"weepe" poems
I presse not to the Quire, nor dare I greet
The holy Place with my unhallow’d feet:
My unwasht Muse pollutes not things Divine,
Nor mingles her prophaner notes with thine;
Here, humbly at the Porch, she listning stayes,
And with glad eares ***** in thy Sacred Layes.
So, devout Penitents of old were wont,
Some without doore, and some beneath the Font,
To stand and heare the Churches Liturgies,
Yet not assist the solemne Exercise.
Sufficeth her, that she a Lay-place gaine,
To trim thy Vestments, or but beare thy traine:
Though nor in Tune, nor Wing, She reach thy Larke,
Her Lyricke feet may dance before the Arke.
Who knowes, but that Her wandring eyes, that run
Now hunting Glow-wormes, may adore the Sun.
A pure Flame may, shot by Almighty Power
Into my brest, the earthy flame devoure:
My Eyes, in Penitentiall dew may steepe
That bryne, which they for sensuall love did weepe:
So (though ‘gainst Natures course) fire may be quencht
With fire, and water be with water drencht.
Perhaps, my restlesse Soule, tyr’d with pursuit
Of mortall beautie, seeking without fruit
Contentment there; which hath not, when enjoy’d,
Quencht all her thirst, nor satisfi’d, though cloy’d;
Weary of her vaine search below, above
In the first Faire may find th’ immortall Love.
Prompted by thy Example then, no more
In moulds of Clay will I my God adore;
But teare those Idols from my Heart, and Write
What his blest Sp’rit, not fond Love, shall endite.
Then, I no more shall court the Verdant Bay,
But the dry leavelesse Trunk on Golgotha:
And rather strive to gaine from thence one Thorne,
Then all the flourishing Wreathes by Laureats worne.
2.3k
"When the Thin Whyte Duke
And the Prince lay colde
When the fools stande talle
And the bigots bolde
The man of orange shall seize the throne
From the one they calle "The Clyntoone Crone"
Then men wille weepe and children waile
(The internete declare a "FAILE")
To no availe fore I have seene
The worlde will ende in twenty hundrede and sixteene!"
Nov 10, 2016
Nov 10, 2016 at 10:24 AM UTC
"WEEPE SHEAPHERD WEEPEM, TO MAKE MY UNDER SONG"
I peeled myself
off the ceiling.
And somehow returned
to who I was.
This dying isn't as
easy as it looks.
It's too like
hard work.
And once again I began
floating upwards.
The ceiling and I
now old friends..
Looking down at myself
looking up.
The surgeons busy
at work.
A bead of sweat
caught in an eyebrow.
Me busy flat lining
just like in the movies.
I able to recall
it all.
The there and
not-there enthrals.
And as I floated ceiling-ward
for the third time.
Gravity let me down
and I fell back into place
fitted neatly
into my self.
Death and I
locked in a staring match.
Eyeballing one another
he more afraid than I.
Until lo and ****** behold
Death...
...blinked first.
Oct 31, 2018
Oct 31, 2018 at 5:45 PM UTC