"yeoman" poems
ken not the
vive la différence!
entre les deux,
these two bed and head chambers,
for all poets are seducers,
regardless of *** race, creed or color
when first we employ our working, yeoman vocabulary,
we plain start,
to relate but not to regale,
the whom we are,
hoping our moments unique,
will breach the boundaries
of our collective commonality connectivity,
and find human receptivity
thus, the seduction of self commences
though every possible combination of words has somewhere been inscribed and committed, we ****** ourselves
(the seduction of poetry)
with potions of notions that we are and always be our
first, and now soon forever,
yours as well
of course, we are, it's true,
our very own first admirer & lover,
having conquered the hillock of self,
see the universe expanding and the
****** need to conceive
and prowess to please
beyond the beyond with
the poetry of seduction
do not want your body, heart or soul,
commitment, allegiance, vows,
sacred or profane,
all such in vain
crave your everything,
not even a legal nine-tenths satisfactory
dare not call me arrogant or presumptive,
gaze upon the mirror that cannot lie,
rereading thy words assemblage,
and deny to lie to yourself
want you, you want me,
my adoration,
we want to be in
a poem together,
lovers at the molecular level
where words dissected into letters, then again,
into guttural sounds where a simple outcry is an elegy,
a love poem, a wound, a denouement, a preface, a tear,
a welling, a heaving, a sigh, an exhalation, all,
an entrance to where the need for words
is long since past
the sin and crown of seduction completed,
unanimously
now breathe out
and then,
breathe in
Jul 3, 2017
Jul 3, 2017 at 3:54 PM UTC
Here Kitty, Kitty,, called aloud the man~relaxing in his Lounge chair~while sipping a Slightly-Sugared Iced tea. Here Kitty, Kitty,,He continued to call~wondering where the curious cat~might have have made off to~THIS TIME.. Perhaps to the New neighbors~where boxes of all shapes and colors~were carefully~Disarrayed in the back yard~Just waiting for the curious... Not getting any response from Kitty~the Man decided to PEER over ~the Neighborhood Alignment Fence~and Sure enough~There was Kitty! Kitty was Springing~Up and Down~Like a YO-YO and Jumping from Box to Box. Curiosity is an Amazing thing~Isn't it? The Man seemed to be caught in a Trance~As he watched Kitty~continue to jump and YO-YO ! What could be in those boxes?~that held such fascination? Was it a Creepy-crawler~a Slimy-Slitherer~a Wise-Wiggler~a Dashing-Dancer~an Awful-Awesome~a Yelping-Yeoman~an Energized-Egrit~an Ugly-Duckling~a Fast Frog~a Gorgeous-Gargantula~a Social Secret~a Horrible-hulk'a Raspy-Rascal~an Insensitive-Iguana~a Jumping-Jackal ? OR , was it simply the color of the Boxes ? Look at that Curios Kitty~Jumping and Jumping and Jumping ! SUDDENLY___the Man~Totally overcome by ~Lady Curiosity~Bounded over the Alignment Fence~Dashed Promptly to the Boxes~Scattering them all over the Yard~Trying to Discover ~ "THE SOURCE" .. Only ONE box remained ~after opening~All the Others! NOW he would find the ANSWER! He carefully approached the LAST BOX~Gently pulled it closer~looking for a way to Open~------- Lifting Lid carefully~Slowly~KITTY~came Bounding out~All claws~digging and clinging to His chest~Was that FEAR_~~__HE SAW in KITTY'S eyes?___ "AS His ALARM-CLOCK ,, Screamed out to Him___"AWAKEN______
Jun 15, 2011
Jun 15, 2011 at 4:15 AM UTC
crisp atmosphere, special ordered
for perfect pumpkin patching, apple picking,
stout sweaters all, a blueish autumnal sky,
orange 'n red leaves delivered on time
the old uber-man-grand-pa,
hired as a day driver,
saddles them up,
three generations all tucked in a
repeating mise en scène
a replay of some thirty years earlier,
when the now-father
was about the same age,
as his boy, three years aged
and yet so impatient
asking the same question
his father perfected,
in the same sweet voice,
at about the same time,
in the same way,
a little voice from deep in
the cavernous back seat,
sighing, squeaking with an
I've-seen-it-all ennui,
some mere five minutes into
the hour's plus journey
to the 'country' bound
"are we there yet?"
titters 'n snickers from assorted adults,
but grandpa weeps words with composition instant,
so many answers to such an important question,
so serious that an admission, confession
required, due you,
grandpa still asks the same question
every day of his life
it's Sunday and longish poems per Yeoman,
strictly verboten,
God knows there's an essay unwritten
as the answer, a symphonette with
a thousand opus, by-your-command repertoire,
a pumpkin for every patch,
some answers that even may be a
young prince's carriage in hiding
but for now let this suffice,
sometimes yes, sometimes no,
and sometimes, the goal line just goes and moves on ya
so with utmost seriousness
a purposed thoughtfulness proposed,
posing said inquiry knows no age limitation,
if you have not asked of yourself this day,
"are we there yet?”
then the answer is surely,
not yet
Oct 16, 2016
Oct 16, 2016 at 5:14 PM UTC
When smoke stood up from Ludlow,
And mist blew off from Teme,
And blithe afield to ploughing
Against the morning beam
I strode beside my team,
The blackbird in the coppice
Looked out to see me stride,
And hearkened as I whistled
The trampling team beside,
And fluted and replied:
"Lie down, lie down, young yeoman;
What use to rise and rise?
Rise man a thousand mornings
Yet down at last he lies,
And then the man is wise."
I heard the tune he sang me,
And spied his yellow bill;
I picked a stone and aimed it
And threw it with a will:
Then the bird was still.
Then my soul within me
Took up the blackbird's strain,
And still beside the horses
Along the dewy lane
It sang the song again:
"Lie down, lie down, young yeoman;
The sun moves always west;
The road one treads to labour
Will lead one home to rest,
And that will be the best."
2.5k
Where buses still elapse with Time
Down straight Dame Street
The Trees are satellites that allow Children to look up
and let the pavement breath.
Earthen Columns that gate the Boombox Clubhouse tint
Flanked by the Yeoman Guards of Hollister
but forget to pay the same compliment
outside of American Apparel
Where Teenagers dream out fantasies
of lamp-lit, flash-shot
worship-worthy objectification
in a converted loft in the real New York
Their headphones spring streams of bright optimism
as they cradle knitted knee-high socks.
Take the curve round Trinity College
and laugh past the rumours
that it may soon float on Dow Jones
and dodge past the charity advertisers
Strutting over campbags of sleeping homeless
to Lemon Cafe for an overpriced Mocha
Which regardless deflates the sheen-covered hollowness
of green-comfy Starbucks
and learn the subtleties of speaking lightly
to dark-jaceketed Blonde girls
Whose eyes seem to sparkle "Yes, we have sipped
on Veuve Clicquot at reserved tables on Graduation nights
at Cafe En Seine"
-"Where Oscar Wilde might have drank"
- "..Had he been alive."
Then speculate on the best Festivals and whose
Films and Books are over-hyped and under-appreciated
and the after-College Gossip on who broke-up or stayed together
or who hooked up even though they shouldn't have
or regretted it
and who's doing a paid internship and who's moving abroad
and afterwards charmingly tease their superficial attitudes
as meanwhile they secretly take photos
to upload on Instagram
and later you'll fake-admonish them
for how they did this behind your back
while you were staring into the lake
in St. Stephen's Green.
When the moon no longer glazed the water
and had receded its contrast to the farthest grass
and you decide to take the last bus home.
Throughout
Caution Glints The Vowels
and Brands them too.
May 16, 2014
May 16, 2014 at 10:11 AM UTC
On Wenlock Edge the wood's in trouble;
His forest fleece the Wrekin heaves;
The gale, it plies the saplings double,
And thick on Severn snow the leaves.
'Twould blow like this through holt and hanger
When Uricon the city stood:
'Tis the old wind in the old anger,
But then it threshed another wood.
Then, 'twas before my time, the Roman
At yonder heaving hill would stare:
The blood that warms an English yeoman,
The thoughts that hurt him, they were there.
There, like the wind through woods in riot,
Through him the gale of life blew high;
The tree of man was never quiet:
Then 'twas the Roman, now 'tis I.
The gale, it plies the saplings double,
It blows so hard, 'twill soon be gone:
To-day the Roman and his trouble
Are ashes under Uricon.
2.4k
(Dedicated to Stephen E Yocum)
You who have spent time on this planet,
That you can count your annual growth rings,
By just employing a combination of
Fingers, toes, eyes and nose,
Stop and think, after reading on.
Forty years on, what are the words, the titles,
The honorifics that you would like to see
Next to your name?
There is a yeoman Yocum in our midst,
Who has collected a few adjectives,
The sum total if additive,
Is a resume most complete,
One you should envy!
Able Friend,
Lover of Dogs and Humans,
Gentleman Farmer, Decent Photographer,
Spinner of tall tales, woven for his
Grandchildren.
A writer, a poet,
He says "a would be,"
I say, one who attempts,
Puts his name on writs public,
Is no would-be!
Who here would dare disagree?
More than all this, unlike so many,
Grateful for everyday of life,
Even those ****** full of strife,
And who served, a grunt,
One of the proud, the few.
I salute, you, and call out,
Attention Poets, Marine On Deck!
But no stuffed shirt ,
A man of soil and earth,
Who can laugh at himself, and write,
*"My driving experience feel greater,
Would be to speed down the road,
Behind the wheel of my little Red Racer,
Completely **** naked,
And of course,
Feel the wind in my hair."*
It is easy to be some things.
It is hard to be many things,
But it is the hardest, and the best,
When you look back,
And laugh out loud, admit,
The funniest thing you know,
The one that keeps you sane,
The one-thing, hardest, and the best,
Is to laugh at yourself.
So stand attention,
Go to the mirror,
Tho you might not like what you see,
If you focus, and really look tight, squint,
Do not be surprised,
If, in a few minutes,
You burst out laughing,
Especially if you do it in your
Birthday suit!
Maintain this perspective,
Forward and retroactive,
And then perhaps,
You will be able to write
These words...like he did!
*Where upon, sheer elated emotions,
Of this my journey of self discovery,
Began to sink in and I started to cry.
There are times is one's life,
when lessons are taught,
When almost no words
need to be spoken.
And the best teacher's are
our own Brain and Heart,
Comprehending, embracing
Life's many shared Lessons.*
Marine Slocum, Stand at Attention!
There are Poets saluting you.
Sep 5, 2013
Sep 5, 2013 at 9:24 PM UTC
On Wenlock Edge the wood's in trouble;
His forest fleece the Wrekin heaves;
The gale, it plies the saplings double,
And thick on Severn snow the leaves.
'Twould blow like this through holt and hanger
When Uricon the city stood;
'Tis the old wind in the old anger,
But then it threshed another wood.
Then, 'twas before my time, the Roman
At yonder heaving hill would stare;
The blood that warms an English yeoman,
The thoughts that hurt him, they were there.
There, like the wind through woods in riot,
Through him the gale of life blew high;
The tree of man was never quiet:
Then 'twas the Roman, now 'tis I.
The gale, it plies the saplings double,
It blows so hard, 'twill soon be gone:
Today the Roman and his trouble
Are ashes under Uricon.
1.6k
As I was a child,
Unlike the normal mass.
I wanted to be the nightingale
The best in class.
A habit I planted,
In the Garden of Eden.
Watered by the grief of my past,
As it grew taller, the fruit sweetened.
I had sinned,
Profited from competition’s demise.
Stole his talent,
Grew in age but not that wise.
What enables, divine
What disables, human.
Got out of luck and empathy,
In apathy, like an ungrateful yeoman.
Couldn't wash the mirror,
Need to wash my face.
Blinded by my addiction of fame,
Embryonic, falling from the summit in rage.
Now I am a pavement artist,
Pride and sin hath a fall.
Living with and like stray,
Failing my life as the nature called.
May 14, 2015
May 14, 2015 at 12:31 AM UTC
God took my soul
This morning.
In the poet's nook,
Ye old adirondacke chair, turned about face!
My back to the bay,
In order to feel the early morn sun kisses
Excavate the approaching fall chills.
I don't possess any more the skills,
Making images, that take your breath away.
All my poetry plain spoke, another trademark.
Simple verse what I feel, what I see,
What I know,
Like Jason sings,
Almost out of words.
So the sun rays enveloped,
Speaking in tones dulcet,
Thru them into my pores,
He spoke, a song for the soul,
Is simple words, just like mine,
Oil and spices of passing over,
They, his troupe, poured,
Cinnamon and myrrh, oil of balsam,
Upon my tired head.
*Child of mine,
Needy for you,
Needy for a poet
To sit besides my throne,
On my right,
In need for someone who sees
Just like me, the extraordinary,
In the everyday things that populate
The earth, the kindness of loving,
The planets, the loving of kindness.
You, yeoman job done and done.
Poems drip from your eyes,
Glory, Glory, Glory,
To man to woman, their
Shapes unique, their foibles, amusing,
Understanding that the pieces
Do all fit.
Needy for your-perspective to give to
Another.
It's time,
Close your eyes,
For your journey,
To new places,
Where you will lyre us, we-who await you,
Our daily poet-writer.
Your love is now
Our responsibility.
Your responsibilities, now
Our love to tend.
Just bring alone those
Pocket tissues, used and new,
That you always carry,
To wipe the tears yet to arrive,
And the ones you shed,
Even now,
As we begin
All over again.*
~~~
8:36am
August 24 2013
Aug 24, 2013
Aug 24, 2013 at 8:45 AM UTC
“This Insubstantial Pageant Faded”
(spoke by Prospero, The Tempest, by W. Shakespeare)^
<>
Our words are all actors,
a long run, run its course,
our long playing record,
scratched, love~worn to
worn out extremity, yet
yeoman service did offer,
extreme only in magical
transforming plain sight
into visions, a legacy,
bent gray, tarnished by
weary wearing aging,
their brief sparks now
but reclamation flares of
burst lights of waning days
in short lived tastings of what
was and can be nevermore
everyone’s magic has its preset
timed timing, and with
every day, each a concentric
ring marked and hallowed,
a heartbeat ring narrower
than its predecessor,
a shallower hollow,
a fair represent of both
all that came our way, and that
we resent with no resentment
into a cloud capped atmosphere
for all to ****** from a flailing,
flying breeze, their brief gleam,
multiplying, thus envisaging,
illuminating the manuscript of our
hinted future forward’s next percept
*
“And like this insubstantial pageant faded
Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff
As dreams are made on, and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep”*^
Mar 2, 2024
Mar 2, 2024 at 8:23 AM UTC
There we stood, resplendent, in our articles of war
daring for a moment to forget the matters core--
that death and dying looming, like mountains in the night,
would be the grim reward for those who'd dared to fight.
The British expedition, in that humid august air,
would hoist the recognition of mankind's new despair;
the wave of Schlieffen's reckoning had broken us that day
and the yeoman of Agincourt had come and gone away.
We fought and bled and fought and died a day or two at Mons,
but soon retreat was sounded, a melody to pawns.
French soil stained in English blood and washed in English tears
then tilled by German cannons for four more ********* years
was less the blessing we first conceived, that bitter, deafening fall,
so late in 1914, when the Great War came to call.
The salient crumbled, frailly; a grave portent it seemed,
soon would come the Somme, Verdun, and horrors never dreamed.
Mar 21, 2010
Mar 21, 2010 at 8:40 PM UTC
there is a poem lurking
in me tonight,
accompanying me from nighttime
into the muddled currents of the wee hours,
awaiting for an ending
of this, this vigil,
or perhaps,
ejection from the birth canal
where and whence, it irritangly demands, is
my commencement,
the origination of its peculiar species,
to eternalize it,
tattoo a unique number
upon its wrist
in a ledger of words
they sent me a message that the
DedPoet is in deed
dead, gone, cremated
but that is not the poem
stalking me
right now
for now
vanilla numbing of the heart,
sadness that this fellow runner
of my human-writing race
is no more upon the track
but that is not the poem
talking to me
right now
every flutter of eyelash
is a line,
a forgotten fragmented verse,
a lost and gone forever Clementine,
even before the thought completed
numerous sun ray titles flash
but few are caught,
though all glimpsed in dazzled shining glory
the hook, line and sinker,
themselves, yeoman poets all,
have nothing to show
oh woe is me,
oh woe is me
there is a poem lurking
in my chest
yearning to be free
by being created
I know it not yet
in any form recognizable,
so well as it knows me
from our shared womb,
now torn
5:08 am
Sept. 30, 2015
Sep 30, 2015
Sep 30, 2015 at 5:22 AM UTC
with apologies to WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
(from Henry V, spoken by King Henry)
Once more to the table, dear friends, once more;
Or close up our hungry mouths with supermarket staples.
In peace there's nothing so becomes a man
As modest stillness and humility:
But when the blast of hunger blows in our ears,
Then imitate the action of the tiger;
Cut fine the sinews, simmer up the blood,
Disguise cheaper meats with hard-favour'd sage;
Then lend the stirring spoon a terrible aspect;
Let pry through the portage of the foccacia bread
Like the brass cannon; let the garlic o'erwhelm it
As fearfully as doth a galled onion
O'erhang and jutty his confounded tomato base,
Swill'd with a wild and wasteful Cabernet Savignon.
Now set the teeth and stretch the nostril wide,
Hold hard the breath and bend up every spirit
To his full height. On, on, you noblest English.
Whose ragu is fet from Nonna's fail proof recipe!
Nonna's that, like so many Stephanie Alexanders,
Have in these parts from morn till even, baked
And brewed their sauces and stews, for lack of argument:
Dishonour not your mothers; now attest...
That those whom you call'd mothers did feed you well
Be copy now to men of larger appetites
And teach them how to eat.
And you, good yeoman,
Whose limbs were made in England, show us here
The mettle of your belt; let us swear
That you are worth your breeding; which I doubt not;
For there is none of you so hungry,
That hath not noble lustre in your eyes.
I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips,
Straining upon the start. The game's afoot:
Follow your spirit, and upon this charge
Cry 'God for Harry, England, and Saint George!'
Apr 3, 2016
Apr 3, 2016 at 1:30 AM UTC
What heroes from the woodland sprung,
When, through the fresh awakened land,
The thrilling cry of freedom rung,
And to the work of warfare strung
The yeoman's iron hand!
Hills flung the cry to hills around,
And ocean-mart replied to mart,
And streams whose springs were yet unfound,
Pealed far away the startling sound
Into the forest's heart.
Then marched the brave from rocky steep,
From mountain river swift and cold;
The borders of the stormy deep,
The vales where gathered waters sleep,
Sent up the strong and bold,--
As if the very earth again
Grew quick with God's creating breath,
And, from the sods of grove and glen,
Rose ranks of lion-hearted men
To battle to the death.
The wife, whose babe first smiled that day,
The fair fond bride of yestereve,
And aged sire and matron gray,
Saw the loved warriors haste away,
And deemed it sin to grieve.
Already had the strife begun;
Already blood on Concord's plain
Along the springing grass had run,
And blood had flowed at Lexington,
Like brooks of April rain.
That death-stain on the vernal sward
Hallowed to freedom all the shore;
In fragments fell the yoke abhorred--
The footstep of a foreign lord
Profaned the soil no more.
841
The Night Table
The night table, the night stand,
Too small for all it must yeoman hold,
Something keeps falling down
Lamp, bottle of water, a single tissue, partially used, a clean corner held in abeyance for future tears when poetry writing, writing tablet for when the impulsion strikes, lamp that goes on n' off when it so chooses, a straw-woven coffee cup thing to keep off the stains of liquid time, a watch that tells you the time only when it is falling over on the way down to hit the ground, a picture frame of mother and child from thirty years ago...
if there was more room,
this list would be longer
but I already told ya,
this night table is just too **** small
which was told to you twenty years
when you bot two of them!
Re-decorate, she replies
A single word
that strikes
terror
In the heart of a
grown man.
Good thing I am still a kid
And don't any need any of those grown-up things
Listed above.
Keep those night tables babe,
Perfectly serviceable and a metaphor
For two kids like us,
Cuddling in the bed those night table stand astride,
Guardians of the place where we tell each other tales
of twenty years ago...
(I told ya they were too small)
June 1
6:54 AM
Jun 1, 2013
Jun 1, 2013 at 6:58 AM UTC
Never understood
How to write a full
Sentence,
But did figure out
How to put down
Random silly syllables
In just a minute,
Never figured out
How to play the flute,
But i did learn how
To pick fruit,
Caught a cricket
Never understood
The game cricket,
To my dearest
Never meant to make you
Cry or break your spirit...
That was my younger self,
I've grown and have learned
New ways to carry myself,
I know you'll never rest your
Eyes on this...
This being a poem i wrote
Well
More typed on my phone
While you was in the back
Of my dome,
I know I'll never aton
For the actions i have sewn,
Just know my shoes
I walked in
holding your hands
I've out grown,
I have became a different
man,
I'm sorry for not telling you
That ever time i looked
In your eyes i drowned,
They where so blue they
would remind a pirate
Why he loves the ocean,
That Sunday nothing
but loud lust moaning
this Sunday nothing
but silence,
I do regret the
choices I have chosen,
I'll end it there
For my memories
found a way
through the catacombs,
But my bowman took them
Out thank goodness,
He who took the shoot
Shall be my
yeoman,
Honor killed the Shogun
Snowman left in the snow
Was abandoned,
Young girls heart was stolen,
So much stress took a
Nap fell asleep on
the cushion,
I'm living the life of a
foreigner,
Cant understand no one
Working for a dollar
Selling my so called freedom,
Thinking of home..
Falling in love with a woman
Often,
Fortune lady try to tell me my fortune i said
" no thanks for you
can not tell me my own future"
If you did it would
just be a rumor,
Woke up late cause the
Cougar killed the rooster,
Didn't see it so i guess that
Makes me the accuser,
Gotta find it put her in
The scope and remover,
But if a shark did it
I guess I'll have to harpooner,
Get blood on my carpet
I'll have to shampooer,
Either way I'll have to
**** the evildoer,
But probably offer her
A job and interviewer,
Fall in love and Honeymooner,
Find a cloning factory and
reproducer,
But i got a better manoeuvre,
I'll go to church
and scream Hallelujah,
Hopefully that'll be one
Step closer to get the doors
To heaven to open,
Dose this count as a poem??
Sep 1, 2016
Sep 1, 2016 at 12:24 AM UTC
The moans and screams of dying men;
a scene and sound surreal.
The flower of French Chivalry
cut down by English steel.
English Harry has won this day
on this wet and muddy ground.
So many high born men laid low,
but I am still around.
It was my blood that ransomed me
when others’ blood was shed.
I am the Duke of Orleans.
A poet, some have said.
In the aftermath of battle;
wounded, left to bleed.
Sir Richard Waller found me
and attended to my needs.
So today I am his prisoner,
we’ll become friends in time.
Now I am bound for England
as a “guest” of the English crown.
We’d had the numbers and the strength
to bring proud Henry down.
His Yeoman archers turned the tide
on this awful muddy ground.
Beset by woods on either flank
No room to strike or move.
It was our Constables’ worst mistake
and the last, as time would prove
Like a dark and deadly rain they fell
out of a clear blue sky.
Here on the field of Agincourt
where Princes came to die.
Jun 18, 2014
Jun 18, 2014 at 8:01 PM UTC
Our relationship belongs to the press.
The word has been out for a week now,
along with a sex-tape
and my drunken messages
from a sleepless hotel room.
They captured your good side. From behind.
You know that I always loved you in blue,
collarbones on the mantelpiece
and toenails painted with
the colour to match your moods.
I heard you crashed your car in a bunker
as you were documenting loss in Gaza.
The rockets flew overhead
as you were carried, pearl through dirt
into a white-skinned hospital bed.
I denounced my royalty by text message.
I blu-tacked a passport picture on the Queen's
vanity mirror, and took a ****
in the Yeoman's shoe.
We slipped out at night to blind cameras.
Our relationship belongs to the state.
The bills have been due for a week now,
along with better luck
and a wine glass full
of whatever will suit your taste.
Sep 4, 2014
Sep 4, 2014 at 6:22 PM UTC
Rousseau lingers in the souls of lethargy. "I know
that [civilized men] do nothing but boast incessantly
of the peace and repose they enjoy in their chains..."
Efficiency is a masquerade for same old,
same old; undaunted herds recycle cud,
new food demands passion.
Allegories of independent thought
paint extravagant ethereal world portraits
in many shades of one color.
Legends are born in feebleness - dilitary hammers
riddle red cap gun ribbons sparking
outrage insufficient enough to make a statement
Let them cry muted cries
in one act plays to empty seats, as they
preen unripe scabs to detour unresolved issues
Yearning is vacant, yea, absent, as an
occasional yeoman's hail song is heard
in the distance milking a lily for a reason to go on
?s are the only things that exist
in reality. No one knows who they are
in the bell tower...they simply ring the bell.
Apr 30, 2014
Apr 30, 2014 at 11:21 PM UTC
I am not your farmer
The fruits I grow are wild
So if you think that you're an angel
And your eyes fall on my yield,
If you judge it to be short
Know my ways are fine and natural
I am not a yeoman
I look more
Like a nomad
Aug 12, 2021
Aug 12, 2021 at 2:26 AM UTC
Take to the skies, your leader dreams, limit the attitudes
That weigh you down for, remember, punishment is grounding
On what stone you find purchase,
Know your head may float on−
Anything you want today figures in dollars and sense,
For crimes unknown between me and Adam,
Anything you want tomorrow, by God, is recompense;
Till the earth from whence you came−
Sanity and health are luxuries to the virtual yeoman
Who wishes day after day to see those legs rise,
One after the other, fancies of make−believe clash with
Laws of take−believe, of grit and wealth−
They say, live happy, make your destination,
Your goals, your strength, your perseverance
To really think success off
The table of what you can achieve
And place more stock in the invisible hands that
Usher a wretch like me−
Teamwork, the qualitative change needed to quit a pride
No words can succeed to encase,
Focuses its hatred when given positive chance
(But never can quite dull the edge of self−worth)
Your victories today are given answer: limit
Love to fullest soar, my actions, my purpose
Of leader−effort greatly cherish
What all the Haves deem mine−
Let not sin color your pay,
For they know best; slaves dare not reach
Beyond what they imagine we celebrate
Strung aligned by ebbs and flows
Of mankind’s cold regard
And, in humbled separation, find we move together−
This life we do determine to be endlessly new,
110% unreal work, supernatural labor,
Why wait for the ineffable dreams, the !!! dreams,
When they are nothing but a hurtful difference,
Hard to give up, hard to ring true−
Every person, me, you, suffice, surfeit on discipline,
Put, now, what priorities they’ve found better
Toward the hard line of the bottom,
The earth, quick with clouds pitch
Cooling the heads as the cores explode
Every winter, a winner opportunity
As raging ice and hellfire forests
Dot the mountains called I−
The successful follow those who’ve achieve
Those leader dreams, the calmly rational, the spoken articulate
To its first day of life after disaster−
I’m doing time, wasting mine at the boss’ door:
Expect to keep your passions in the heart,
And off those tired, sordid fingertips.
Sep 29, 2019
Sep 29, 2019 at 12:17 PM UTC