"xxiii" poems
I am a kind word uttered and repeated
By the voice of Nature;
I am a star fallen from the
Blue tent upon the green carpet.
I am the daughter of the elements
With whom Winter conceived;
To whom Spring gave birth; I was
Reared in the lap of Summer and I
Slept in the bed of Autumn.
At dawn I unite with the breeze
To announce the coming of light;
At eventide I join the birds
In bidding the light farewell.
The plains are decorated with
My beautiful colors, and the air
Is scented with my fragrance.
As I embrace Slumber the eyes of
Night watch over me, and as I
Awaken I stare at the sun, which is
The only eye of the day.
I drink dew for wine, and hearken to
The voices of the birds, and dance
To the rhythmic swaying of the grass.
I am the lover's gift; I am the wedding wreath;
I am the memory of a moment of happiness;
I am the last gift of the living to the dead;
I am a part of joy and a part of sorrow.
But I look up high to see only the light,
And never look down to see my shadow.
This is wisdom which man must learn.
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Dear ************
This is the hateful letter. This is the one in which I tell you how much of a ******** you are and how I am so much better off without you, so thanks for leaving me. It was the best thing that ever happened to me. This is where I tell you that you’re an idiot if you ever thought I depended on you for my self-worth, because I don’t need you for validation, and I never have. I was trucking along just fine before you came along, and will continue to do so without you, so you can go **** yourself.
This is the part where I call you a ******* for saying all those things you said. If you weren’t trying to hurt me, you must be an idiot to think that it was a good idea to say what you did. I’ll tell you that it ****** me off to realize that you obviously didn’t know me as well as I thought you did. It ****** me off that our communication was clearly not functioning like it should have been.
And I’ll tell you how ******* livid it makes me that you just sat there and thought and thought and ******* thought about this while I was still writing ******* poems for you. I am angry at how oblivious I was, which I also blame on you. I blame you for being so introspective and quiet, for needing to think important issues through in your head, only with yourself, before you can voice them, and I am angry because you thought and thought and ******* thought and made a decision that was logical from the inside of your head and you were confused by my reaction because, surprise! Owen’s-head-logic is not the same as Katie-is-being-broken-up-with-logic. And that’s where your speech faltered, where I stopped saying the lines that you wrote for me in your script, and that’s when all of those stupid words came tumbling out of your stupid head and things continued to not go as planned and it all eventually cumulated in this: zero contact. I know it’s not what you wanted but you’re a ******* If you were smarter about it, we may still have been talking, but you said all of the exact wrong things. So I am angry at you for hurting me with your idiotic words, but I am also angry at you for pushing me away. I may have liked to still be talking to you, but all of the **** that came out of your mouth just ruined whatever chance we could have had, so way to go. You are a ruiner - and so concludes the part where everything is always your fault.
This is the part where I understand where you’re coming from, I would have broken up with me too if I were you, I know it’s hard for you to put your words together sometimes, I know your (brutal) honesty only comes from a place of love, I know you love me, I know you miss being my friend…and so on.
That last section makes me sadder than I am willing to be at this point, so I think I’ll stick with anger for the time being and you can **** my nonexistent **** ************
Your Ex-Girlfriend.
Jun 22, 2010
Jun 22, 2010 at 6:33 PM UTC
XXIII
Methought I saw my late espousèd saint
Brought to me, like Alcestis, from the grave,
Whom Jove’s great son to her glad husband gave,
Rescued from death by force, though pale and faint.
Mine, as whom washed from spot of child-bed taint
Purification in the Old Law did save,
And such, as yet once more I trust to have
Full sight of her in Heav’n without restraint,
Came vested all in white, pure as her mind:
Her face was veiled, yet to my fancied sight
Love, sweetness, goodness, in her person shined
So clear, as in no face with more delight.
But O, as to embrace me she inclined,
I waked, she fled, and day brought back my night.
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XXIII
Is it indeed so? If I lay here dead,
Wouldst thou miss any life in losing mine?
And would the sun for thee more coldly shine
Because of grave-damps falling round my head?
I marvelled, my Beloved, when I read
Thy thought so in the letter. I am thine—
But . . . so much to thee? Can I pour thy wine
While my hands tremble ? Then my soul, instead
Of dreams of death, resumes life’s lower range.
Then, love me, Love! look on me—breathe on me!
As brighter ladies do not count it strange,
For love, to give up acres and degree,
I yield the grave for thy sake, and exchange
My near sweet view of Heaven, for earth with thee!
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I wait for Godot
He won’t show
This I know
The scene is between
A meme and me
What does that mean?
Do it now or don’t
Doesn’t matter if you won’t
It’s not known in the unknownt
Aug 11, 2018
Aug 11, 2018 at 10:26 PM UTC
XXIII. TO THE SON OF CRONOS, MOST HIGH (4 lines)
(ll. 1-3) I will sing of Zeus, chiefest among the gods and
greatest, all-seeing, the lord of all, the fulfiller who whispers
words of wisdom to Themis as she sits leaning towards him.
(l. 4) Be gracious, all-seeing Son of Cronos, most excellent and
great!
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Crows down in the park by the beach are eating McDonalds for breakfast. The dark hobo waves— just off the crib of a passing freight— to the curly haired boy/man with the dark rims framing white, soft face who walks by. This guy plays a part in the object obsession, sees the hobo and doesn't know what to do because the hobo is a regular bull artist—looks into eyes, says good morning and rambles on and on, so eyeglasses just flashes him the peace sign! and the hobo is gone—joins the crows to have some time with what remains. Forget about the poem you were writing in your head when you first saw them. They're Scavengers.
Oct 23, 2011
Oct 23, 2011 at 10:25 AM UTC
I
Again the larkspur,
Heavenly blue in my garden.
They, at least, unchanged.
II
How have I hurt you?
You look at me with pale eyes,
But these are my tears.
III
Morning and evening--
Yet for us once long ago
Was no division.
IV
I hear many words.
Set an hour when I may come
Or remain silent.
V
In the ghostly dawn
I write new words for your ears--
Even now you sleep.
VI
This then is morning.
Have you no comfort for me
Cold-colored flowers?
VII
My eyes are weary
Following you everywhere.
Short, oh short, the days!
VIII
When the flower falls
The leaf is no more cherished.
Every day I fear.
IX
Even when you smile
Sorrow is behind your eyes.
Pity me, therefore.
X
Laugh--it is nothing.
To others you may seem gay,
I watch with grieved eyes.
XI
Take it, this white rose.
Stems of roses do not bleed;
Your fingers are safe.
XII
As a river-wind
Hurling clouds at a bright moon,
So am I to you.
XIII
Watching the iris,
The faint and fragile petals--
How am I worthy?
XIV
Down a red river
I drift in a broken skiff.
Are you then so brave?
XV
Night lies beside me
Chaste and cold as a sharp sword.
It and I alone.
XVI
Last night it rained.
Now, in the desolate dawn,
Crying of blue jays.
XVII
Foolish so to grieve,
Autumn has its colored leaves--
But before they turn?
XVIII
Afterwards I think:
Poppies bloom when it thunders.
Is this not enough?
XIX
Love is a game--yes?
I think it is a drowning:
Black willows and stars.
**
When the aster fades
The creeper flaunts in crimson.
Always another!
XXI
Turning from the page,
Blind with a night of labor,
I hear morning crows.
XXII
A cloud of lilies,
Or else you walk before me.
Who could see clearly?
XXIII
Sweet smell of wet flowers
Over an evening garden.
Your portrait, perhaps?
XXIV
Staying in my room,
I thought of the new Spring leaves.
That day was happy.
Jul 17, 2015
Jul 17, 2015 at 4:20 AM UTC
No extrañéis, dulces amigos,
que esté mi frente arrugada:
yo vivo en paz con los hombres
y en guerra con mis entrañas.
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THE PUREST MOMENT OF PASSION,
MISPLACED THROUGH PROCESS OF LIFE,
BUT OUESTION ASKED BY ONLY ONE,
THREE OF THE MAKIN OF ONE,
THIS QUESTION OF ONE BELIVE IN ME, MAKES SON,
OF ME AN ALL THAT COME AFTER ME,
THE ESSENCE OF YOU AN BEAUTY,
A LIFE FOR ALL TO SEE,
AN EXAMPLE OF LOVE IN PEOPLE ,
A THING WE ALL WANT TO SEE,
MY BEAUTIFUL ANGELS THIS LOVE A GIFT FROM ME,
BUT NOTHING IN LIFE FORSAKEN,
THIS DREAM FROM ME TO YOU.
Mar 8, 2010
Mar 8, 2010 at 5:47 AM UTC
i am tired
of being tired
of being drained
drained of everything
that i have
and that i am
Dec 9, 2014
Dec 9, 2014 at 6:35 AM UTC
XXII.
because you spent years discovering different agonies and you've decided the worst is the constant the unchanging the one that has no end and no result because you can't escape
XXIII.
because deep down you know this is self care this sleeping this hiding this crying this writing because even if it hurts it's a change
XXIV.
because you thought you were invalid for even at your worst you couldn't help but think about getting better so maybe that wasn't the worst but you know now you always just thought of change be it good or bad
XXV.
because you really honestly truly and surely don't believe you can make the right decision about getting better or worse without help
XXVI.
because you haven't gotten better yet and that would be a change but you also haven't gotten to rock bottom yet and that would be a change
XXVI.
because you have to make a decision now
Dec 29, 2015
Dec 29, 2015 at 8:52 PM UTC
I've held on tight
Secure and safe
Yet it worries me
Inside protection
Danger lurks
What moves in darkness?
What silences the noises?
What gives fear its name?
Mar 1, 2010
Mar 1, 2010 at 5:28 PM UTC
"Sonnets From a Conversation With a Friend XXIII "
You theme you are the only one and crap
A conscious **** excreting mindflex mobile
Bone bag commercially impregnated
With a semblance of life called existence
Firmly pegged in this moments suffering
Or relief of suffering called happiness
By most swimmers in the we turbulent
Through cause and calmed through cause to each their own
Journey a needless needful thing of our
Humanity etcetera moving
So we must go no where or now here to
Be the undiscovered country glowing
Light forms solidifying matter forms
Melting cyclic wonderment of what's this
Apr 7, 2018
Apr 7, 2018 at 1:44 AM UTC
Such a conundrum,
severe desperation for sleep,
but I'm a word zealot.
As the moon increases altitude,
the pen flows,
freely.
Two a.m. when,
I'm ****** and sufficiently lubricated,
near delusional,
from three days lack of sleep.
I ***** ink and emotion on a page,
it solidifies,
I'm ******* King Midas!
That's when the magic happens... Sometimes.
I wake up on the floor in a,
putrid puddle.
No evidence of effort,
save an ink stained rug and,
cigarette butts.
Most times it's just ****
Apr 12, 2015
Apr 12, 2015 at 12:10 AM UTC
It is easier for a father to have children than for children to have a real father. – Pope John XXIII
Jun 18, 2017
Jun 18, 2017 at 7:47 AM UTC
☯
oh, you fallen thing;
please just hang the world up in
the closet and heal.
Sep 23, 2019
Sep 23, 2019 at 2:18 AM UTC
pixel dust
goats anima grazing thru fields of silicon
the waterfall particle effect bewitched me
virtual idyllic
Jan 30, 2016
Jan 30, 2016 at 1:43 AM UTC
dear quinn,
a magic eight ball
will never
tell you how
to be okay.
love,
quinn
Apr 4, 2020
Apr 4, 2020 at 1:00 AM UTC
XXIII
The clear light of dawn may never be seen.
Just another moonless, silent night, and yet-
The voices of the ocean waves gently recede…
The engines cease, and escaping steam
Clouds the still air. The ship is but a silhouette.
The clear light of dawn may never be seen.
A soft noise, maybe like marbles rolling. Sixteen,
Or so. Just a few. It will be easy to forget.
The voices of the ocean waves gently recede…
Through an open porthole crashes ice, falling between
The cracks of the sea, all too soon met-
The clear light of dawn may never be seen.
It was like breaking glass. Glass, that careens
Into the places in our souls where we sing laments.
The voices of the ocean waves gently recede…
Sleep, children, sleep, for this will all be a dream-
Far from now, where cool breezes will thee abet…
The clear light of dawn may never be seen;
The voices of the ocean waves gently recede…
May 6, 2017
May 6, 2017 at 7:48 PM UTC
De lo que en tu vida entera
nunca debes hacer caso:
La fisga de un envidioso,
el insulto de un borracho,
el bofetón de un cualquiera
y la patada de un asno.
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