When I depart the realm of the terrestrial for the splendour of the celestial, do not bury my remains in the valley of the Kings, for robbers would move my bones in search of gold rings. I detest sharing the glory of the blue-bloods with them in death, but I would like my moulded clay
Poetry is ordinary language raised to the Nth power. Poetry is boned with ideas, nerved and blooded with emotions, all held together by the delicate, tough skin of words.
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In the silence of my void I hear a voice When, The world has slept The human babble is quiet What is that I wonder? A sudden mystic thunder Keeps me awake Day or night I sit back with my soul One in all but still forlorn But, I could not find The source of
She made her soda by the handful, three handfuls of flour, a pinch of salt, a pinch of soda, a half pint of buttermilk, from an urn, not a carton. She made her soda by the handful, one hand that threw dirt on the lid of her sister’s coffin, the other holding an orphaned son.
He lay asleep, a contemplative air, On the window ledge, in the warm morning sun. Seeming so beyond the reach of a care, And I believed all his worldly duties done. The world courtesies as it passes him by, As it bustles along doing daily chores. He raises an eyebrow and opens an eye, An
Slipped from the tree fell into the beautiful bushes Tickling the hell out of me Cold Cold water touch my feet to comfort Wasteful thoughts sieved out Let’s call upon the sunlight and complete this Portrait that consists of me , the tree & all the Beaut . Fly , I Fly this ain’t no
How deep is the hole I fell into That light does not shine upon my naked soul Am I to live all eternity bound in this grave Once I heard your voice sing but only silence Greets my ears now Has unbound love forsaken me And taken light with her If only my hands could
Corsican born, and an Emperor mighty indeed. Who from obscurity came up to prominence, who from French shores the attacks of armies repelled, who had at his disposal, Europe’s resources, who to Saint Helena from French shores was expelled, of old Italian nobility he was seed, shortish in height, yet towering in ambition. Military genius
NOW Cupid, once, he made a fool of me, He struck me with his wayward, golden dart; And all at once I felt sweet agony, Just like a glowing ember in my heart. I heard a voice; then something caught my eye; An orange butterfly came into view; And then again that voice, this time,
Welcome, welcome I’ve waited for you. Now pray tell, what did you do? Walk passed the hungry, ignoring you knew? Or was it more sinister thought through and well planned? I see you have blood smeared on your hands. You humans don’t get it. Selfishly laughing, open-eyed blind. Each tear you cause others is your
Do I dare? As the earth revolves And the sun is Obfuscated from my vision The stars begin their dance While the planets Continue their waltz. And in the island of their movement Is the ocean of the Milky Way Itself a cosmic island In the ocean of creation. I live in the smallest island
I watched the boys clamor amorous and sweet for their little girls who stand black on the street and you’ll crash I swear it back down to earth you’ll wear their frowns beneath bronzed, rough skin doused with confidence and cologne you’ll be sorry you ever spread your lips Flaxen hair and bright pink shoes
The wine the wine it tastes so divine… The world is our oyster with pearls before swine… The laughter and rejoicing in everyone’s mind… The food is as fulfilling as times are so fine… The moon is full as my heart is entwined… The riches of love are to see hope eternally in beautiful blue
When you think you have beauty in your life and it is taken When you think a world is born of your own mind’s eye; creation When lies are the commonest words spoken without deprecation When the dark nights become your only truest salvation When you believe in two hearts becoming one in love’s manifestation
Now here’s my bloody sonnet for today, A trifle for my daily exercise; It’s best I try to keep it light and gay, Tho’ truly I am full of heavy sighs. My muse has been holding himself aloof, Yet condescends to text my mobile phone; He says he thinks poetry’s for poufs! When will he
Gone is the palace Emerald green More vibrant colours Steal the scene Brilliant hues Red and gold Herald a world Harsh and cold Winds of change Whisper through the halls The canopy breaks Flutters, falls Of Summer’s death Do not abhor Behold crimson waves On an icy shore Mourn not A season gone too soon