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Oscar Wilde
Theocritus—A Villanelle
O singer of Persephone!
In the dim meadows desolate
Dost thou remember Sicily?

Still through the ivy flits the bee
Where Amaryllis lies in state;
O Singer of Persephone!

Simaetha calls on Hecate
And hears the wild dogs at the gate;
Dost thou remember Sicily?

Still by the light and laughing sea
Poor Polypheme bemoans his fate;
O Singer of Persephone!

And still in boyish rivalry
Young Daphnis challenges his mate;
Dost thou remember Sicily?

Slim Lacon keeps a goat for thee,
For thee the jocund shepherds wait;
O Singer of Persephone!
Dost thou remember Sicily?
Continue reading...
Alexander K Opicho Sep 2014
Moi's Life is Birth Days of Dictatorship
God has enabled you to live long
Up to the rare  age of ninety years
Not as a blessing to you whatsoever
But as a curse of Knowledge,
For you to realize the evils you did
During your reign of terror,
when you were Kenya's  president .

You misruled Kenya for twenty four years
Clinging to power like **** on lion *****,
You plunged the country into abyss of poverty,
You established torture chambers
And gave priority to prisons,
Special branch police and detention  camps,
You planted tribalism with passion
Favouring your Kalenjin tribes,
Inspiring them with the spirit of sadism,
That fuelled assassination and public fear,
Daniel Moi your ninety years are birthdays,
Of nothing else but tyranny and dictatorship.

You walked with government money in your bag,
You used tax payers money to cement corruption
You often behaved as a duffer, but a rigging expert,
You suffocated all government organs,
For you to remain a strong man of power
Your  horsemen were villains of villains,
To make you think that one tribe is special enough,
To enjoy political favour in their maximum stupidity,
You condemned Kenya to linger amid despair and mire
With your useless Nyayo philosophy,
That was self-suspicious and derisive to reason,
Making Universities submissive to KANU,
Your Political part that was a mere terror wing,
Chaired by Ezekiel Barangetuny the illiterate,
Who called Karl Marx as Karo Mariko,
He thought that presidential dialogue is food,
Expensive food sold by Kikuyus in Nairobi Hotel,
Your chief aim was to suffocate education,
Campaigning for villages polytechnics,
While you are  a heavyweight torturer of Dons
You; Moi , your name is a curse and public earache.

Daniel Branch of Warwick bemoans you dearly,
in his oeuvre of Hope and Despair for Kenyan people,
He often cites;You shot Robert Ouko the first Bullet,
In the head before you plugged out his eyes,
You ignored his cry for forgiveness and mercy,
Then you dumped his cadaver in the Ahero forest,
For it to be eaten by hyenas, black ants and scorpions

It is epical knowledge  among Kenyans,
But at most the people of Trans Nzoia and Bungoma
That when Masinde Muliro died in the plane
The King's Horseman was around, in the plane
Wielding ammonium gun in his pocket.

Charles Rubia and Matiba Kenneth were unlucky,
They both went mad while in the torture chamber,
Koigi wa Wamwere aged while in Kamiti  prison,
Raila Odinga lost his daer testicles while detained,
You punctured his left eye, he always mobs dears,
Every minute and second, and i am sure you Moi
You can't regret and feel for him, if he was your son?
Your horsemen thoroughly flogged Wangare Mathai
the Nobel Laureate,she won the Prize for nothing,
Other than her successful staving of  the pains
From the ferocious whips by your Kalenjin police,
You jailed and jailed people in Kamiti and Manyan
As if your were possessed by the devil of imprisoning
Or may  be you were possessed, were you ?

You fuelled the tribal clashes in Molo,
You motivated Sabaoits to **** the Bukusu,
You chased teachers of Kisii,Luhyia and Luo tribes
From your village of Baringo,where people starve
for no other reason that was genuine and patriotic
But out of your urge of ethnic sadism.

you made us to sing lame poems;
Jogoo !  Nyayo!Jogoo !  Nyayo!
Jogoo !  Nyayo!Jogoo !  Nyayo!
Jogoo !  Nyayo!Jogoo !  Nyayo!
think about , what were we saying?

You owe apology to the people of Kenya
and all others in the diaspora,
For  the stark misrule and reign of tyranny
You perpetrated on them for two decades,
Your ninety years of life are not a blessing,
But God's timing for you to contrite
To repent and repent  your heinous sins,
I personally wish you not  happy birth day
But humanity wants you  to apologize ,
To those  unhappy families and communities
That you detained and killed their kins.
Advise to Daniel Moi on his 90th birth day
Continue reading...
Ambrose Gwinett Bierce
O Intelligence Moving The Third Heaven
O Intelligences moving the third heaven,
the reasons heed that from my heart come forth,
so new, it seems, that no one else should know.
The heaven set in motion by your worth,
beings in gentleness created even,
keeps my existence in its present woe,
so that to speak of what I feel and know
means to converse most worthily with you:
I beg you, then, to listen to me well.
Of something in me new I now will tell—
how grief and sadness this my soul subdue,
and how a contradiction from afar
speaks through the rays descending from your star.

A thought of loveliness seems now to be
life to my ailing heart: it used to fly
oft to the very presence of your Sire;
and there a glorious Lady sitting high
it also saw, who spoke so pleasingly,
my soul would say “Up there dwells my desire.”
Now one appears, which I in dread admire
a mighty lord that makes it flee away,
so mighty, terror from my heart outflows.
To me he brings a lady very close,
and “Who salvation seeks,” I hear him say,
“let him but gaze into this lady’s eyes,
if he can suffer agony of sighs.”

Such is the contradiction, it can slay
the humble thought that is still telling me
of a fair angel up in heaven crowned.
My soul bemoans its present misery,
saying, “Unhappy me! How fast away
went he, in whom I had some solace found!”
And of my eyes it says, with mournful sound,
“When was it such a lady pierced their sight?
Why did they fail to see me in her guise?
I said, ‘Oh, surely, in this lady’s eyes
the one must dwell who kills my peers with fright.’
To no avail I warned them (Oh, my dread!),
but look at her they did, and I fell dead.”

“Oh, no, not dead, you are bewildered much,
O my poor soul, so pained and grieving so,”
replies a loving spirit, kind and sweet,
“For the fair woman, that you feel and know,
has changed your life so quickly and so much,
you now are trembling in your vile defeat.
Look how humility and mercy meet
in one so wise and gentle in her height:
so call her Lady, as by now you must.
And you will see, if steadfast is your trust,
such lofty miracles, such full delight,
you’ll say, ‘O Love, true lord, do as you please:
here is your humble handmaid on her knees.’”

My song, I do believe that those are few
who can unravel your most hidden sense,
so intricate and mighty is your wit.
Therefore, if by some fate or circumstance
you stray and venture among people who
seem not completely to have fathomed it,
oh, then, I pray, console yourself a bit,
and say, O lovely latest song, to them,
“Notice, at least, how beautiful I am!”
Continue reading...
Dante Alighieri
O Intelligence Moving The Third Heaven
O Intelligences moving the third heaven,
the reasons heed that from my heart come forth,
so new, it seems, that no one else should know.
The heaven set in motion by your worth,
beings in gentleness created even,
keeps my existence in its present woe,
so that to speak of what I feel and know
means to converse most worthily with you:
I beg you, then, to listen to me well.
Of something in me new I now will tell—
how grief and sadness this my soul subdue,
and how a contradiction from afar
speaks through the rays descending from your star.

A thought of loveliness seems now to be
life to my ailing heart: it used to fly
oft to the very presence of your Sire;
and there a glorious Lady sitting high
it also saw, who spoke so pleasingly,
my soul would say “Up there dwells my desire.”
Now one appears, which I in dread admire
a mighty lord that makes it flee away,
so mighty, terror from my heart outflows.
To me he brings a lady very close,
and “Who salvation seeks,” I hear him say,
“let him but gaze into this lady’s eyes,
if he can suffer agony of sighs.”

Such is the contradiction, it can slay
the humble thought that is still telling me
of a fair angel up in heaven crowned.
My soul bemoans its present misery,
saying, “Unhappy me! How fast away
went he, in whom I had some solace found!”
And of my eyes it says, with mournful sound,
“When was it such a lady pierced their sight?
Why did they fail to see me in her guise?
I said, ‘Oh, surely, in this lady’s eyes
the one must dwell who kills my peers with fright.’
To no avail I warned them (Oh, my dread!),
but look at her they did, and I fell dead.”

“Oh, no, not dead, you are bewildered much,
O my poor soul, so pained and grieving so,”
replies a loving spirit, kind and sweet,
“For the fair woman, that you feel and know,
has changed your life so quickly and so much,
you now are trembling in your vile defeat.
Look how humility and mercy meet
in one so wise and gentle in her height:
so call her Lady, as by now you must.
And you will see, if steadfast is your trust,
such lofty miracles, such full delight,
you’ll say, ‘O Love, true lord, do as you please:
here is your humble handmaid on her knees.’”

My song, I do believe that those are few
who can unravel your most hidden sense,
so intricate and mighty is your wit.
Therefore, if by some fate or circumstance
you stray and venture among people who
seem not completely to have fathomed it,
oh, then, I pray, console yourself a bit,
and say, O lovely latest song, to them,
“Notice, at least, how beautiful I am!”
Continue reading...
Terry O'Leary Apr 2013
Clouds
Clouds, the clouds diffuse a sad and somewhat somber hue;
Wind, the wind bemoans her loss of reins and calm control;
Crows, the crows flee men of straw, sleeves slapping at the wind;

Grass, the grass defends with blades, impaling truant gusts;
Rain, the rain descends aslant from angry ashen skies;
Stones, the stones repulse the pearls, exploding tears of gloom;

Woods, the woods assuage the angst of misty brooding trees;
Leaves, the leaves desert their branches, dropping one by one;
Fields, the fields imbibe a quaff to quench an arid thirst;

Streams, the streams meander, hushed, to distant vapid shores;
Breeze, the breeze intones a tune, a mourning monody;
Sands, the sands, in chaos, dance across the dappled dunes;

Shades, the shades appear confused, alone in lurid haze;
Mice, the mice discern the dawn, their beady eyes ablaze;
Clouds, the clouds diffuse a sad and somewhat somber hue.
Continue reading...
Butch Decatoria Dec 2015
TO SPOON THE MOON
I make smiles from shattered eyes

cry December's distracting frost

move my soul with hopeful sighs

and pray our devotion is not lost



It is the eve of renewal's glee

gave sad promises to spoon the moon

but in the haste of glass we freeze

pose with strangers who fill our room



sweat bemoans my reaching hand

your eyes are vacant with his lust

he bids the hours by your command

we smoke our feelings into dust



this boy is weak yet worships you

opens darkest gates to breed

now enter light that stirs, confused

my screaming tears unheard,unseen...



i am a wish of hearts refused,

the sound of fallen poetry...
#spooning
Continue reading...
Logan Robertson Jun 2017
Life's Predispositions
Life's Predispositions


In the chapel of his soul
and in the steeple of his mind
votive candles burn,
bright and iridescent,
perpetual,
red, yellow, green
and blue.
He sits in there,
a chapel for one,
in a mist
of confusion,
in a mess,
searching for answers,
as his life is waning,
escaping,
like an Autumn wind
blowing the pages of his life
... stillness,
of bookmarks,
still on page one,
he hatched, once.
All around him,
dark,
and cold,
like a winter chill,
snow banks withdrawing,
his sad existence.
Still he looks up
to Jesus on the cross.
Warmth.
In the chapel of his soul
and in the steeple of his mind
votive candles burn,
large,
bright and iridescent,
perpetual,
another rainbow stretching
it's arcs for him.
He backs away.
He bemoans life,
small,
it's endowments on him.
His parent's mistake
on a dark, eerie
loveless night...
and their cutting words
"You were a mistake,"
words
that grew on him,
like barnacles
clinging to him,
eating away his buoyancy,
like a ship sinking.
In the birth of another spring,
flowers blossoms,
rivers gushing down
mountains and mountains
of pollination,
life,
he has a lone branch
waiting ... somewhere.
Such stillness.
Such stigmatization
from his parents
loveless past.
A mistake they conceded.
It had an effect on him,
darker than the blackest sheep
that he was.
What predispositions.
When the summer harvests
arrive,
fields smiling their wares,
he scowled
he scowled the corn,
subsistence,
life,
the changing seasons,
his short change
of life.
Rainbows.
Why are the birds
singing to me?
Why?
The voices
in his head
chirping,
continuing.
What message thou
bring to an orphan?
Still he looks up
to Jesus on the cross.
Warmth.
His eyes squint.
Dad, mom.
And whispers words
that don't need
to be said,
closure.


Logan Robertson

6/01/17
#freeverse #life
Continue reading...
Kevin Michael Anderson Jul 2010
Insanity
What goes up,
must not come down*
What is free
shall be bound
What goes round
shall become flat
what is feared
will be my door mat
What is Earth
when Earth is Mars
and what is fear
when fearing cars?

Of what do I speak?

I am whispers of cold air,
that melt your face with my despair,

Of what do I speak?

I am harsh attitude,
that gives you pleasure, and fortitude.

Of what do I speak?

Do I speak of love? life? livers? long? low? lousy? loom? lay? like? lost? lovers? power? pain? physic? knowledge? wisdom? Cats?
Tacos?


....

Squirrels!?
"****!".

Of What do I speak

that bemoans the winds so fair?

Of what Do i speak?

that will:

Trade a book for a worm
and a worm for a sock
and a sock for a bag
and a bag for a tong
and a tong for a toe
and a toe for a ***
and a *** for some snow
and some snow for a crow
and a crow for a stove
and a stove for a grove
and a grove for a brain
and a brain for some bronze
and some bronze for some books?

Of what do I speak?

That goes left
and ends up right?

Of what do I speak,

that has a creative light,
that all shun
and turn away from.

Of what do I speak,

?this like backwards speaks taht

Ro spahrep ekil ****?

Of what do I speak?

That has a language of its own

of what do I speak?

That at the sight of your face moans

"For if your face is a face, then stop giving me that face!"
...
but enough games

Of What do I speak?
Continue reading...
Coyote May 2012
Bad Joke in Poetic Form
I asked her for a sentence
that both pleases and bemoans
She said "your brother's *****
is much smaller than your own"
Continue reading...
Keely Anne Oct 2014
clouded
you will think too much when you are kissing the girl down the hall.

you will dance with her, half-drunk and half-joking, and something foreign in you will ignite. you will blatantly ask her to be your girlfriend just to gauge her reaction. you will curiously perch yourself on her lap and beam when she praises your vocabulary. you are more drunk but you are still half-joking.

you will think of the way she runs her hands through your hair and over your shoulders. you will remember how she feels about touching things, how she only touches what is important to her, what she doesn't want to forget. you will think about this when she asks if she can kiss you. you will think about this when her dry, drunken lips find yours and you will think about it when the pad of her thumb grazes the waistband of your jeans. you will think about how your jeans look, pooled on her carpet.

you will think about the time she told you how fluently she reads body language, how people's feet point to what they want. you will step on your own toes in protest every time you see her in the cafeteria. you will think about the time she laughs and says, "god, you're so submissive, it's adorable" and you will think about how naked she makes your clumsy body feel, no matter what you're wearing, like each flippant comment peels back another layer of skin and muscle and tendon and bone until there is nothing left of you but her whispers, evaporating into the november air.

you will think about how she makes you feel like a bad metaphor. like the fluffy rhyme schemes that she bemoans.

you will worry about her panic attacks. you will want to remind her to breathe. you want to make her chase you but you worry about her shin splints.

you will think about the song you'd told her you wanted to lose your virginity to. you will think of how she scrolls through her music library methodically until she finds it and kisses your neck for four minutes and fifty seconds so you can sing along.

you will think of her words. you will wonder if she writes about you. you will wonder how she would feel if she knew you write about her. you will grieve how miserably your feeble musings stack up to her well-timed, self-aware prose and you will draw parallels between this and the rest of her and how everything she says is profound and every gesture is intentional and how small and stupid she makes you feel, and you are gasping into the darkness beyond her ears, whimpering under her mouth, shivering under her quilt.

you will think about the hand she stretches precariously over her shoulder to you just before she is sleeping beside you. you will think about her fingertips. you will think about her hair.

your thoughts will be clouds of her cigarette smoke.
11/17/13
inspired by my friends, who should have known better, but i can't blame them at all.
#kiss #girl #crush #cigarettes
Continue reading...
Karen Elena Parks Nov 2012
On Pretense and Lack of Substance
Great hawk enshrouds tiny ring;
swallowing silence in the reflection of spring;
Your shadow bemoans my gentle home;
where wax wings and iron legs of sternness roam.
Between shattered glass and petal's dance
whose schadenfreude--makes you sound like an ***?
Oh, what a ******* intellectual chore
when even poetry doesn't make sense anymore.
(c) KEP '12
Continue reading...
Donall Dempsey Apr 2019
NEVER MIND WHAT THE ****** SHEEP ARE SAYING!
NEVER MIND WHAT THE ****** SHEEP ARE SAYING!

First sheep to second sheep:
"Maaaa!"

which with
subtitles on

comes out as
"He just hasn't got his grandfather's legs!"

Second sheep to first sheep:
"Baaaa!"

Thank God for subtitles
"No...nor the Sheedy stamina!"

And indeed I have
inherited none of these famous attributes.

I, a shortsighted
puny bookworm

not taking to
this cross-country running lark.

The famous runner doesn't run
in my side of the family.

Early morning spiderwebs
bejewel the furze bushes.

A cuckoo calls.
Sheep bleat.

I recite poetry
to the yellow furze

passing slowly by me
I madly in love with Hopkins' words.

"I caught this morning(puff pantpANT!)
morning's(aghhhhh!)glory...!"

"Oh jaysus...he's off on the poetry again!"
first sheep moans to second sheep.

"Poetry at his age..I just don't get it!"
Second sheep bemoans the fact.

I pay no attention to this
sheep commentary.

Hurl Hopkins
at the world.

Slog through the pain
and mud.

"Nothing is so
(gaspgASP!)beautiful as Spring -" I yell!

I become a dot in the distance
of this misty Curragh morning.

Run on into the blue
of these my teenage times.

"The descending blue; that blue is all in a rush          
With richness;"


"Bè bè" first sheep
to second sheep in Dutch.

"Meh meh!" second sheep
to first in Japanese.

So the sheep I see
are studying foreign languages.

But I don't hear them
and anyway

someone's turned
the subtitles off.
Thanks to Fr. Hopkins for allowing me to quote from his SPRING and THE WINDHOVER(TO CHRIST OUR LORD). And to the gossipy auld sheep who informed me that in Dutch, sheep say "bè bè" and in Japanese they say "meh meh!"I was running out of things to say in Sheep! So animals say their sayings differently in different languages. My favourite is that in Korean bees go "*****!"
Continue reading...
Nat Lipstadt Mar 2014
When one poet provokes another to write,
When one poet in plaintive wail, bemoans his certain knowledge,
his efforts paled and pallored by compare to giants long immortalized,
and yet provokes a third, yet another to compose,
pledged has it that the grayed ashen bones
of Shakespeare, Marlowe and his ilk and crew,
neath sod and sand, and English loam and land,
but for an instant, a tradition says,
their remains glow and gleam,
a poet dead centuries, yet for a few seconds risen,
lighting and lifting, not just him, but those who
surround themselves with cherished words spent freely
For Marshall
Continue reading...
OH Mar 2012
O
The bright piercing moon,
perforates
the anvil black sky.

Tallying our time,
as it blooms and subsides,
like a grandfather
winking
a supernal eye,
surveying the lawn
of perennial pawns
and infallible annual gods.

With a logic all its own,
it salutes and bemoans
the Great Sphinx’s nose,
and the wind scattered scraps
of the Rosetta Stone.

Some seer will come,
before too soon,
or a scientist,
wont to presume,

But in gold and stolen
myth they’ll stand ,
like fraudulent kings,
yelping lambs,
flaring though spring,
with bluffs in hand,
until they wither
unto grains
of sand
.
Continue reading...
Wk kortas Apr 2017
In Which The Noted Actress Senora Villegas Bemoans The Current Crop Of Dramatists
Such children, our playwrights;
They labor under the sad misconception
That, having written their labored little prose,
They shall be presented wholly unfiltered by the performers.
From God’s lips to their ears, they say, ostensibly joking
While their features and inflection bear full witness
To how deeply serious they are in truth.
The poor souls have no idea
(Really, no more than infants, every last one of them)
Just how little their tottering little farces have to say
Concerning the profundity of suffering, the fever of desire,
(How could they know, locked away in their rooms with nothing
But their parchment and quills—truly, from whence will come
The Moreto or de Molina for our age, artists yet men as well?)
And yet the trained performer is able
With no more than the odd inflection,
The certain insouciance  in the crook of an elbow,
The telltale arch of an eyebrow
As another actor declaims his lines,
Provide blood and marrow to the sad scratchings of the purported author, Create meanings never conceived of by the dramatist.  
How many nights have I shot glances
At these poor men of letters, wringing their hands anxiously,
Huddled in the wings on the opening night of their turgid set pieces.
What performances (however involuntary and unconscious)
They would give, faces contorting with surprise and fury,
Fists clenching with rage or grabbing at their tresses
In frustration and stupefaction at what had been made
From their foolish idioms, their labored clichés.
And, after a surfeit of bows had been taken,
They would come before me,
Bowing slowly, stiffly, mechanically in an effort to keep their anger
From virtually surging from their bodies,
Meekly saying Truly, Senora, I did not know
What effect your legerdemain could have
Upon the audience and my humble words,
But, for all their politeness, their hatred is palpable,
For I have thrown their cherished natural order on its head,
As I have usurped them as the creator.

Still, one should not be so harsh with these hijos;
The error is a common one:
So many viceroys and kings, so many priests and archbishops
Have tried to fix the yoke of man’s poor misapprehension
Upon the forces of the universe,
Forces which would brush them into the abyss
With no more forethought than they would rend the web
Of the poor, innocent spider.  
I have, on several occasions,
Accompanied many a man of means to the gaming table,
Have seen them win handsome sums
And seen others lose those every bit as spectacular.  
I have found the victors to be men
Who do not try to ascertain the hidden mysteries of the deck,
Nor bemoan the fact that they are denied the deal,
But rather treat the cards as simple things
(No more than mere bits of paper, drabs of colored ink),
Minute stages provided to display one’s craft and wisdom
In the pursuit of pleasure and profit.
Senora Villegas appears courtesy of Thornton Wilder's The Bridge of San Luis Rey.
#hombresandombre #exitstagelefteven
Continue reading...
The Masked Sleepyz Dec 2013
An empty pack of cigarettes and a view.
A person alone,
standing somewhere unknown,
a parking garage's top floor,
looking on people at the movies and casinos in score,
every one looking forward while one stares down,
at all that inhabit this big city small town,
the families and singles alike,
trying to escape their stationary bike,
hearing barely intelligible dreams and bemoans,
no one notices the person above alone,
the mountains mingling with skyscrapers and skylines,
all looking no one searching for something to take off their minds,
there's a cool chill,
and the person soon drunk enough of the scene to have their fill,
but doesn't back even when it starts to snow,
for they have no where to go,
cept stare at the scene of beauty down below,
the pull their phone out and write this poem,
still no one looks up and sees the person alone.
Continue reading...
wordvango Feb 2016
i have this personality
or multiples
got the Mother Teresa one
the little "rosebud" I call her,
appalled by hunger , she stores in
her thighs the fat
of good deeds

the other so opposite
I call John Dillinger
and he fancies himself Robin Hood,
he bemoans the lack of morals
in the brothels, all slack tongued ,
he calls them.

And the last, who has made him her self known so far,
is part artist and magician. Writing is his mission when he is here, and then just as quickly as he appeared vanishes into thin air.
Continue reading...
Nat Lipstadt Aug 28
these days, counting time, in quarter tones
''Well, I've been out walking
I don't do that much talking these days
These days
These days I seem to think a lot
About the things that I forgot to do for you
And all the times I had the chance to...

These days I'll sit on corner stones
And count the time in quarter tones to ten, my friend
Don't confront me with my failures
I had not forgotten them"
These days by Jackson Browne
[?]

once again, mess with soulful perfection,
the melancholic mood of music & word
making me aching for the sweet sadness
of loss for when one possessed a curvature of
the smooth straight idyllic perfect love
of friends, family & females,
ascending into crescendo,
then the blood letting of
ego, vanity, incorrect priorities,
the hurrying up to nowhere silly manhood,

and Jackson bemoans
"About the things that I forgot to do for you,"
begging please in a daily prayer,
let me be
confronted with my failures,
my children,
I have not forgotten them,
though, they, I,
nor you,
and you too,
have not forgiven me,
nor I,
myself

and all that is left
is counting time
in quarter tones,
and even smaller, finer
intervals,
to make my punishment for all my
mistakes, go slower, making my time taking
more grievous painful…
In the context of the song "These Days," counting time in quarter tones to ten means using musical notation to mark the passage of time, specifically dividing each "quarter" of an hour into even smaller intervals (quarter tones) up to the tenth quarter hour. This is likely a metaphorical way of saying the speaker is deeply immersed in a melancholic state, counting down the time until a specific moment (perhaps ten o'clock) or simply reflecting on the slow passage of time
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These Days
https://www.google.com/gasearch?q=these%20days%20lyrics%20jackson%20browne&source=sh/x/gs/m2/5#ebo=1
#nat #lipstadt #quarter #tones #counting #nml
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Rigel Ordinario Aug 2012
Collatz Poem
Air, seething beneath, knocks on earthen doors,
Leaves rustling above, where once she had danced.
Not hint of regret, not pang of remorse—
She kicks and she undulates to survive.

Air, seething beneath, remembers—
Joys. Pains.
Earthly chains attached to her arms—
Sharp. Cold.

Air, seething beneath,
Flies toward the sky . . .

Only to be sealed.

Air, seething beneath, becomes cold—
Forgets to fight, forgets to breathe.

Air suffocates—
Crumbles.
Withers.

Slumbers.
Bemoans.

Concedes.

Di­es.
A poetic form derived from the Collatz Conjecture.
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Heather Jan 2014
finito.
"He's beautiful. "
Wrapped in a sick sense of despair,
did I ever have the courage to ever to fully care?
I walk through freezing lakes and storms outside
to trek the across the dirt and rivers and find
Did I ever love a person besides?
I touchdown on the moon, on the stars
on the castles built on dreams in my mind,
the shattered heart, the tortured soul
bemoans jealousy and a cowardice untold
I am here, sitting in the plum blossom
of winter's breast,
and something about the way the cold wind tugs
so hard so strong against my chest
leaves me without no doubts
that love isn't quite done with me yet.
I tried a rhyme-y poem. I don't do them often.
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Julia Low May 2012
Hush Hush
In posing as a nautilus
he is a sun; a son, star
the quiet murmurs of ocean
in the darkest part of night –

his chest is a cave in which to sleep
a shelter in which breath tunnels through veins
or wind? He is the tempest,
the hurricane pealing as a bell,
pealing or peeling back landscape
picking apart houses, hillsides,
like the bones of a corpse

and his is the storm, the tide
as it bemoans lost love for the moon –
in his pain, he throws himself
against the Cliffside and he shatters;

in posing as an ocean
he furls, curls like fingers of water
clinging to shore; in reflecting
he is the sun, stars, moon and sky
the wind and whistling through his bones
and breath –

he is the softness with which we sleep
dreams brought to flesh
curled as a nautilus or a shell,
heavy with soft, unspoken words,
hours of quiet murmurs.
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Nevermore Feb 2015
A Priori; A Posteriori
Which is better

To feel nothing
But a halcyon calm
Like a fine summer morning,
Or to be ****** to and fro
By the ice, spray, and lightning
Of the tempest?

To stroll the meadow,
Or to climb the mountain?

I've gone through both
Yet the answer still eludes me
I remain as ignorant as I was
In the days of my youth

But what I do know
Is how my chest tightened
How my breath caught
When you sent me a message
(Your very first)
And how my lips impulsively purse
As I peek at yours
And at the speck of a mole
Resting right below

What I do know
Is how I couldn't keep my eyes
From straying towards your corner
(Still can't)
And how my hand trembled
Just as I squeezed your shoulder
Bidding you farewell

Or how I've worn out my iPod
Replaying Jay Chou's ballads
As I sang my heart out to my steering wheel
Numbly crawling through
The maddening, seething traffic

And how the breeze eats my cigarette
Down to its filter
As I stare up
Dumbfounded
Mapping out
Tracing your face among the stars

How my neurotransmitters **** me
Closer and closer to a heart attack
And how my soul weeps and bemoans
The yawning chasm betwixt us
While you sit there infuriatingly oblivious
Chattering away about Warcraft and barley tea

All these things are
The few of what I do know
The last of which
Is how I'll never have you.
To the geisha.
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Jo Barber Jun 2018
Youth & Vanity
I walked through a burning house
and found I was alone -
all the others had fled,
yet forgotten to warn me.

The mirror is the only one who speaks to me now.
It tells me of my beauty,
and bemoans my fleeting youth.
It curses the briefness of my body,
and of my supple bones and bare *******.

I envy the trees and the butterflies,
who found their beauty too acute to share with me.
I envy the lakes and rivers,
whose beauty will only grow with time.

As I wilt and fade in color,
the world shall grow ever fairer, ever nobler.

Such is life,
and such is time.
Any and all feedback is greatly appreciated! This is my first draft. Thanks!
#stars #flaws #reject #outsider #sky #beauty #burning #youth #alone #solitude
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Jo Nov 2013
Wholes
There's a hole in my chest,
Carved from sad, broad hands
Attached to thin wrists
That are my own.

All day and night it bemoans
Its very existence,
Its marred, pulpy edges
Because it never asked to be made.

In fact all my life I've been forbade
Of making holes, told they're voids
One cannot fill -
Better left for the lonely people.

And yet I thought a steeple
Or a plot of dirt, a flower ***
Was all the space needed
To feel whole.

So I dole
Myself one, only
To realize my mistake
Rather belatedly.
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— The End —