2007
Apr 16, 2010
Apr 16, 2010 at 7:10 PM UTC
Behind veiled minds, shapes vex open and shut in delicate sway;
moving to meticulous harmony, often misplacing understanding,
narrowly, missing margins of discontent.
Moments lost in struggles of stretch and pull weakens fragile equilibrium
compounding into reasons of no logic or consequence, bewildered
by the total sum of US.
Your ache acknowledged, by a body that longs to burn fires, to touch,
again and again, over and over until skin bursts forth into melodramatic flames,
coveting thoughts of our bodies getting it on to its entirety.
Wearisome desires of want, exhaust beyond measures of frustration,
running from gentle sways of to and fro' oft over-whelms 'dizzy and fraying release me'
My love - lend your heart to sacred whispers lest we are swallowed by reason of no logic,
leaving us dismayed, apt to vulnerability, resulting in suffocated flames.
Upon our human form, allow our burn in aches and longing - souls know of no boundaries
except the eternal, totality completion of we.
I ache for you!
Nov 7, 2012
Nov 7, 2012 at 7:37 PM UTC
mittened hands wrapped
around hot choc mugs
light-hearted bickering
over the tones and shades
of leaves yet to fall
chilly sun-streaked mornings
of fresh earthy air
and early hibernation nights
of gathered quietude
that indulgent autumn
for which she longed
seemed not to arrive
at least not as expected
set to follow the bright
bustling summer excitement
always written to precede
the forward-looking days
of winter's introspection
ordained as it was
by the dictums of old
those of time and tide
instead her blooming
has been a wearisome
back-and-forth between
the extremes of each
untimely and unexpected
yet unfortunately necessary
before she might witness
those flowers of hers
blossoming under
the warmth and light
of that newly shining Sun
Dec 1, 2023
Dec 1, 2023 at 9:55 AM UTC
This is the tale of a girl
Only seven years old
Who came here from Guatemala.
Let her story be told.
Jakelin Caal Maquin
Came here with her dad
With hopes of seeking asylum,
Before everything went bad.
People seeking refuge
Are dangerously exposed
To inhumane conditions
When ports of entry are closed.
Through the desert they wandered
With others of the same mind
Seeking a place of safety
And leaving danger behind.
At least that's what they hoped for.
They hadn't had a clue
That cruelty existed
Here in America, too.
When they turned themselves in,
It's said that father and daughter
For several wearisome days
Hadn't had food or water.
The child started having
Seizures, the records show--
A nightmare for the father
Who suffered this tale of woe.
Possible dehydration,--
Doctors later expressed--
Shock and exhaustion led
To cardiac arrest.
A hospital in El Paso
Was where she took her last breath.
A new life was their goal;
What they encountered was death.
The head of the DHS--
Nielsen--places the blame
All on Jakelin's father.
The woman has no shame.
The callous disrespect
Of international law
Regarding asylum seekers
Reveals her major flaw.
Must we blame the victims?
We must ask ourselves why
There aren't better solutions
So more children won't die.
Sorry, Jakelin.
We must apologize
For our officials who thrive
On heartlessness and lies.
-by Bob B (12-15-18)
Dec 15, 2018
Dec 15, 2018 at 11:08 AM UTC