"wonted" poems
In vain to me the smiling mornings shine,
And redd’ning Phoebus lifts his golden fire:
The birds in vain their amorous descant join;
Or cheerful fields resume their green attire:
These ears, alas! for other notes repine,
A different object do these eyes require:
My lonely anguish melts no heart but mine;
And in my breast the imperfect joys expire.
Yet morning smiles the busy race to cheer,
And new-born pleasure brings to happier men:
The fields to all their wonted tribute bear;
To warm their little loves the birds complain:
I fruitless mourn to him that cannot hear,
And weep the more, because I weep in vain.
5.3k
Yes, bright the velvet lawn appears,
And fair the blooming bowers;
Yet blame me not—I view with tears,
This scene of light and flowers;
Strangers possess my native halls,
And tread my wonted ways;
Alas! no look, no voice recalls,
The Home of Happier Days.
The gay guitar is still in tune;
The greenhouse plants are rare;
Glad faces throng the wide saloon,
But none I love are there:
Oh ! give me friendship's cherished tone,
Give me affection's gaze;
Else my sad heart can never own
The Home of Happier Days.
5.2k
Unwatch'd, the garden bough shall sway,
The tender blossom flutter down,
Unloved, that beech will gather brown,
This maple burn itself away;
Unloved, the sun-flower, shining fair,
Ray round with flames her disk of seed,
And many a rose-carnation feed
With summer spice the humming air;
Unloved, by many a sandy bar,
The brook shall babble down the plain,
At noon or when the lesser wain
Is twisting round the polar star;
Uncared for, gird the windy grove,
And flood the haunts of hern and crake;
Or into silver arrows break
The sailing moon in creek and cove;
Till from the garden and the wild
A fresh association blow,
And year by year the landscape grow
Familiar to the stranger's child;
As year by year the labourer tills
His wonted glebe, or lops the glades;
And year by year our memory fades
From all the circle of the hills.
3.2k
Sometimes a light surprises
The Christian while he sings;
It is the Lord who rises
With healing on His wings;
When comforts are declining,
He grants the soul again
A season of clear shining,
To cheer it after rain.
In holy contemplation
We sweetly then pursue
The theme of God's salvation,
And find it ever new;
Set free from present sorrow,
We cheerfully can say,
E'en let the unknown to-morrow
Bring with it what it may!
It can bring with it nothing,
But He will bear us through;
Who gives the lilies clothing,
Will clothe His people too;
Beneath the spreading heavens
No creature but is fed;
And He who feeds the ravens
Will give His children bread.
Though vine nor fig tree neither
Their wonted fruit shall bear,
Though all the field should wither,
Nor flocks nor herds be there:
Yet God the same abiding,
His praise shall tune my voice;
For, while in Him confiding,
I cannot but rejoice.
2.8k
he wasn't in the right headspace
he wasn't in the wonted circumstance
it happened neither occasionally, but on numerous occasions
however, his surrounding be approaching and expecting his so-called tough shoulders..
..to be cried on, to be leaned on or to be the place they can dwell in for some considerable time.
his heart was made of gold, but it felt like a block of ice.
nodded his head; means acceptance.
tossed a yes; means a welcome.
painted a genuine smile; means he's all about to listen.
he was there for people, and he will always be there.
but where are the people pace their footsteps out while 911 numbers were pressed on his life's phone button?
nought. zero calls back. all dead. stone deaf.
that's how we live in, being a living buttress to people as in fact people won't ever spend their seconds to be your place to go.
aside from the bitter truth,
survive.
Dec 17, 2020
Dec 17, 2020 at 7:04 AM UTC
They are all gone into the world of light!
And I alone sit ling’ring here;
Their very memory is fair and bright,
And my sad thoughts doth clear.
It glows and glitters in my cloudy breast,
Like stars upon some gloomy grove,
Or those faint beams in which this hill is drest
After the sun’s remove.
I see them walking in an air of glory,
Whose light doth trample on my days:
My days, which are at best but dull and hoary,
Mere glimmering and decays.
O holy Hope! and high Humility,
High as the heavens above!
These are your walks, and you have show’d them me,
To kindle my cold love.
Dear, beauteous Death! the jewel of the Just,
Shining nowhere, but in the dark;
What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust,
Could man outlook that mark!
He that hath found some fledg’d bird’s nest may know,
At first sight, if the bird be flown;
But what fair well or grove he sings in now,
That is to him unknown.
And yet as Angels in some brighter dreams
Call to the soul, when man doth sleep:
So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted themes,
And into glory peep.
If a star were confin’d into a tomb,
Her captive flames must needs burn there;
But when the hand that lock’d her up gives room,
She’ll shine through all the sphere.
O Father of eternal life, and all
Created glories under Thee!
Resume Thy spirit from this world of thrall
Into true liberty.
Either disperse these mists, which blot and fill
My perspective still as they pass:
Or else remove me hence unto that hill,
Where I shall need no glass.
2.5k
Queen and huntress, chaste and fair,
Now the sun is laid to sleep,
Seated in thy silver chair,
State in wonted manner keep:
Hesperus entreats thy light,
Goddess excellently bright.
Earth, let not thy envious shade
Dare itself to interpose;
Cynthia's shining orb was made
Heaven to clear when day did close:
Bless us then with wishèd sight,
Goddess excellently bright.
Lay thy bow of pearl apart,
And thy crystal-shining quiver;
Give unto the flying hart
Space to breathe, how short soever;
Thou that mak'st a day of night,
Goddess excellently bright.
2.3k
Hail, happy saint, on thine immortal throne,
Possest of glory, life, and bliss unknown;
We hear no more the music of thy tongue,
Thy wonted auditories cease to throng.
Thy sermons in unequall’d accents flow’d,
And ev’ry ***** with devotion glow’d;
Thou didst in strains of eloquence refin’d
Inflame the heart, and captivate the mind.
Unhappy we the setting sun deplore,
So glorious once, but ah! it shines no more.
Behold the prophet in his tow’ring flight!
He leaves the earth for heav’n’s unmeasur’d height,
And worlds unknown receive him from our sight.
There Whitefield wings with rapid course his way,
And sails to Zion through vast seas of day.
Thy pray’rs, great saint, and thine incessant cries
Have pierc’d the ***** of thy native skies.
Thou moon hast seen, and all the stars of light,
How he has wrestled with his God by night.
He pray’d that grace in ev’ry heart might dwell,
He long’d to see America excell;
He charg’d its youth that ev’ry grace divine
Should with full lustre in their conduct shine;
That Saviour, which his soul did first receive,
The greatest gift that ev’n a God can give,
He freely offer’d to the num’rous throng,
That on his lips with list’ning pleasure hung.
“Take him, ye wretched, for your only good,
“Take him ye starving sinners, for your food;
“Ye thirsty, come to this life-giving stream,
“Ye preachers, take him for your joyful theme;
“Take him my dear Americans, he said,
“Be your complaints on his kind ***** laid:
“Take him, ye Africans, he longs for you,
“Impartial Saviour is his title due:
“Wash’d in the fountain of redeeming blood,
“You shall be sons, and kings, and priests to God.”
Great Countess, we Americans revere
Thy name, and mingle in thy grief sincere;
New England deeply feels, the Orphans mourn,
Their more than father will no more return.
But, though arrested by the hand of death,
Whitefield no more exerts his lab’ring breath,
Yet let us view him in th’ eternal skies,
Let ev’ry heart to this bright vision rise;
While the tomb safe retains its sacred trust,
Till life divine re-animates his dust.
2.1k
Animula! vagula, Blandula,
Hospes, comesque corporis,
Quæ nunc abibis in Loca—
Pallidula, rigida, nudula,
Nec, ut soles, dabis Jocos?
TRANSLATION.
Ah! gentle, fleeting, wav’ring Sprite,
Friend and associate of this clay!
To what unknown region borne,
Wilt thou, now, wing thy distant flight?
No more with wonted humour gay,
But pallid, cheerless, and forlorn.
1.8k
“Have you seen a broken man? “
Ah, a broken man.
With a broken soul trying to gather all the shattered pieces
to put it all back together.
The eyes, which seem appealing, yet ironically are, devastated
Trying to find their release.
The shivering hands, wrinkled
which put all efforts to not reach the kitchen
and pick up the knife.
The stomach which can’t help but give collywobbles
as giving the butterflies or even the slight content from
the scanty amount of happiness
seems to require the world’s strength
To hide the pain and shove it inside the blanket
and never let it peep out.
The legs which have lost control
as laying in bed with the pillow that remains soggy
has become wonted over time
Time
which brings with it absolute nothingness
not a single blob of diversion or bliss.
The mind that tries to figure out ways
to escape from the crowd and vanish into solitude as
nothing else seems to give pleasure.
The eyes which have become unaware of any chore,
Other than holding back the heavy flow of the saline drops
descending down the cheeks
Unremitting.
As being sensitive is
probably the most irking and repellent trait one can possess.
The heart that longs to disappear into the abyss
never wanting to come back
pleading Him to take away his life
As the only release,
the only emancipation
he hit upon was eluding from the mayhem
and give up on holding his very last breath.
“Yes, I have seen a broken man and to tell you, it’s the scariest thing I’ve ever seen.”
Mar 5, 2017
Mar 5, 2017 at 5:55 AM UTC
Here, ever since you went abroad,
If there be change no change I see:
I only walk our wonted road,
The road is only walk'd by me.
Yes; I forgot; a change there is--
Was it of that you bade me tell?
I catch at times, at times I miss
The sight, the tone, I know so well.
Only two months since you stood here?
Two shortest months? Then tell me why
Voices are harsher than they were,
And tears are longer ere they dry.
1.6k
Longing is trammeled in my throat
Oh the honeyed years
Before I knew what to miss,
Untrusted, unspoken
I exhale its blue haze
Between the last note sung
And the first note heard.
You are the wonted dream—
The consoling ache
Wearing away at softened bones
With every wish
Unheard, unanswered
The stars are so beautiful and so cruel
Our untethered threads
Adrift in the firmament
Uncut
Yet untied.
Jul 25, 2022
Jul 25, 2022 at 2:57 PM UTC
Here, ever since you went abroad,
If there be change, no change I see,
I only walk our wonted road,
The road is only walkt by me.
Yes; I forgot; a change there is;
Was it of that you bade me tell?
I catch at times, at times I miss
The sight, the tone, I know so well.
Only two months since you stood here!
Two shortest months! then tell me why
Voices are harsher than they were,
And tears are longer ere they dry.
1.5k
The mother will not turn, who thinks she hears
Her nursling’s speech first grow articulate;
But breathless with averted eyes elate
She sits, with open lips and open ears,
That it may call her twice. ’Mid doubts and fears
Thus oft my soul has hearkened; till the song,
A central moan for days, at length found tongue,
And the sweet music welled and the sweet tears.
But now, whatever while the soul is fain
To list that wonted murmur, as it were
The speech-bound sea-shell’s low importunate strain,—
No breath of song, thy voice alone is there,
O bitterly beloved! and all her gain
Is but the pang of unpermitted prayer.
1.5k
Hush’d are the winds, and still the evening gloom,
Not e’en a zephyr wanders through the grove,
Whilst I return to view my Margaret’s tomb,
And scatter flowers on the dust I love.
Within this narrow cell reclines her clay,
That clay, where once such animation beam’d;
The King of Terrors seiz’d her as his prey;
Not worth, nor beauty, have her life redeem’d.
Oh! could that King of Terrors pity feel,
Or Heaven reverse the dread decree of fate,
Not here the mourner would his grief reveal,
Not here the Muse her virtues would relate.
But wherefore weep? Her matchless spirit soars
Beyond where splendid shines the orb of day;
And weeping angels lead her to those bowers,
Where endless pleasures virtuous deeds repay.
And shall presumptuous mortals Heaven arraign!
And, madly, Godlike Providence accuse!
Ah! no, far fly from me attempts so vain;—
I’ll ne’er submission to my God refuse.
Yet is remembrance of those virtues dear,
Yet fresh the memory of that beauteous face;
Still they call forth my warm affection’s tear,
Still in my heart retain their wonted place.
1.4k
He was last spotted
With his gnarled hands
making love to his pockets
maybe bearing a child
half palm
half cotton
Every so often
he’d flail the lint
from his fingernails
serrated from his spleen,
knot them up
into steely ***** of yarn
and batter the window
of his sister’s room
His knuckles may have suffered
some trauma
but it’s likely now
they speak in scars
with windbag bones
that don’t shut up
He isn’t a looker
His nose is large
and barbed
like wire
with currents
that breathe in pollen
he’s allergic to
He got inked last March
on his eighteenth
shrouding his flaxen leg hairs
in ****** red roses,
a wide mouthed skull
with an inverted cross
bludgeoning its left temple,
and the words
“Here’s to your destiny”
in all caps
He has a mop
of tow colored hair
and narrow eyes
either a robin’s egg
or air force blue
that I once piloted
He’s a well padded
five feet and nine inches
But I picture him
far rounder
You’ll never see him
well kempt
he smells of minced cattle
and marijuana
He could dissolve you
into laughter
even on unlit nights
when the moon
goes to the cleaners
and the stars
swish around
in the Laundromat
with your knickers
His grin was cloying
like syrup
until his teeth stuck together
in a wonted pout
Don’t keep your eyes peeled
You won’t find his face
on a milk carton
This boy isn’t really missing
He’s out there somewhere
studying chemistry
or law
But he isn’t here
to give me hell
anymore
So I picture his calf,
his immutable tattoo
whispering
“Here’s to your destiny”
and hope I still have one
Jun 6, 2015
Jun 6, 2015 at 1:18 AM UTC
’Twas now the hour when Night had driven
Her car half round yon sable heaven;
Boötes, only, seem’d to roll
His Arctic charge around the Pole;
While mortals, lost in gentle sleep,
Forgot to smile, or ceas’d to weep:
At this lone hour the Paphian boy,
Descending from the realms of joy,
Quick to my gate directs his course,
And knocks with all his little force;
My visions fled, alarm’d I rose,—
“What stranger breaks my blest repose?”
“Alas!” replies the wily child
In faltering accents sweetly mild;
“A hapless Infant here I roam,
Far from my dear maternal home.
Oh! shield me from the wintry blast!
The nightly storm is pouring fast.
No prowling robber lingers here;
A wandering baby who can fear?”
I heard his seeming artless tale,
I heard his sighs upon the gale:
My breast was never pity’s foe,
But felt for all the baby’s woe.
I drew the bar, and by the light
Young Love, the infant, met my sight;
His bow across his shoulders flung,
And thence his fatal quiver hung
(Ah! little did I think the dart
Would rankle soon within my heart).
With care I tend my weary guest,
His little fingers chill my breast;
His glossy curls, his azure wing,
Which droop with nightly showers, I wring;
His shivering limbs the embers warm;
And now reviving from the storm,
Scarce had he felt his wonted glow,
Than swift he seized his slender bow:—
“I fain would know, my gentle host,”
He cried, “if this its strength has lost;
I fear, relax’d with midnight dews,
The strings their former aid refuse.”
With poison tipt, his arrow flies,
Deep in my tortur’d heart it lies:
Then loud the joyous Urchin laugh’d:—
“My bow can still impel the shaft:
’Tis firmly fix’d, thy sighs reveal it;
Say, courteous host, canst thou not feel it?”
1.4k
Oh! yes, I will own we were dear to each other;
The friendships of childhood, though fleeting, are true;
The love which you felt was the love of a brother,
Nor less the affection I cherish’d for you.
But Friendship can vary her gentle dominion;
The attachment of years, in a moment expires:
Like Love, too, she moves on a swift-waving pinion,
But glows not, like Love, with unquenchable fires.
Full oft have we wander’d through Ida together,
And blest were the scenes of our youth, I allow:
In the spring of our life, how serene is the weather!
But Winter’s rude tempests are gathering now.
No more with Affection shall Memory blending,
The wonted delights of our childhood retrace:
When Pride steels the ***** the heart is unbending,
And what would be Justice appears a disgrace.
However, dear George, for I still must esteem you—
The few, whom I love, I can never upbraid;
The chance, which has lost, may in future redeem you,
Repentance will cancel the vow you have made.
I will not complain, and though chill’d is affection,
With me no corroding resentment shall live:
My ***** is calm’d by the simple reflection,
That both may be wrong, and that both should forgive.
You knew, that my soul, that my heart, my existence,
If danger demanded, were wholly your own;
You knew me unalter’d, by years or by distance,
Devoted to love and to friendship alone.
You knew,—but away with the vain retrospection!
The bond of affection no longer endures;
Too late you may droop o’er the fond recollection,
And sigh for the friend, who was formerly yours.
For the present, we part,—I will hope not for ever;
For time and regret will restore you at last:
To forget our dissension we both should endeavour,
I ask no atonement, but days like the past.
1.2k
untethered
through the dark,
we tread
across that familiar park
on the path coarse
she rose
graceful and free
she moves
like a gentle breeze
on a mid-summer night
our elbows locked
she turns and dances
giving life to a shadow
in the streetlight, static
and yellow
a commune of silhouettes
beyond the lake
like wonted mores
try to reach us ashore,
spellbound by the water
the black reflection ripples
and moves into stillness
red tinted clouds
drift miles above us
granting glimpses
of an indigo night sky
dotted with distant stars
and an orange Mars
almost time now
she spots the International Space Station,
a white lucent shine,
rise up from the vagrant reds in the west
and draw a lucid arc
across the indigo canvas
a deft motion of a compass tip
subtle, taut
and at ease
the white glow dims
and then fades
as the night turns on itself
we rest
on that wooden bench
overlooking the lake
just being
watching
the midnight drama
unfold,
like a fountain spring forth,
a breath we hear
take shape
as the ducks play and laugh,
as repeated greets by a shy hedgehog
as the bats in acrobatic flight
and the long white fluffy thing
which to this day
remains mysterious
to 26 and 21
the ubiquitous black intense
is void no more
awake we are
and our souls, a choir
a breath cosmic,
flowing
untethered
Jun 19, 2014
Jun 19, 2014 at 4:55 AM UTC
Amid the sky of covered crimson plane
The stormy night begets its wonted reign
And down the sails of battered ships
The golden light of sol doeth set.
Far below the wooden hulls lies
O’ oceans crypt, unknown in depth.
Below the base of beaten ships and
Amid the anglers glow
The luminal aura of Isis shows.
Crystal Night, immaculate sight
Waxing strong her sultry form
Oh how bright her soothing light
A beckon of hope amid the perilous storm.
The captive witness cannot cease
Its ponderous delight of beauties scene.
Of the godless night, in waves
Of tumult and titanic might
Of hellish forces the setians reign.
The sacred goddess of Lucifer’s seed
Rests tall for all to see.
Jun 22, 2018
Jun 22, 2018 at 7:05 PM UTC
He reminisced of storm-struck gilded sands
Where innocence was lost, upon the dunes
Where memory was drowned in golden strands
That faded to the fresh new autumn moon
*oh roiling sea, what angered thee that night?
how dreadful was the fury of thy might!*
Thin shredded fingers, torn by jagged cracks
In jagged rocks, were blessed by numbing cold;
Raw crimson eddies swirled and circled, sacks
And boxes strewed on tides that ebbed and flowed
*oh woeful sea, how bittersweet thy kiss
that dragged unwary souls to thy abyss!*
Behold! Did shadows play on weary eyes?
The hunters' moon revealed a pallid hand
Awash among the flotsam; hope denies
The wonted outcome of the seas command
*oh jealous sea, why make young widows weep?
their souls you take, their hearts you cannot keep!*
Alas! A lass as still as still is calm!
Her breathless lips as deadly as the sea
That knew the siren, knew her sailors charm,
That knew her song, her haunting melody
*oh wicked sea, why did thou birth a maid
for whom the debt of life was never paid?*
In evil things a beauty still prevails
And beauty is a poison to the wise;
The siren, borne on stretcher, born of sails,
Was dragged back to the depths of all her lies
*oh mother sea, take back thy child of grief!
though thou would steal my soul, I am no thief!*
Water filled her nose, her mouth, her lungs,
Convulsing her to sip a salted breath;
Her parting lips prepared to voice her songs
That fated those who heard to blissful death
*oh hungry sea, thy daughter does thy deed!
take then thy fill to satiate thy greed!*
Yet from her lips there came no haunting sound,
No siren song came forth from frothing sea;
Her saddened eyes beheld the soul she drowned,
And in her grief she chose to cease to be
*oh grieving sea, what loss thou must have known!
thou took the rest, yet could not keep thine own!*
A tale is told of storm-struck gilded sands
Where innocence was lost; upon the dunes,
A siren with her hair of golden strands
Stands with a sailor 'neath new autumn moon
Jan 18, 2015
Jan 18, 2015 at 7:35 AM UTC
It seems to
me that
truth
will never be
placed into
words
A distant gaze
forever into
oblivion
while faint feelings
cross chapped
lips
A wonted fomentation;
this fabricated
fancy.
Our stares seem
longer than
needed
Or maybe she
slows down
time
I can’t tell.
All I can do is watch
Jun 7, 2016
Jun 7, 2016 at 8:31 PM UTC
I often wonder how you’re doing
but I wish I didn't care
Even though you never told me you were leaving
with a mouthful of words left unsaid
Still circling back to touch the growing space
between ― twice you broke my heart
I felt you slip away in autumn gold
fading like the morning dew
Love can drift away like a molted feather;
wonted flotsam swept afar on stormy seas
Some things are better left unspoken,
when silence speaks twice
louder than words
But love lies with a whisper; tears of sombre sorrow
won’t wash away the distance in your eyes
These are the days of a rising tide's breach
when, I could walk deep into the ocean
with no one else but memories
to leave behind
April 2018
Apr 18, 2018
Apr 18, 2018 at 11:21 AM UTC
sigh a day later, when Saturday's mad pile of work was a memory, it literally tasted like water. Now, how did that happen?
(sonnet #MMMMDCXLIV)
Mists waft with curious fragrance' odd detail
Upon the creamy surface of those scents'
Brown claim of coffee in my mug, to fence
Thin hope with old chagrin as morning's pale
Light watches from its cloudy vantage' scale
Of truth, where ghostly layers shift oer pretense
And grey asks white to call it blue from thence,
My breakfast: ***** dishes 'hind th'exhale.
It's nat'nal cereal day, so in a poor
Excuse I added Malt-O-Meal to do
The favours with our wonted pancakes, fer
A whopping stack of edibles. Yes, two
Eggs, bacon, and a touch of fruit. If you're
Still hungry, there's no coffee. I love you.
07Mar15a
Sep 6, 2017
Sep 6, 2017 at 9:10 PM UTC
Good way off, past blindness
trickling fingertips felt plunks.
Sedimentary stirrings next to
running brooks dipped into
for pleasure of touching
algaecide inside the head.
And memory impresses gunky
regions explored, faculty of
retaining wet sandy banks,
the murk of his adolescence.
How what was told of who to,
or who not to, or what not to,
that, was only left with more
unanswered question. Just
mire. So the feeling out had
little guidance and quicksand
became lesson planner.
Wonted informality, such sinking,
became hook, shot, and sweet tooth.
These habits took his teeth
and no longer could he chew.
Drivel and flattery became much the
same, his purging, alluvium.
Men can only spill out, what fed.
Eventually mountains' rivers carry peaks to valleys.
Feb 22, 2016
Feb 22, 2016 at 3:27 PM UTC