"xlii" poems
XLII
‘My future will not copy fair my past’—
I wrote that once; and thinking at my side
My ministering life-angel justified
The word by his appealing look upcast
To the white throne of God, I turned at last,
And there, instead, saw thee, not unallied
To angels in thy soul! Then I, long tried
By natural ills, received the comfort fast,
While budding, at thy sight, my pilgrim’s staff
Gave out green leaves with morning dews impearled.
I seek no copy now of life’s first half:
Leave here the pages with long musing curled,
And write me new my future’s epigraph,
New angel mine, unhoped for in the world!
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dear basil,
watch the sunrise
remember how lucky you are to see it
smell the morning air
keep it in your lungs because you can
water your plants
show them unconditional love
love yourself unconditionally
because you're lucky, because you can
love,
basil
Oct 3, 2021
Oct 3, 2021 at 4:45 AM UTC
I see you have someone else now
Does this one make you want to continue to live?
Is this one brave enough to embrace your storms and waves?
Is comfort found in their arms, their calm
and home in their clouded thunders?
Is this someone worth the dive?
Can they escape your love?
If they can, don't let them read this.
Don't tell them know our secrets.
Eager as they are,
let them walk alone with your angry jagged pieces
Make them want to go back in time
just to experience you over and over
This one maybe better than the last
Have you told yet?
Have you told why you fall so easily
Why at the breath of your favourite words you cave in
Why being told beautiful you easily feel like a treasure
Once hidden, now unlost
Taken cared of and practically important
*Why you’ve always mistaken good words with promises
And staying for one night meant forever
And crying meant dying inside
And that falling apart is part of life
Inevitable and just meant for you*
(6 times in a row, wow)
Why you’ve always thought of the clichés as pieces of precious art
Only meant for you, to feel, to realize, and to kiss goodbye
Why you’ve always settled with the good enough
Thinking you’re not capable of having more
Not worthy, to be precise
You're just standing there, staring at me with your dead eyes. You haven't, have you?
Apr 8, 2015
Apr 8, 2015 at 7:37 AM UTC
Emily Dickinson (1830–86). Complete Poems. 1924.
Part Three: Love
XLII
TO lose thee, sweeter than to gain
All other hearts I knew.
’T is true the drought is destitute,
But then I had the dew!
The Caspian has its realms of sand,
Its other realm of sea;
Without the sterile perquisite
No Caspian could be.
Apr 20, 2015
Apr 20, 2015 at 2:00 PM UTC
Man, we are an ugly,
broken,
people, aren't we?
We formed a society that abhors following ones' own desires.
A society that demands participation!
Or expiration...
We turn ourselves,
into necrotic sacks of flesh.
Motion after motion,
waiting on death.
**** it,
**** you,
**** me.
**** everything man.
Our demise is inevitable.
The clocks been ticking for a millennia,
no one's watching.
Tick-tock,
tick-tock.
The world stops turning,
and we burn.
Jun 18, 2015
Jun 18, 2015 at 10:59 PM UTC
Alarm goes off at three,
And the day, for me, begins.
As usual, the preliminary fixes,
Before the others come awake;
Quick check on my vitals,
Nothing seems out of place,
Satchet water, three? No, two,
Then a short visit to the loo;
By the time it chimes five 'o clock,
Cereals for the children and teeth brushed,
Then mommy runs them a warm bath,
And daddy packs the school lunches;
All of these appear routine,
But for us, a way of life,
Going on seven moons,
Simply, the joys of fatherhood;
But I digress, many pardons,
For today another year is added,
The heavens have been merciful,
And reflections are no pastime;
Serious matters become frequent,
Issues of the afterlife more apparent,
Leaving a legacy to be proud of,
And making it beyond midlife;
The Mrs, as usual, with pleasant surprises,
Makes the day more than ordinary,
Pulls all the impossile stops,
Leaving stress to look so secondary;
Going into the new year,
The first without Mom and Dad,
Makes me wonder in, future 'spect,
Now, life has surely begun.
Mar 22, 2022
Mar 22, 2022 at 6:23 AM UTC
I.
For
hell's sake
let me caress those fingers
and arms,
the ones you can't abide.
II.
They're so
good
they hug so strong and
they hold so well.
III.
You've written on them
these
remnants of
pain,
and it hurts to see.
Aug 21, 2014
Aug 21, 2014 at 1:18 AM UTC
Bending to the wind
Flowing with the breeze
Such grace
Petals dancing in the air
Gently falling into fresh puddles
Delicate flower
Feb 22, 2010
Feb 22, 2010 at 6:20 AM UTC
Cuando me lo contaron sentí el frío
de una hoja de acero en las entrañas;
me apoyé contra el muro, y un instante
la conciencia perdí de dónde estaba.Cayó sobre mi espíritu la noche,
en ira y en piedad se anegó el alma.
¡Y entonces comprendí por qué se llora,
y entonces comprendí por qué se mata!Pasó la nube de dolor.... Con pena
logré balbucear breves palabras...
¿Quién me dio la noticia?... Un fiel amigo...
Me hacía un gran favor... Le di las gracias.
425
XXXVI.
because you really don't want to hurt them you just still cant believe that anyone cares enough to be hurt when you hurt yourself
XXXVII.
because every new year you say you'll get better and you don't you still don't know if you should be independent of arbitrary dates that you trust so much even if they've never helped you
XXXIII.
because it hurts so much either way
XXXIV.
you'll just have to decide which you prefer
XXXV.
because you really gotta put more faith in rough drafts
XXXVI.
because you always want everything to be perfect but you know by now it won't be
XXXVII.
because these thoughts don't even really scare you anymore or maybe you're used to being afraid, but you know you'll stay, even if this place is unchanging
XXXVIII.
because that's only half the battle sometimes,
this times its not even that
XXXIX.
because you've never been this close to both life and death at the same time
XL.
because you're not afraid anymore to make rash decision you think you should fear what might happen because of that
XLI.
because, for now, the solution- the next step, is changing everything
XLII.
because until now changing has only meant covering up better
XLIII.
because maybe you can get better on your own, and maybe you can't
XLIV.
but the point is if you reach out you will never know if you could have done this independently, but if you cant do it on your own and you still try,
XLV.
because I know,
it's okay to reach out for help but,
is it okay to hold on?
Dec 29, 2015
Dec 29, 2015 at 9:03 PM UTC
Yo también, cual los héroes medievales
que viven con la vida de la fama,
luché por tres divinos ideales:
¡por mi Dios, por mi Patria y por mi Dama!
Hoy que Dios ante mí su faz esconde,
que la Patria me niega su ternura
de madre, y que a mi acento no responde
la voz angelical de la Hermosura,
rendido bajo el peso del destino
esquivando el combate, siempre rudo,
heme puesto a la vera del camino,
resuelto a descansar sobre mi escudo.
Quizá mañana, con afán contrario,
ajustándome el casco y la loriga,
de nuevo iré tras el combate diario,
exclamando: ¡Quién me ame que me siga!
...Mas hoy dejadme, aunque a la gloria pese,
dormir en paz sobre mi escudo roto;
dejad qu'en mi redor el ruido cese,
que la brisa noctívaga me bese
y el Olvido me de su flor de Loto...
400
The saddest part...
The surface was never even considered scratched.
Mar 28, 2014
Mar 28, 2014 at 2:20 AM UTC
Tan alegra, tan graciosa,
tan apacible, tan bella...
¡Y yo que la quise tanto!
¡Dios mío, si se muriera!
Envuelta en oscuros paños
la pondrían bajo tierra;
tendría los ojos tristes,
húmeda la cabellera.
Y yo, besando su boca,
allá, en la tumba, con ella,
sería el único esposo
de aquella pálida muerta.
311
The "younger generation" should feel very fortunate, for not having to carry a buck's worth of quarters with them in the event they have to make a phone call.
copyright: richard riddle: June 02, 2015
Jun 2, 2015
Jun 2, 2015 at 2:46 AM UTC
Radiantes días balanceados por el agua marina,
concentrados como el interior de una piedra amarilla
cuyo esplendor de miel no derribó el desorden:
preservó su pureza de rectángulo.
Crepita, sí, la hora como fuego o abejas
y es verde la tarea de sumergirse en hojas,
hasta que hacia la altura es el follaje
un mundo centelleante que se apaga y susurra.
Sed del fuego, abrasadora multitud del estío
que construye un Edén con unas cuantas hojas,
porque la tierra de rostro oscuro no quiere sufrimientos
sino frescura o fuego, agua o pan para todos,
y nada debería dividir a los hombres
sino el sol o la noche, la luna o las espigas.
311
Sufre más el que espera siempre
que aquel que nunca esperó a nadie?
Dónde termina el arco iris,
en tu alma o en el horizonte?
Tal vez una estrella invisible
será el cielo de los suicidas?
Dónde están las viñas de hierro
de donde cae el meteoro?
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