"whereto" poems
a connotation of infinity
sharpens the temporal splendor of this night
when souls which have forgot frivolity
in lowliness,noting the fatal flight
of worlds whereto this earth’s a hurled dream
down eager avenues of lifelessness
consider for how much themselves shall gleam,
in the poised radiance of perpetualness.
When what’s in velvet beyond doomed thought
is like a woman amorous to be known;
and man,whose here is alway worse than naught,
feels the tremendous yonder for his own—
on such a night the sea through her blind miles
of crumbling silence seriously smiles
76.1k
Whereto, Friend, apart this Direction goes
That Greedy Me besuch perpetuate
Must learn this: The Lock and Shackle bestrow
Reconcile that Key for True Joy rebate
And tell, how does your Prime Perception dock
To settle added Keys in Copper, chain
Took you a Lark; Which the Robin does mock
Outside your Cage those Tripe Clowns entertain
That Craft - your Splash - always Sacred devote
Once again calls for Adventure Beyond
Take a Year's Rest; Then to Spangles denote
Would sprinkle Silver Sands for mood abscond.
It was your Decision to sign by Pen
Absorb those Posted Stars Heaven does spend.
Mar 14, 2013
Mar 14, 2013 at 1:10 AM UTC
The eyes that mock me sign the way
Whereto I pass at eve of day.
Grey way whose violet signals are
The trysting and the twining star.
Ah star of evil! star of pain!
Highhearted youth comes not again
Nor old heart's wisdom yet to know
The signs that mock me as I go.
2.7k
Thou blind fool, Love, what dost thou to mine eyes
That they behold and see not what they see?
They know what beauty is, see where it lies,
Yet what the best is, take the worst to be.
If eyes corrupt by overpartial looks,
Be anchored in the bay where all men ride,
Why of eyes’ falsehood hast thou forgèd hooks,
Whereto the judgment of my heart is tied?
Why should my heart think that a several plot
Which my heart knows the wide world’s common place?
Or mine eyes seeing this, say this is not
To put fair truth upon so foul a face?
In things right true my heart and eyes have erred,
And to this false plague are they now transferred.
2.6k
No, I have borne in mind this hill,
For once before I came its way
In hours when summer held her breath
Above her innocents at play;
Knew the leaves deepening the green ground
With their green shadows, there as still
And perfect as leaves stand in air;
The bird who takes delight in sound
Giving his young and watery call,
That is each time as if a fall
Flashed silver and were no more there.
And knew at last, when day was through,
That sky in which the boughs were dipped
More thick with stars than fields with dew;
And in December brought to mind
The laughing child to whom they gave
Among these slopes, upon this grass,
The summer-hearted name of love.
Still can you follow with your eyes,
Where on the green and gilded ground
The dancers will not break the round,
The beechtrunks carved of moonlight rise;
Still at their roots the violets burn
Lamps whose flame is soft as breath.
But turn not so, again, again,
They clap me in their wintry chain;
I know the land whereto you turn,
And know it for a land of death.
Note: The title is from Goethe's "Kennst du das Land, wo die Zitronen blühn?" (Know you the land where the lemon-trees bloom?").
2.2k
I will follow you
whereto you roam
I will follow you
all the way home
down the road
up the hill
along the river
by the mill
past the tin shed
that old shoe store
till I follow you
and go no more
to an open field
where a path unpaved
with stones unsealed
leads to your grave
May 1, 2022
May 1, 2022 at 6:56 AM UTC
Accuse me thus: that I have scanted all
Wherein I should your great deserts repay,
Forgot upon your dearest love to call,
Whereto all bonds do tie me day by day;
That I have frequent been with unknown minds,
And given to time your own dear-purchased right;
That I have hoisted sail to all the winds
Which should transport me farthest from your sight.
Book both my wilfulness and errors down,
And on just proof surmise, accumulate;
Bring me within the level of your frown,
But shoot not at me in your wakened hate,
Since my appeal says I did strive to prove
The constancy and virtue of your love.
1.8k
a connotation of infinity
sharpens the temporal splendor of this night
when souls which have forgot frivolity
in lowliness,noting the fatal flight
of worlds whereto this earth’s a hurled dream
down eager avenues of lifelessness
consider for how much themselves shall gleam,
in the poised radiance of perpetualness.
When what’s in velvet beyond doomed thought
is like a woman amorous to be known;
and man,whose here is alway worse than naught,
feels the tremendous yonder for his own—
on such a night the sea through her blind miles
of crumbling silence seriously smiles
E.E. Cummings
Aug 11, 2013
Aug 11, 2013 at 4:07 AM UTC
If my dear love were but the child of state,
It might for Fortune’s ******* be unfathered,
As subject to Time’s love or to Time’s hate,
Weeds among weeds, or flowers with flowers gathered.
No, it was builded far from accident;
It suffers not in smiling pomp, nor falls
Under the blow of thralled discontent,
Whereto th’ inviting time our fashion calls.
It fears not policy, that heretic,
Which works on leases of short-numbered hours,
But all alone stands hugely politic,
That it nor grows with heat, nor drowns with showers.
To this I witness call the fools of Time,
Which die for goodness, who have lived for crime.
1.3k
“Music takes us out of the actual and whispers to us dim secrets that startle our wonder as to who we are, and for what, whence, and whereto.”
The witching hours between
Onyx nightmares - and dreams that sparkle at first light
Find me catatonic amongst my secrets and inuendos
Ragged shell
an insinuation of skeletal existence locked
Emotional rigor mortis
Hushed, suspended and supine
Stasis waits, hesitating
For the thrumming drums of life
a message of motion
sensual resurrection
That whispered music
melodic song my confidant
The rush of blood
This exhalation across lifeless lips
Speaks nothing into the void
So I do not breathe
In my skin that crawls beyond darkness
Recoiling from oblivion
I thought you loved me
Yet you are without utterance
And my heart breaks straining
For a note of music
and the silence ringing in my ears
A regretful requiem
Careless undertones
mimic this rumor of survival
Suspended I am
Unsung
TBoehm 022008
© 2008 TL Boehm
Oct 12, 2013
Oct 12, 2013 at 5:56 PM UTC
Oh! Indians!
In this land of Harischandra, India,
The wheel of life moves indifferent
Why this indolence, seek the media
Come to inferences sadly different.
Pre-independent great leaders sacrificed
Disinterested in material benefits; they
Rooted in struggle for freedom, though crucified
The dripping blood stirred their spirit gay.
But, now the blood and the spirit are diluted
Generations of ingratitude grow up lazy.
Sans sense of history, love and being looted
Whereto we move, Oh! Indians! on way greasy.
Awake brothers think why we are betrayed
Like a hound chased sheep we are strayed.
May 2, 2012
May 2, 2012 at 2:54 AM UTC
Sitting,waiting in the bus shelter,
the mind is led by roving thoughts
from the now and here
into fields often not explored
whereto the feet hesitate to stray.
I sit there seeing the world hurry on,
not really looking at the people all around
but thinking back;thinking about those
who used to walk these same streets
who used to hurry off just so.
The roads may have forgotten their tread,
their faces blurred by time,
their voice masked by life's din,
soon to be faded into memory;
our love glossing over their faults.
But what of their stories?
What of the things left unsaid?
What of the questions unanswered?
What of their talents not passed down?
What of the bonds,the people undone?
Are their stories lost?
Never meant to be finished?
Small and unimportant enough
to be cut off,be discarded?
Lives destined for the void?
But what of those left behind?
Stories tainted by that void?
Hearts burdened b their absence?
Eyes wearied of waiting?
Dreams filled with longing?
The bus arrives with that sureness
of the things that come and go.
Boarding it,I sit next to a window
and let it carry me away like I've let
those things that come and go.
Gazing out the window,
I see life rushing past me.
And a desire takes hold of me
for this journey to go on,
to keep moving while immobile.
I think of those stories unfinished,
stories seen through a man's eyes,
read with a man's wisdom.
But what if that is not all?
What if there is more?
What if some questions are
never meant to be answered?
Some things be left unsaid?
Some talents never to be passed on
but define the person lost and him alone?
What if the stories left behind
are meant to be tainted that way?
To bear a fragrance like no other,
the void marking them for perfection.
What if people are meant to be undone?
What if the stories are not lost
but merged with the living ones?
To fuel them,to further them,
to be a muse to spur them,
be a core in their shaping?
Wistful thinking all,devised to soothe.
The mind awash with torrential thoughts
still hears a small voice of hope,
holding on to it while hanging
above a chasm of decadence.
Every night we go to bed
trusting the angels guarding us
to let happen what is right;
slipping into peaceful oblivion,unsure
whether we will wake from it again.
All these thoughts,these stories float
as leaves on that river called Life.
Whether we be afloat or under,
it flows;the grand story goes on
crafted by The Great Writer.
After all the broken hopes
dare we still hope on
as did Abraham of old,
hoping where there is none,
seeing life where there is death?
Dare we still dream on?
Dare we hope our stories
will not be left unfinished
thinking,wanting to believe that
Life is Hope is Life?
Jan 1, 2014
Jan 1, 2014 at 9:53 AM UTC
The metro station caged the slumbering metropolis
From this dingy mid-March town fridged in January wind
A ******** clad explorer marches in mellow strides
All the way to you
To back the lover's whisper spoken by static selfies
With fleshy whiffs, a borrowed jacket and a gawky face
Blind to but maybe fiddly pepples on the ground.
Down at a backstreet diner, its locked out doorstep,
A hygge cover made for two,
Humming low is the city's nocturnal remains' dubstep
Coming from an illuminating exit,
Luring the busy hands and buckled excitement, whereto ----
Whereto the vacant main street glides them
With the at ease traffic,
Down loops of everextending branches
I followed you
To the roundabout between
two surrounding glassware towers
Where gleaming sparks ***** on each other's windows
Divining themselves by lighting up pavements, entrance signs
and glooming heavens.
Corridors, lawned with clutters from refurbishments,
Lead to glassrooms of suspended business meetings,
And that cozy cavern,
Where you flump into a swivel chair.
Your inhibited expression unwinds
As my curious caress explores
The damp torso slumping deeper into the pliable seat.
And a devoted twitch of ecstasy, blossom unexpectedly
On your face,
Which already shied itself away from its audience,
Doubtlessly, for way too many times ----
A candid sight I could only cache from you,
Because I intend to see it again, your effortless reaction.
The sarcoma-like lump left uncut at the bottom,
Wrinkled like wind waves in a Ukiyo-e drawing.
I scoop the saline ripple, so you can taste it beforehand.
Our bodies started gravitating
onto each other or all over the place.
And lips, they startlingly perched,
out of wills, like magnets
For the very first time.
I've been feeling patient.
And I love taking my time with you
Nov 29, 2018
Nov 29, 2018 at 1:13 AM UTC
wear the badge, suitor, bristling poet,
chloroform content on a surge of the old heroism,
but you could do nothing to save her back in the then
your benevolent shock impotent in hindsight
and what ungovernable intent holds sway at this time?
can the intellectual blast paint a way for a homecoming
where accused dignity might finally sleep without
the within of a star shaped wound
to emerge from behind the deep cover of an aging photograph
whence your soul's shadow smiled like a lazy fern
and the energetic child out braved the shocked Adonis
there is an undeniable whereto as your fingers blow bubbles
washed by the whether or not to further
a gentleman shall always keep his secrets passed the obituary relish
forever a disciple to his pondered heart while
the narrow prophet can only bridle at an opened conscience
while keeping the adultery at arms-length,
a good four thousand miles hence, but leaving so little space
that science cannot detect a gap,
hope is stretched across a salty segregation
whose surface offers mirror to us each
and furnishes a briny indulgence
once the barriers of taste end at our fingertips
yet, still, every morning, my **** will stink of yesterday’s bad decisions
May 8, 2015
May 8, 2015 at 3:19 PM UTC
if the results of your negotiations
remain below the expectations
of your great leader
you better write your testament
say goodbye to your loved ones
and prepare for death
instantly or piecemeal
in one of those well known
penal colonies
whereto the great leader
relegates those enemies of the people
who fail to give himself
and his good buddy Donald
the precious soundbites
they need to announce
over the global media
to demonstrate
their nuclear good will
Jun 6, 2019
Jun 6, 2019 at 3:58 PM UTC
Lend me these hillsides where I might find solace amongst her fauna
To abate my scorching thirst from the ample cistern of knowledge and direction .. A reservoir whereto chalice the unknown , purging the acrid , barren desolation of opinions imprisonment , to drink freely thereof .. O'er the Live Oak promenade , privy to 'Mother Natures' exacting architecture and abundant goodwill , along the rustling banks of the Flint Basin .. My flourishing , cascading 'Educator '..
Mar 26, 2016
Mar 26, 2016 at 3:31 PM UTC
I love you in ways I did not know possible,
Not knowing from whence, why, or even whereto,
All I know is this; I love you
I will love you till there's a beat in this mortal heart,
And even after that,
I will love you regardless of reciprocation,
or lack thereof,
I will love you till time stops,
and until it begins again,
And I will love you
Apr 19, 2016
Apr 19, 2016 at 1:34 AM UTC
Most of those poem are written at 4 AM
That's where all the unravished silences belong
When the paper and promises are both meant to burn
Flowing tears of written hopes and woes
As a butterfly’s fluttering coax the flows
Later, past the rapids, I paused to consider
Widening and filling
With a gentle lapping of inlets
And I behold once more
Quietly
There goes-
Again'
My battle with time
Most of those poem are written at 4 AM
It's when I dwell in my creations
My long lost world
In the dim weald of vanished summer
To meet the despair
I laughed in grief under haunted skies
Desolate I strayed
In my clumsy-noisy mind
Watching the dying embers
Amid the freezing night
My angry-tears are gone'
And I behold once more
Quietly
There goes-
Again'
My battle with time
I mourn over reasons
They will never figure out
They doesn't even know what I'm smiling about
My words burns within my lungs
These thoughts are deadly
And with each broken words
Shaking legs
Empty rhythms
I danced'
Most of those poem are written at 4 AM
It's when I take a sip from my devil's cup
It's when I learn to wait for the loneliest of feasts
Of worlds whereto this earth’s a hurled dream
And nothing leads to no happy home
So let me-
So let me mourn alone
Let my heart freezze
I'm an ancient ocean
I could survive anything
And everything
So I behold once more
Raw and raging
There goes-
I'm beyond'
I'm beyond time
Jan 22, 2018
Jan 22, 2018 at 4:24 PM UTC
when those leave
who have always been with us
we halt
our step
and let our thoughts
go quiet
as if we
in our young years' busy-ness
could comprehend
or steal a glance
over their shoulders
of that distant world
whereto
in due course
we will follow
only to see
how far ahead
they will forever be
* * *
Apr 1, 2015
Apr 1, 2015 at 5:01 PM UTC
As the rain cometh down and the snow from heaven, and returneth not thither,
but watereth the earth, and maketh it bring forth and bud, and giveth seed to the
sower and bread to the eater; so shall my word be that goeth forth out of my
mouth: it shall not return unto me void, but it shall accomplish that which I
please, and it shall prosper in the thing whereto I sent it.”—Isaiah.
Jul 2, 2023
Jul 2, 2023 at 3:31 PM UTC