"woeing" poems
A shadow runs, from your eyes,
What is this fear that in you resides?
A shadow indeed, but of peace,
So let the shrill worries cease!
Dance as this mystery does so far
See her gleaming tresses flare!
See the starlight in her eyes!
See her footsteps light as skies!
Feel the Summer greens grown strong,
Around her garments in many a throng!
Feel the silky mantle soft and blue,
that was made fair from nature true!
Feel the love within your soul!
Feel the joy as it runs and rolls!
Hear the songs she sings at night
that nightingales hearken to with reviving might!
Hear her voice clear as her mind
that is ever peaceful and kind!
Hear the silver footsteps so!
Through Fire, Air, Water, Earth she might go!
Smell the Fragrance of her mane
of newborn life and rain forest same!
Smell her cloak so elven bright
that might send you into the light!
Smell the fragrance of her hands
to wisp you far to distant lands!
Taste the bounties she hath made
within the might of her den and glade!
Taste the fresh air 'round her sky
that is free, and will not die!
Taste the tear of this maiden wise
and be free from death's woeing demise!
And through all of this I say
"May I join you amidst your fray?"
And she, says with grace, "My dear,
you must become a Wicca, clean and clear!
Love all! Harm None!
Feel the cold of the moon and the warmth of the Sun!
Join my circle brethren!
And we shall sing forever, with no end!
Jul 6, 2010
Jul 6, 2010 at 9:25 AM UTC
October fifth, the night begets
Midnight hallways of uncertain threat
A whooshing of trees marks ambiguity
The cold hovering beneath my very feet
Sacrosanct creatures in Epiphanius state
With dust in shelves and candles that melt
A frightening woe nigh unsaid nor upheld
Twas an airy voice lurking the dark
Such lush but nothing of any spark
The floors were tilted and web's shifted
Fixated minds suddenly felt desolated
With all the corners of every dorm
She yearns something, finding her prose
Crossing borders, ruffling like a storm
The woeing wind woes as she goes
Nothing to keep, nothing to show
Her runic is fading, losing its tone
It never stopped till morning and all is gone
Sep 26, 2017
Sep 26, 2017 at 12:31 AM UTC
I can't write the words to this poem
yet when i get a word they just keep on flowin'
tryin' to listen to the sounds of nature while the wind is blowin'
you look up to one person thinking they are all knowing
yet when you write a rhyme so good the crowd starts woeing
large with proudness you start glowing
Apr 19, 2014
Apr 19, 2014 at 9:52 PM UTC
**** You, Evangeline
I hated you in the seventh grade
When you were pushed on me at school
And broke my rib,
As I badmouthed you on the monkeyswings.
But quickly I learned
Not from mom or sister
That to be a man is different than
Hollywood and Disneyland
Nothing Loves, Actually; Forever calls—
Very quickly
It seems
That I go from adorable to expendable
Serendipitously,
With a bit of mandated mail
And affairs with Eros’ bureaus of State
Back then I played with chitinous bugs
Baiting them fluffy placentas
of budding trees
And stalked them back to their cave
Before I knew my felonies
But I was a baby,
A child—I never could have known what it means.
But of course I do,
I’ve seen
the running of the bulls
The utterance of men
They are angry and gouge *******
with cold vicegrips around their ******
And are kicked
Mercilessly
Spurned to wrathful affectation
To be murdered in the evening
With rapturous spectation
“But they are bulls!”
Of course they are
"These feelings are only natural!"
No man can equate
With the pleasurable temptations of the state
Not bird or bug or steer or doe
The only Hierarchy permissible
Is of the animals
And of that we hate
I don’t see you woeing
About that steak on your plate.
Or the Glue in the soles of your shoes.
Stroll a bit
Sniff the trees
Whiff the ********
When it’s in the feed
He runs in circles shouting, chanting
“Oye, Oye, Aye Piche Cabrone!”
As the solo mothers cut his lengua
for the starving Ninos
In an apartment complex
off Oxenhoof Lane
Where
Papi got iced
By I.C.E or the like
And the kiddies will never know what it means.
You’ll never know what it means
To be a bull
Muster your might for this—demand with laughter you die
I am an ant in the ever-washed hive
Of sterile kin who have no lives
They give for their queen or infectious despot with wings
Despite all the kindness they've given me,
I am not ready to be meat for the feet.
In every blade of grass I've faith
That no bird or sin will ****** me from my place
And into the sky or the unsatiated mouth of the various
Disunified highs
For now I share the toil and vitriolic
Callous
Jowls of those who hate themselves
More than me
And try to smile and bring food for the queen
But deep inside
I am an ant
And that is all you will ever see.
Apr 8, 2019
Apr 8, 2019 at 1:46 PM UTC
he loves freely,
peacefully,
beautifully,
quietly in the middle of the night,
love making,
he loves.
he loves like chocolate ice-cream,
the mmmm...taste in my mouth,
licking lips,
warm feeling in my heart,
he loves.
he loves like mama loves her baby,
cuddling,
tickling,
lovingly,
kissing,
woeing me to sleep,
he loves<3
Sep 11, 2014
Sep 11, 2014 at 6:57 AM UTC
Beautifully tragic:
warm, but smothering.
Home-like, but woeing.
The sight of the bed that
swallows his hopes and
dreams.
Each day, I lose glimpse of
his fight: his endless struggle
of heart, mind and body and the
15 inch foam coffin that holds him
hostage to the world inside his head.
"You're worthless. You don't matter..."
Screams uttered by the supposed
"supporting team." Who the hell are they to you anyway? Flesh and blood
mean little when his financial value
is higher dead than alive.
The greatest fear, sitting in the hearts
of viewers (idle victims of the scene
unfolding), is the penultimate event.
The second to the end: for it is the one we will never see coming. The last "good" one before the worst one.
The last night that the bed holds him tight before the bullet squeezes him tighter.
Oct 13, 2014
Oct 13, 2014 at 11:16 PM UTC