"woefully" poems
Like Cortes or Columbus
Combining like clouds
To storm upon thy heart
Conquering every crevice
Chaining your cheerfulness
So that you wither in wants
Watching with a weathered sigh
As it tirelessly loads treasures
That were known and unknown to you
Upon silent ships that set sail
Destined to return to dazzling far off places
And oh the tales it’ll tell
As you woefully wail
Aug 8, 2018
Aug 8, 2018 at 6:48 PM UTC
i've been building sentences
for you, because there are
too many words to keep them
stagnant and docile.
oh, words on melancholy smiles,
chipped porcelain and
sunlight dappled through your hair
like the sun herself had
kissed the crown of your head.
i've been writing you letters
inside of my head. little golden
pinpricks of love
seeping through my cells
because my body cannot hold
the very idea of loving you.
in those moments, i am liminal,
held tight by the arch of your spine,
the pads of your fingers,
the way that you held my name
in your mouth before
it rolled off of your tongue and
the smell of your skin
in a dark room, with only
the moon watching us
woefully, sweetly.
words like saccharine and
your name, slow like honey,
taste sweet enough
to make me cry.
i've been stuck on the idea
of loving you, loving me
and wringing my hands
over bad luck, mon petite chou.
and still, you close your eyes,
clasp your hands over your ears
and brush off my words like
dust or snowflakes or
unrequited love.
Sep 9, 2012
Sep 9, 2012 at 10:57 PM UTC
Let me meet you in a marbled
field of
sand...
Though
you bewitch me with clifftops hooded in emerald grass ...
Though
your sheep bleat loudly the marvel of your serenity...
Though
you wait patiently beyond your lonely precipice,
I cannot endure the eons
raging against the cliffs of your security.
Every
passing year, the thunder of my broken waves
gouges deeper into your wounded coastline.
Every
rock torn from your embrace, resounds the pain of our growing rift
Every
crumbling cliffs edge dissolves the beauty I held in reverie...
I wound us in this way.
Let me meet you in a secluded
gentle
cove...
There,
upon quieted sands, my waves will softly stroke your skin.
There,
the lions will laugh in cacophonous delight at our simple joy.
There,
our worlds will dance as pebbles tumble into diamond crystals.
There, a child will listen woefully,
the sea song of our love.
With eyes in contented darkness,
With a soul filled, overflowing
With the power of bearing witness
to this daily wonder.
Each
breath brings her deeper into the burning core of her mind,
Each
thought sparks the flame brighter
Each
billowing blaze will enliven her roots, and
she will bloom.
Then,
her eyes will open to a shimmering world,
glistening through tears of quiet understanding.
Then,
breath will guide the salt of our dance into her veins
Then,
she will dance to the song of our world.
With arms wide as eyes,
she will embrace
this treasured moment
With the divinity of her mortality.
When the moment calms, she will walk solemnly through our shallows.
When my waves pull home at her ankles,
When the crystalline pebble shines brightly in her visage
she will reach with focused surrender through my water for a memento
of the love she feels so presently.
In our slow dance,
of Land and Sea,
our love bears its fruits in tiny treasures.
In her little pocket,
the diamond of our love
will travel further into your heart than my waves ever could.
In this way...
you and I grow fonder
with every passing day.
Apr 21, 2016
Apr 21, 2016 at 11:05 PM UTC
Go see the misty place, deep in the woods,
That's where the willow tree's spreading her roots.
Long gentle branches are modestly bowing,
Above the shoot where a river is flowing.
It's been like that for centuries now,
The tree and the river, living in a vow.
The branches are caressing the hair on the surface,
The gesture, however, can't fulfill its purpouse.
Although their bond is strong, love never ending,
All alone, Willow and River are standing.
They're guarding each other, and each other only.
How come they, despite that, always feel lonely?
Every night, the willow tree woefully shivers,
Looking down upon her dark, lonesome river.
Oct 28, 2015
Oct 28, 2015 at 11:17 AM UTC
Acerbic antagonist alliterates agonizing accusations,
blasting ******* backbiter butting beautiful bombastic brainy blond bomb.
Cumulative cranial casualties cease caveman's cognitive coherence.
Doom digger derides Daddy's dangling dire dreary ****
Eclectic esoteric eccentric egotistical estranger;
Forthcoming fathoms fetch faithless fleeting father.
God given goblins gather gossamer ganglions;
Hell's hairy harlot harpies hover heeding Hyperion.
Ignatius imbibes irrevocably insisting,
"Jesus juggles justice's joy jarring jams."
Kindness kindles Kilimanjaro;
Malicious mountains melt, Mmm, morning marjoram.
Nothing negates Neanderthal ninnying.
Overt obsessions obfuscate original object of
purest passions, paltry past pinings,
quickly quieted, quelled,
resisted, relinquished, readily, ruefully, roundly
saturated, suffocated; surreptitiously silenced,
terribly torturing the thrashed tamed tormentor:
Ugly, ungrateful, unapologetic,
Vanity,
woefully wallowing, wailing, "Where's
Xanadu's
zeitgeist!?"
Jan 15, 2012
Jan 15, 2012 at 12:09 AM UTC
Aeolian dour fire meridians
Unfettering enlightenments will
Together Scylla with authority
Howling, Charybdis in oblivians wake
Shenting spindel meandering;
The schism termagating sirens
Repasts (diabolic manna)
Refracting ambrosial in the
Lap of Gods eye sophically conjecturing
Ephinany- times charioteering,
The nocturnal triunes discordance
Contemplating consequence thistling
Opothecaric sigels permeating lots
Obstruse lathed cerebral skies
Ruthfully roil whittling indelible
Epitaphs of serpentine repositories
Woefully dawning eternity castening
Harmoniously asunder truths
Deifying yen die.
ELEETE J MUIR.
Jan 13, 2012
Jan 13, 2012 at 11:14 AM UTC
The tool
Used by the many, employed by the few
A gift of god: upon the bronchi of man
Language is tool, used to build..
It is-
What man chisel ideas on the wind of our tongues…
to the rocks of our history…
Language is the destruction that follows his own creator
Language misconfigured the ideas it so woefully preached screaming
It built webs of manipulation from a string of lies
Language hammered humanity out the corners of trees
Language hammered humanity on the immoral beach
Language hammers.
To build or to destroy
It hammers away
Sep 18, 2025
Sep 18, 2025 at 7:18 PM UTC
“I know why the heart gets lonely
Every time you give your love away.” (*)
Puts me in mind
Of a man who embodied our eternal, sometimes fruitless search
And why the heart is a lonely hunter.
John Singer, you silently sang,
Of heartbreak and devotion to someone
And the eternal search for those elusive qualities
Those missing puzzle pieces we all look for
Happiness
Acceptance
Love
Always seem out of our grasp
Like a puddle of water
On the sunbaked, summertime highway of our lives
Traveling
Always looking for something
Hunting for anything
To let us know we’re human
We’re loved
But still our lonely hearts search on
“I know why the heart gets lonely
Every time you give your love away.” (*)
The heart is a lonely hunter.
Staring out the window of the bus
Thinking about the ones I love
And wondering if it is all worth it.
I wish I could’ve sat down with you, Mr. Singer,
And compared notes through pantomimes
Written words of your struggles
Maybe I could’ve understood you better than others
Deaf and mute, you
Couldn't communicate with words,
Couldn't hear what other said,
Instead you communicated with looks of compassion
Serenity,
Composure
Masking a single-minded devotion to one person
And you let others who lean on you
Attaching what meaning they may
To the nonverbal cues you say to them.
When some of it wasn’t what you really intended.
Believe me, Mr. Singer.
I know all too well the misunderstandings
That come up in the name of simple love
Or the search for it.
“I know why the heart gets lonely
Every time you give your love away.”
You think you have something special
But does the other person really understand you?
And when others need you, and vice versa,
They fail to see behind the wall masking
Your true heart
What you’re really trying to tell them
And even with the powers of speech and hearing
Would you still have made yourself understood?
Misunderstanding, it’s so easy
Words are woefully inadequate
Because people will see what they want to anyway
They attach their own meanings to the words you say
Mister Singer, I can understand why you blew a hole in your chest
Sometimes that gaping hole is more preferable
To the gaping hole left by a broken, misunderstood heart
“I know why the heart gets lonely
Every time you give your love away.
And if you think that you are only
A shadow in the wind
Blowing around but when
You let somebody in
They might fade away.” (*)
Aug 15, 2011
Aug 15, 2011 at 12:28 PM UTC
We’ve accepted that we’re already dead.
Like the soldier
Like the victim
No, the veteran of love
(and subsequent heartbreak)
We’ve accepted we’re already dead
So we can keep on living.
I was broken.
No longer working
No longer dreaming
No longer wanting
Pushing away
The hands that tried to help me
The encounters that didn’t last broke me.
I was embattled.
In the trenches of my own existence.
Those we met
Under picture-perfect circumstances
When we thought utopia could be real
woefully disproved this theory.
Rude awakening to what agony feels like
And sleeping all day so we could self-medicate
all night.
Self-medicating with ***** and cigarettes
Not because we needed to but
For respite
For the moment
For a friend in the bottle
Or the lighter.
Life is war
Survival is the only option
Death, inevitable and imminent
We are the ones in the ring
We have lived here
We will die here.
There are those who are weak
Succumbing to the needles
The tap tap tap on veins
Or worse
Ordinariness
Boring as the 8x11’s
found in printers
All around the world.
I will not be ordinary.
Surrender is not an option.
Because I am a gladiator
I have adapted.
I’m still in the ring
But I will defend myself now.
They are the lions;
The king of their race
But I
I am a gladiator in a Gap V-Neck Tee shirt.
I will die with love in my heart,
Belief in my soul
My ashes will spell out the word Hope.
Nothing will break me ever again.
Feb 12, 2013
Feb 12, 2013 at 2:58 PM UTC
Have I ever been profoundly lost? Yes. Railroad tracks and a river wide as the Amazon, yet lost. Living in the intense sunshine of northern New York summer, but lost in the shade of a gazebo. And here? Here I am enclosed in a tomb of porcelain machinery. With another winter passing its calling card in at the window. The warm steam no longer cutting the rough edge. Wearing wool sweater nights. The freedom of summer gone and only one **** What a nightmare, what a strange dream, life on planet, winter all around.
A system, they call it a system. I call it an evolved anarchy. Repetition, never. What do I know. Repetition, every two thousand years. Coming of a frost, coming of a fire. When nature proves furious beyond remembrance. Polar bear mugs wino.
--------------------------------------
***********
Tall, attractive, talented WM, 31,
trumpet player, takes pleasure in
performing *********** with clean
attractive women. Age, race, marital
status no object. All replies answered.
Marlowe went to bed. He had a headache. Used an empty bottle for a teddy bear/sap. In the middle of the night, three secret men approached the rock he slept under. They did not see him there, the fire had long ago gone out. But they'd seen it across the valley, and tried to estimate. They were close.
What do I care. They did this, he did that, they did this and this and that. He used his feet, took off his shoes. It mauled him to death in two minutes of the first round. Would have been better for him if it happened faster. Never got his knife out of his pocket. But he lived, with one eye after that.
--------------------------------------
What do you do with a drunken sailor early
in the morning?
You pull that sailor out of bed by his hairy
moorings.
Why should anybody believe this, this tiresome outpouring of old moans and groans, grumbles about loneliness of life and dominance of telephone. This gamble on print, above the spoken, sung word. The meditative call to inhabitants of planet to kneel woefully and pray. No, to chant as if the planet were mending.
Mending rhymes with ending, why not. And television, radio appreciated. Drugs and ***** jagged bent faces, black wet rock. The mantle of moss ripped away. Period. Amen to men. Absolute magical ripcord.
Aug 9, 2015
Aug 9, 2015 at 9:29 AM UTC
I am a sheep wrought with steel wool that’s coarse and painful to the touch
It erupts anything that touches me into a throng of agitated skin disease
So I habitually avoid anyone and anything that nears me with my terrified animalistic eyes
For fear of watching some curious creature bleed because of me and my dangerous idiocy
However as a sheep with sheep tendencies I can’t help but follow after the herd of my family
From a distance; trotting over trodden grass that’s easier on my hooved feet
Than other paths that are less traveled, more dangerous and more interesting
Instead staring at my family’s tail ends with an envy too poignant for my age
As they baa and cackle and coo over their own amusements and mutual understandings
And I find myself wishing woefully that I wasn’t just a sheep with steel wool
But a ferocious wolf, independent and beautiful; merely hiding within an ugly costume
Jul 1, 2013
Jul 1, 2013 at 1:30 AM UTC
Anger rises
A soft heart dies
Hardened in crisis
My mind just flies
I can write again
For the first time
In so long
My mind has long since been gone
Can you hear me crying
Can you watch me dying
I feel like flying
Heat rises
In blood so cold
A cut entices
Anger so bold
I can remember
A hot temper
Drowning me
How I wish I could see
I am not bad
Merely just mad
And yes i do remember
My woefully hot temper
Jan 21, 2011
Jan 21, 2011 at 2:50 PM UTC
***Madness rules the pen,
freedom of speech
not even a concept
what the muse says goes,
just give in to the inky blows,
dip that quill in ****** tears
color it with apricot custard dawning's
ravage erotica's blissful yearnings
crack a rib on that funny bone
if you fight the urges,
you'll end up on the chopping block
writer's imagination arrested
don't **** off the muse,
'tis a woefully dreaded plight indeed...***
Jan 14, 2014
Jan 14, 2014 at 8:20 AM UTC
I kiss upon your petals,
You kiss upon my scars,
If our love should be guarded,
Should we not both be guards?
You dissect me viciously,
I take you as you are.
I kiss you and say sorry that I'm breaking us apart.
God, I'm so ******* stupid.
The fellow you fancy is a figment of a feeble imagination.
An egotistical ****** with a heart of stone only pierced by your daggered eyes.
I wanted woefully to be that one for your love once.
I stood through senseless scrimmages to earn your satisfaction.
I played that part unceasingly seeking your acceptance.
But nevermore shall my strings be debauched by the pain of your plucking.
No longer shall I participate in pretending to be the man you make again.
Jul 6, 2023
Jul 6, 2023 at 12:29 AM UTC
I met up with Time
and had quite a talk with her--
she keeps stealing my minutes & hours
making my life
an absolute blur--
so I told her in no uncertain terms
that she'd better give back
all those minutes & hours
I worked so hard to earn
and she reluctantly shook her head
so woefully
and without much of an apology,
she looks at me,
saying that what she steals
she does NOT return--
And as for all those minutes she stole?
She said she let them burn...
****
Apr 8, 2016
Apr 8, 2016 at 9:57 PM UTC
Woefully, Viola sings and beautiful are her cries
Calling lovers, come and gone, to flash before her eye
Shimmering upon the dust filled air, touching her gentle frame
Each a note of mournful bliss, each one known by name
Strong and clear does her sound ring in solitary company
Uncomparable and unconquerable, untamed in all heartstrings
Cascading in a sorrow that moves the soul to break
Viola bends and tells her story, what music it does make
Crimson is the sheen that covers every inch of her
Melody in tragedy deplicted in each word
Echoing through mind and body, Viola misses not a cue
Lovely, deeply, sensually, Viola calls to you
Feb 2, 2017
Feb 2, 2017 at 11:51 AM UTC
It never appease the thirst of a craving soul
Like a wolf at midnight, under the moonlight howl
It cries for the moon to which it can never touch
Woefully unaware that moon bathes it in moonlight, his dutch
A selfish heart never knows what it posses
Never discern with what treasure it has been blessed
The more it gets, the more it yearns forever
Unaware that the least is better than never...
Sep 13, 2016
Sep 13, 2016 at 7:02 AM UTC
I looked on as an elderly man was painting an old farm house in oils, surrounded by trees dressed in their autumn finery. The house was shown as an aged and faded white surrounded by a low picket fence that had fallen into disrepair and long since been forgotten. The old dilapidated barn in the distance was expressed in varying shades of grey and peeling red paint. I was enraptured by the image I was seeing unfold before my eyes. It appeared to be such a simple piece, but it grew in complexity the longer I viewed it. Its underlying tones were of sadness and loneliness, time, and things forgotten. I balked at that, finding my initial assessment woefully inaccurate, this was not a lonely place, a forgotten place; this was a place that had seen life and heard stories! I knew the man had not yet finished with his painting and would not be so for some time. He was quite meticulous, as if he was paining the memories of his life. Every stroke of the brush had its designated place, its own meaning, and the way his hands grabbed absently at the different brushes seemed as if they had been pre-selected before he ever began. As his story was being narrated in layers of paint and hue, I found myself thinking about what life might have been like in that place he was creating. Who might have lived there? The colors in the painting boasted an autumn season, and though they were warm to the eye the season would have been cold, the growing…slow. No, it wouldn’t have been planting season, it seemed more likely that it would have been hunting season. I imagined game animals in the surrounding hills and a man in a flannel jacket walking silently through those amber colored woods, with rifle in hand and beagles in tow. The frost of his breath echoing the smoke that whispered from the chimney of the house. It would have been warm inside, and maybe children played by the hearth in the day’s early hours before they went reluctantly about their chores under the watchful gaze of a firm, yet loving mother. My thoughts darted to and fro about this painting in the most ridiculous of fashions, seeing people I would never meet, living events that never happened. But I was held to it long enough to allow my imagination to escape, and for a while, frolic freely with the idea of something beautifully simple. I left the elderly man to his work as I carried on about my day, thinking to myself all the while that if a picture is worth a thousand words, a painting is an unread novel.
Dec 15, 2012
Dec 15, 2012 at 6:43 AM UTC
Is it really so wrong
To covet thy neighbor
When they truly cannot see
what treasures lie before them?
Emaciated and broken,
As a starved wanderer I watch,
A man with a feast before him
Yet he turns up his nose
Through the emerald gaze
of a green-eyed monster I view
This disgraceful display of gifts
Woefully cast aside
This spectacle I witness
Confuses and astounds
For anyone can clearly see
The problem with this scene
Mortified, I stare
And with hunger, I despair
I wish the feast to be mine
But with none they will share
But with a glimmer of hope I will continue
And reflect on this sad, sad venue
One day I will sate this monster of mine
And no longer for the feast shall I pine
Jan 16, 2012
Jan 16, 2012 at 2:16 AM UTC
♠ ♠ ♠
Pseudo-Oriental visions
Haiku, Tanka, exotic terms
Vapid New Age vibe-transmissions
proliferating eastern germs…
Anarchistic thought collages
Existential lacerations
Nihilistic heart-massages
Incoherent lamentations,
Communism on a mission,
grievance-mongering, stewed in hate;
pounding Fascist fusion/fission
chanting harshly “ours the state”,
Hymns to Gods who choked on *****
undertaken in overdose;
rocks that never rose to comet
rolling – but ending comatose,
Hipster ironies, tongue in chic
Metro-wimps who feign the normal,
Redneck rantings up the creek
semaphoric, semi-formal,
matron’s maudlin observations,
motivational hypnosis,
(sentimental medications
offered prior to diagnosis),
coldly abstract neo-nonsense
read (by dullards) as cutting edge,
letters void of correspondence;
well-trimmed words’ linguistic hedge.
Climate whining (tried untrue)
with eco-prophecies warning doom,
Wiccans and tree-sprites trying to
undo the curse and lift the gloom,
Feministic tribal ranting,
Race-complaining, agitation,
GLBT gallivanting –
all are blights upon our nation.
Boring modernist excess,
(no longer daring – formulaic)
confounds – yet never can address
what’s wrong, and so becomes prosaic.
Lists like this are perhaps the worst;
another symptom of our times:
we who are woefully unversed
in rhythmic complaining that rhymes.
Sep 12, 2015
Sep 12, 2015 at 11:58 AM UTC
I never see your face anymore
The only image in my mind is your lovely, raven-colored hair
I once had a dream about you
You were facing away from me and woefully crying
I never figured out why
Around us, a pond of pallor was dotted with ghostly remnants of trees
While I crossed the liquid fright, your cries grew in timbre
No matter how close I was to your voice, it never seemed close enough
I stopped and quickly glanced above because the Moon was crying too
I never figured out why
The wind’s touch gently blew your night-like hair against my closed eyes
I confidently summoned all octaves residing within my soul
But before I could call your name, they caught me
Hands that sprung up from the sickness, eager to ****** my ankles
My heartbroken whisper finally stopped the weeping
I finally figured out why
A dainty little head slowly turned so I could gaze at the jewels on its face
Two rubies cascaded, their scarlet streams plummeting off pale cheeks
While you returned to looking forwards, sobbing droplets of agony
I felt unforgiving murkiness drag me down below
May 31, 2016
May 31, 2016 at 1:42 AM UTC