"widower" poems
O make me a mask and a wall to shut from your spies
Of the sharp, enamelled eyes and the spectacled claws
**** and rebellion in the nurseries of my face,
Gag of dumbstruck tree to block from bare enemies
The bayonet tongue in this undefended prayerpiece,
The present mouth, and the sweetly blown trumpet of lies,
Shaped in old armour and oak the countenance of a dunce
To shield the glistening brain and blunt the examiners,
And a tear-stained widower grief drooped from the lashes
To veil belladonna and let the dry eyes perceive
Others betray the lamenting lies of their losses
By the curve of the **** mouth or the laugh up the sleeve.
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Resume: Jewel de Saex
Address: Lost somewhere up the hills.
email: [email protected]
Tel: + network not available
Summary
Hire me if: you are looking for an adventure.
Clouds, gorges, and I never disappoint, for we can cry.
Education
Bachelor, Mistress and Widower at the University of Zoya, majoring
in Life Sciences, with a minor in the applications of horseshoe magnets.
Expertise
I know them laws of attraction well +
New languages: both Silicon and Carbon-based ++
Magic, luck and fate.
Experience
For years I steered a boat
riding a rough river that
passed storms every day.
I was the rain-maker, I can
bring tears to any passing cloud
by my mere hand-gesture:
(all the dough-kneading.)
I was also the chief gardener
for Loz, whose farms at
the other end of the Earth
I visited by the switch door
in my old photo-albums each day.
Skills
Jugglery, innovative use of cutlery, reading runes, plucking prunes,
riding boats on dunes, talking by eyes, hearing by sight.
References: Not available even on request.
*NOtes:
+ Turn pages back and you always find, only one person was in love.
++ I can decipher the meanings in the lispings of cherubs and angels.
I understand the cloud and the river, as of men in any tongue.*
Mar 11, 2015
Mar 11, 2015 at 3:15 PM UTC
Eavesdropping
A good man is hard to find
Said my Nana,
That was the day I saw tears in my nana’s eyes
As she nervously stuff her monthly tithe in the envelope
And headed out to church that Sunday morning
Before, shouting at my granddad
I guess she was mad as hell at the old fool
That was the day I found out that my hero my grandpa
Was having an affair with the widower Estelline Beckley
“Ellie you’re the only woman for me said my Granddad”
However, my Nana wasn’t haven’t any of that
So she slammed the door on Grand dad
I remember being scare, and confused,
About this family feud
So, I hid under the table, and prayed to God
for the scream and shouting to be over
For several weeks all my Nana did was prayed
And all Granddad done was to burnt her pots and pans
Boiling water and making coffee.
Nana told the neighbors, that those harlot with a trail
For a rear end,
can cause a man to climbed, a mountain without his proper gears
That statement still baffles me until this day.
Until many years later when I met my mother’s sister
here in New York the spit and image of my mother.
But had the very spirit and expression of my Granddad
so much for eave dropping and family affair
Jun 12, 2013
Jun 12, 2013 at 10:25 AM UTC
Contempress,
Red mouthed darkness,
You weave your webs and spit out death,
Serum of poison lies in between your chest,
I cannot reach in for that coffin lies my rest.
I spread your ashes across my skin,
Black out my eyes and begin to fall,
Across my eyelids I feel you crawl,
In my head,
Inside my brain,
The serum of you,
A sweet taste of pain.
A widow of you,
The shadows across the weave,
Pull out your infecting vangs,
Leave all to grieve.
A widow of you beautiful and divine.
You, yourself, are on an hour glass of time.
Oh crimson red!
Her hourglass of dread!
You cannot pray upon the living dead,
The soulless walkers in which you crawl right inside.
With you red widow,
You divide,
Heaven or Hell where will you reside?
Vain in you I abide!
When will this web go?
Time is the enemy,
Young or Old,
Beauty is forever,
Externally resting in our soul.
Oct 13, 2014
Oct 13, 2014 at 4:20 AM UTC
Mom and her friends sit and they laugh at personal ads.
They read and reply saying **** men want and like hearing.
Mom's brunette friend replied to a guy seeking a blonde.
He was a guy with pic and was 60 and a widower retired.
Stupid grey horse is a possible meal ticket mom's friend said she.
Mom and her friends laughed and kept reading personals.
Mom's friend dyed her hair platinum to be what he wanted.
Mom's changing and getting ****** and starting to act like her friends.
I don't want to be a fake *** manipulator to get men's money.
Mom I don't like you or your friends.
It's 5:27 a.m and you still on your date.
Where the hell are you mom and why aren't you answering your phone?
Dec 16, 2013
Dec 16, 2013 at 5:28 AM UTC
I never understood the sound of a heartbeat
the relentless BA-bum, BA-bum, BA-bum
so draining and grating it makes me numb
BA-Bum, BA-bum, BA-bum
until we finally succumb
I never understood how people die of a broken heart
the break is not physical
it is not actual
it is not real
it is just how you feel
right?
I never understood why love was a two-way street
shouldn't it be a fork in the road converging
becoming one-way once we finally meet?
but that was because I only saw my side
I had know idea how our paths were going to collide
And I still never understood the sound of a heartbeat
of all the beats why two?
I never understood it
that is... until I met you
Because you were the second beat
that puzzled me for so long
You were the second beat
that kept me going strong
you were that up beat
to my favorite song
and you are the second beat
that made my heart belong
and now as a widower
I never heard that second beat
a murmur it had become,
until I saw her again
on the day of my death
went the Vitals screen went
BA....BA.... BA.... buuuuummm
Nov 1, 2013
Nov 1, 2013 at 10:18 AM UTC
Poppies grown rosy,
from my comrades souls.
Stained red with their own murderous goals.
Their life force ****** dry, and now it flows,
Into the soil through the meadows.
Crowns of lead bullets adorn many a 'hero's' head.
Many a crying widow and widower longing for the dead.
Young daughters and sons who stand on their fallen's bed.
This is where the everlasting hate is spread.
Apr 16, 2021
Apr 16, 2021 at 3:55 PM UTC
I am the sad widower, dissolute;
The prince of Aquitaine, by luck deposed:
My glistening soul is dead; its jeweled flute
sings perturbed melodies until opposed!
In the darkness of tombs, I am consoled.
Return, Oh Pospillo and the seas which doze:
The flower which pleases my heart has been sold;
And vines grow thick without the tender rose....
Am I love or Phoebus? ... Lusignan or Byron?
Still, I'm made to blush from the queen's embrace;
Although I dream in Neptune's silent place.
I have crossed the Acheron twice before:
Upon the Orphic lyre I've played by turns—
Saintly sighs and the awful cries of yore.
May 17, 2016
May 17, 2016 at 9:19 PM UTC
this former guttersnipe doth harbor no ill will
while lain in the gutter of this conventional ville
where some insomniacs take nigh quill
your plea 4 money, but a confession
that my life like a bitter pill
shape n size like n opal battling uphill
monetary resources nil
yet surges of imaginative days with hew fill
me jet throw toll aqua lung gill
lug gin islands n tandem with my mind till
death dew eye part, but social security disability
just barely amp pull - this no pitiful poetic swill.
at this juncture
my self confidence fuels me with greater skill
2 take risks, such as reach out n smooth over
ruffled n ridged feathers emanating
from sputter ring unthinkingly sans my virtual quill
i.e. emails n such prods awareness
2 maximize opportunities that could fill
a void - specifically a marriage bereft of compatibility -
n figuratively i jumped in2 this drama OUT of desperation
years ago when hot n ***** pangs would not chill
plus my then living mother n now octogenarian
widower father raged against me, their sole
soul less son, who daily they did flip their grill.
Mar 18, 2018
Mar 18, 2018 at 4:21 PM UTC
Tears of the widower, when he sees
A late-lost form that sleep reveals,
And moves his doubtful arms, and feels
Her place is empty, fall like these;
Which weep a loss for ever new,
A void where heart on heart reposed;
And, where warm hands have prest and closed,
Silence, till I be silent too.
Which weeps the comrade of my choice,
An awful thought, a life removed,
The human-hearted man I loved,
A Spirit, not a breathing voice.
Come Time, and teach me, many years,
I do not suffer in a dream;
For now so strange do these things seem,
Mine eyes have leisure for their tears;
My fancies time to rise on wing,
And glance about the approaching sails,
As tho' they brought but merchants' bales,
And not the burthen that they bring.
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The air is warmer
at the river’s edge.
The insects cloud
around his head,
and the cottage
his wife's father
built by hand
blazes white,
as if burning
in the afternoon sun.
The hammock strung
between two dogwood
trees twists in the wind,
channeling the murmur
of the song she sang when the children
were small and sunkissed,
splashing in shallow water,
catching minnows.
The allure surfaces
silvered and swift:
the temptation
to imagine her calling
from the other side.
The slap of a fish jumping
lands like a palm to his cheek.
Out there, in the middle distance,
silver scales flash in clear water—
a contorted shadow swims below,
hooked to impossible brightness.
Mar 2, 2017
Mar 2, 2017 at 5:15 PM UTC
*"It gives me wonder great as my content
To see you here before me."*
—William Shakespeare — Othello, act II, scene I.
She, veiled in night-breezes of darkled hue;
This cream Inamorata as you've called her.
She wishes to calm the seas; your eyes a turbulent blue.
The remnants of a broken heart she hopes to stir,
With the enchanting embrace of her halo-like arms.
Like you, this angel sought heaven all along.
Enthralled by her and all of her innocent charms,
You now cling to her and chant every love-song!
If World be willing — if malignant stars never shined,
Then she would fly to you without any fear,
And she'd cradle your heart; a widower's heart that pined
For this dusky form that you now hold in your thoughts so dear.
But tonight she waits for you in after-curfew dreams.
So luminous is her light, though the darkness it gleams!
Nov 11, 2014
Nov 11, 2014 at 3:59 PM UTC
Tears tear upon my ears and ring with distance resounding now
Two years.
5 days hence your 36, and I've done much to move on.
Burned the bridge with greek fire, slashed tires and bombs. The blaze I burned a pittance compared to the fire raging an inscription upon my soul.
Oh how I've learned my capacity for destruction, exhausting my ambition to scupt my sephiroth by the injustice of it all.
The pain. Would never leave. Couldn't. Shouldn't. Would not. Yet waned with each severed thread held in place by that pact. Trickling like a trickster.
I feel as If the widower now, black against even abysmal shadows, drowned out by thoughts of quicker deaths than one sought out by my shallow cuts & hours drunk to numb this, my greatest loss. Lost for words I stumbled deeper in the mines of hades, time changing by months or days.
What kills a man can be any overabundance, but you killed my spirit. It was I who offered the sacrifice. stupidly, but you I name liar. The deal was not kept, could never be, yet after dying deaths daily, my weeping heart wept, hated and forgot hailing new depths forsaken each breath taken away from me vying to make this make sense.
I'm done.
I want it back.
I want the fuel to live life unkempt and uncertain, laughing at the impossibilities lorded over those too weak to withstand the pressure and my rebelious will to keep fighting fate.
It's not too late, still I feel I've aged a decade in 2 years
Only now, waking to see the sweet nap given to me as punishment for lying under the timeless tree.
haunted no longer
By the visions of a
Wraith.
Dec 7, 2022
Dec 7, 2022 at 5:08 AM UTC
Oh my Love, your leaving me has taken the warmth from my veins.
Replaced it with a river of steel that burns,
forever crashing with misery and pain.
The lift has been taken from the wings of love,
as I am no longer cradled there with you,
I am here now , earth bound, alone....it's true..
..you are gone.
The songs of joy, once so resoundful,
no longer ring in my ears.
The only sound that echoes now, the knock on the door
I had feared.
This stone that marks the place where my Love now lays,
has become my alter, my place I seek,
each and every day.
Oh my Love you leaving me has taken the warmth from my veins.
I dream of us , talk of us, whish.....until we meet again.
This is a dedication. We all think of widows during War, primarily as the females role. In modern conflicts, this role has become a shared pain. Freedom comes with a cost. Not all price tags are visible.
Sep 14, 2010
Sep 14, 2010 at 3:11 PM UTC
I thought for a month the moon would never return,
But as young as I am, I still have much to learn
White light piercing black veiled skies,
What a sight, for a widower in paradise!
Vision, gentle now with this glory bright,
Death may shake the earth but I'm steady in flight.
Jul 14, 2015
Jul 14, 2015 at 12:05 AM UTC
*Last hill at sundown
Old man picks mountain lilies
Lone pine in distance*
Apr 29, 2016
Apr 29, 2016 at 7:05 PM UTC
Theirs fangs tower over their tongues
Their eyes could pierce your skin
A devilish smile disguised as a grin
They roam the island, after eight generations of living peacefully
They were dropped off by ships
To run and howl freely
Their numbers had dropped so low,
Man decided they needed a new place to go
But they didn't realize that the day they released the wolves from their crates
The sea captain, a widower's, three year old daughter escaped
The ship left without her,
The captain lived in dis pair
But the young princess knew she was in good care
But one day a prince would come,
He lived a sheltered life, and Crane Island was his new home
He fell in love with the girl raised by wolves
He learned their language
And forever, became one.
Jun 6, 2015
Jun 6, 2015 at 11:09 AM UTC
Words are the seeds of rebellion
A simple sentence may imprint a design of unrest
On the minds of the oppressed
And when watered by the unending tears
Of the motherless child
Of the widow or widower
These seeds spring eternal as weeds in the gardens of the oppressors
How quickly these starving plants grow
In the perceived beauty of the truly demented souls
Of those who used the corpses of the tormented as the topsoil
For their design of a utopia
The weeds of unrest will rise in the minds of those who have lost all
In a sacrifice for the comfort of those who walk above them
They will choke the oxygen
From the society
Who survives off of them
Those who carry the world on their backs
Words are the seeds of rebellion
And they are those who will stand
When these perverted gardens fall around them
Nov 28, 2015
Nov 28, 2015 at 4:22 PM UTC
Roses shrivel in winter’s core
Skies decay on mountain’s gore
In lies a youth with severed paws
Death is crawling on all fours…
In the meadows of a shepard’s land
Lays a mother on rigid sand
Staying there for which she will
Tomorrow she must pay her bill…
A long distance so far away
A father of four can all but stay
For he, a widower can leave no trail
Of the ever-lasting love, doomed to fail…
Lonely is as lonely does
Reeks the evil of Morsel’s couz
A wretched soul for which he rusts
Now that bellows in the dust…
Strange although all is true
The youth is dead, cold and blue
The mother in prison with many a trife
Killing her child has given her life…
The reunion of two ruined souls
Buried side-by-side near the blinded moles
Morsel’s couz will burn in hells might
Forever a figure of wicked light.
Jul 31, 2015
Jul 31, 2015 at 6:51 PM UTC
She wrote poems about sunflowers
and about the colors of each of the different flavors in her afternoon tea.
She wrote about the foot-worn path in the concrete floor of the history museum;
About a stranger’s dog who licked her hand at the park.
And to her future child,
And to the boundlessness of love she knew but could not fathom that existed in a forever-expanding space inside her,
And about that brave and resilient seed shared by all of science and art,
the interconnectedness of all things.
In radical joyful tones,
she documented the goodnesses of her Ordinary on scraps of paper and deposited them into a small chest,
her Memory Bank.
The people pointed at the lonely beergazer
The outraged wunderkind
The housebound widower
Each lost in the past or in the future.
Ah, misery.
The father of poetry.
They would shake their heads,
A shame, they would say.
Meanwhile, on the other side of town or maybe the world,
the mother of poetry, undeterred,
sat in her garden
singing to the souls of the vegetables.
Jan 10, 2022
Jan 10, 2022 at 3:32 AM UTC
Driven into Battle
By the most basic
Emotion
The fear of perishing
Yet...
When he lays his eyes upon
The face of death
He laughs
Not a chuckle
Or giggle
No
A insane, diabolical
Laugh.
The enemy calls him spider,
Widower,
Freak.
Such fear
In those eyes
The eyes of his enemy
Fear that
Once occupied him, the
Single reason that drove him
Mad. Now...
Feeds his lunacy, his insanity, the need
To see fear in the enemy, the fear in their eyes
This reason, this covet
Not his fear but
Theirs.
Dec 12, 2011
Dec 12, 2011 at 10:37 PM UTC
*If there is any value in anything,
Am I a fraud?
I should not exist.
There is nought I care bear to do
In order for this world to remain
Free from guilt, shame,
Morbid perdition,
A torrid display of all that is malicious—
And yet you claim you value me.
Beyond reason, purpose,
There is no explanation why—
Are you a poignant widower yearning
For blind love?
Don’t choose hope through those who need you.
Learn you value yourself.
Still you choose to say you cannot yield,
Cannot cease, can never change
I’d believe in you, I’d trust,
But above all, I want you to give in!
Can’t you apprehend?
What do we value?
If not ourselves?
What do we care for? Beyond all else?
I’ve never prior, cared to wonder of
The veil to mask our intrinsic intentions.*
Jun 29, 2014
Jun 29, 2014 at 5:32 PM UTC
He said his Christmas Eve was good
in his recliner, TV cranked,
drapes closed,
bottle of Nyquil in one hand,
remote control, in the other,
waiting
for NBC News
to end and football
to begin.
Dec 24, 2016
Dec 24, 2016 at 10:12 AM UTC
The cloud’s sweat mists
Foggy moon breaking the night
Stars are like evening sprinkles
And in the sweltering heat
The factory repeats
Its strange and haunting beats
The dusty machines spit hot air
Metal grinds metal, the forklifts beeps
The sound barely startles me
Out of my space daydreams
My oddly color ear buds
Making me dull of hearing
A guy speaks at me seeking humanity
Lonely, widower he needs some connection
Fourteen year and tumors will see
His dog finally has to go to sleep
He says he needs another puppy
Offers up skewed observations
About our American nation
I am disturbed but I can see
His heart is in the right place
As he places his thoughts before me
Loves his music but I can’t help but worry
That when I leave he will cease to be
Becoming merely a memory
Echoing ghostly
Cause he is so lonely
Jan 1, 2016
Jan 1, 2016 at 8:01 PM UTC