Best Wold Poems
Part 3: AT HEAVEN’S GATES
To set Her free from destiny was far from my design,
but, though unplanned, I touched Her hand to give Her peace of mind.
She told me then, and then again, that providence Divine
had cast a curse, and even worse: despised by all mankind,
She walked alone, unseen, unknown, Her soul incarnadine.
To break this spell of living hell, of loneliness enshrined,
and end Her days within the haze, a sole redeeming deed
would give reprieve and maybe leave our destinies entwined -
Her final quest be put to rest if only I agreed,
but no surcease nor perfect peace nor hope if I declined.
The shadows, shawled in silence, crawled, the night Her fate was sealed
as vespers tolled across the wold beneath the muted fog.
The heavens cracked and sorrow slacked as chimes of children pealed
while in the hills (where midnight chills) there wailed a daemon dog -
with no delay I lead the way, the path to Potter’s Field.
Her weathered face was lined with Grace, Her eyes shone emerald green.
With me as guide She stepped inside to grieve and mourn Her loss,
and thereupon, though pale and wan, the night took on a sheen.
With weary eyes as Her disguise, She placed a wooden cross
upon a mound (unhallowed ground) and whispered ‘Sibylline...’.
A falling star flared in the far and burst, a bolide flame -
beneath the light, the Final Rite no longer hid undone.
And kneeling there in silent prayer, we seemed to share the shame
but could atone if left alone, forevermore as one.
Before we both could breathe an oath, I asked Her once Her name.
Through lips, pale red, She simply said ‘Some called me Abigail’,
and neath a birch where white doves perch, I took Her for my bride,
beheld Her smile a little while, but all to no avail...
Her cloak and cape, and shrivelled shape lie empty at my side...
for now She waits at Heaven’s Gates, not far beyond the Pale.
Fair Maybelle trode through the morning dew
She peered through the foggy haze
Her blue eyes saw what I tell you is true
For the fog did part and the sun did blaze
And a pure white unicorn met her gaze
Now it may well seem it would run away
Or perhaps she would rather shy
But against her nature she hastened to stay
And an unseen cord drew her nigh
Till Maybelle's feet she laid her by
So sweetly Maybelle stroked her hair
She longed for her touch once more
But Maybelle ceased, and she left her there
For what a *wight could see, that her heart was sore
Till she meet her love on the Highdown *Tor
So Maybelle walked o'er the far and near
And her one-horned friend followed light as a bird
And they travelled on without a sight of fear
With but one care and nary a word
That winsome twosome persevered
At the long last, Maybelle heard a pleasant sound
The sound of a rollicking song
And the butterflies danced in the air all around
Whilst her love held her dearly and long
If it could, could it be that she was the theme of his song?
So the three of them lived in the fairyland *wold
Where the sun slips off to the moonlight's glow
Where the wind blows warm and the streams flow cold
And the daffodils thrive in winter's snow
Now here is the end, as you surely know
* Wight: A person
* Tor: A high pointed hill
* Wold: A wood or forest
Written 4/2/2013
She could be ----
whatever she wanted to be.....
Cause the seas mighty with storm
to scorn the shores of whorish men,
and descend them to depths forlorn,
or lift their wee-dignity, conspired aloft
blue-sky-spires;
Spiraling to the bosom of some fresh heaven ----
they shall see their folly
for the loveliness in her eyes,
and await her kiss a thousand years;
Reflect soft scented meadows,
and a heart from which flows the waterfall ----
roaring in glory of darling truth,
and steadfast honesty,
The wickedness of men.....
cannot endure a glimpse,
a mere peek upon her gaze.....
The desert winds whirl the dune seas,
of Octavian mischief;
And whip they throughout the ages,
beyond time,
Octavian crushed neath her timeless
allure....
He always the 'great' villain,
and she the beauteous Queen
Are good men and 'great' men of the same kind?
seldom are 'great' men good,
and good men 'great'
Christ was born in a lowly manger ----
the King of kings,
and too many a 'king' born in plush luxury,
But Cleopatra took her life for love,
though born of unsurpassed beauty,
she was not tainted with the thirst of power,
or hungry like a selfish dog ----
to appease a frail appetite,
But supreme as a thorn-bird's undying love;
many a wold (rolling plains),
dipped in honeyed ease,
the glory of gold, and likeness of her
Essence(d) in the weave of high-romance,
Cleopatra....
Whom the masses of men lay mystified
in her elegant recollection,
majestic, for her affections ----
The Valley of the Kings
kneel in her shadow....
she is beautiful,
for her love.....
Whom she may be called
(both good and great)
She could be,
whatever she wanted to be.....
Baby birds cheeping in treetops high, mellow yellow,
Whippoorwills' song when even is nigh, red sunset glow,
Raucous crows in the hot noon sun, deep orange gold,
Humming bees in blazing wildflowers, dark green wold!
Seagulls' elegant glide over pounding surf, royal blue,
Crickets calling through a summer night, a black revue,
Loons hooting across transparent lake, twilight purple,
And cardinal chirps lonely songs, in pink crape myrtle!
Parrots squawk away the sunny hours, of forests green,
Nightingales sing forever and a day, white moonbeams,
Humming bird emblazons the peony bush, pretty pink,
Goldfinch trills on desert bush, as orange sun slinks!
There's a swing that is hung from a long oaken tree,
By a string where the young have a longing to be.
Where they fly to the sky, ever higher they go,
Till they cry, "Not so high! I shall die, don't you know?"
And they tread through the wold all around by the tree,
Where it's said ruins old can be found by a key.
How they thought many-a night how this fact could be true,
And they fought to set right while they wracked in a crew;
But they never could figure that blur in the tale,
So they clamber with vigor the fir by the trail.
They'd retrace to the place where the moss covered tree
Like a face, beamed with grace as it tossed o'er the lea.
Such a hold that tree held on their glad little selves
As they trolled songs of eld with the bad little elves;
And the song that they sing is a song specked with tears,
Of a long oaken swing cast along through the years;
Left alone by the lane, overgrown, never seen,
Ever blown by the rain, with a groan deep and keen,
Till a small little girl stopped a while on her way,
And a tall oaken burl with a smile bade her stay.
How she clove in a dive through the grove, and the tree,
How it throve, came alive in the cove, in the lea.
{Comments and critique by those knowledgeable
about consonance vastly appreciated.}
so i am only 10 but when i made my account i did not care what my age in my account
now the poem
i just want world to be in peace
the world is all about fighting shouting cursed words and lies but there are some people that changed there ways or were always the same good people
and this is all just a test by god
and allot of us are failing in this
but some people are still good
and those are going in heaven
i hope we all go to heaven
i just hope that all people will go to the Muslim way
and become the best
but all of us will be trying to be the best
but we are the best inside our hearts
and we could be the best there is if we just believe that we are the best
i just hope that the world wold change to a better place
were no bad words are said
and every one is happy
and there going to be enough love for every body
i hope you enjoyed my poem
:]
A river folds upon its banks
with waters deep and cold.
Its molten flow rolls endlessly
from aquifers untold.
It ripples over ancient stones
placed when the earth was cast.
Each sheared and formed the bedrock's course
'neath outflows bold and fast.
Swift currents know of time's slow ebb,
and legends never told.
Its surface gleams beneath the sun
of sagas being scrolled.
The sky above has seen the work
of time's artistic hand,
and knows the melding and the strength
of water and the land.
An ancient bending vein of life
connected with the wold,
that shields enigmas deep as time
in runnels which enfold.
Roll on past hill and fertile land
'til deltas cease your course.
The river and the woodlands speak
of life's primordial source.
Nov. 2014
Common Verse
I’m not sure what’s happening in this country…sometimes I think it’s being overrun by fools…in some states they’re banning books…in my state, Florida, they’re banning talking about gender and sexuality in schools.
While closing up the bookstore the other night I was thinking how crazy can this be…
as I was re-shelving one of the books they’ve banned in Tennessee.
Topics not allowed to be discussed…books not allowed to be read…I don’t have the words to express my sadness and dismay…so I walked around our bookstore and listened to what the voices around me had to say.
Kurt Vonnegut was first to speak…at how banning book displeases:
“I hate”, he said, “that Americans are taught to fear some books and some ideas, as though they were diseases”.
Mart Twain was next on banning speech and books…he doesn’t want to see us do it:
“Censorship”, he said, “is telling a man he can’t have a steak just because a baby cannot chew it”.
Next stood Benjamin Franklin…with his willingness to teach
“Whoever wold overthrow the liberty of a nation,” he said, “must begin by subduing the freeness of its speech”.
Stephen Chbosky waited his turn in the bookstore to be heard that night:
He said, “banning books gives us silence when we need speech…
it closes our ears when we need to listen
and it makes us blind when we need sight”.
Isaac Asimov weighted in next…he was succinct in what he was conceding:
“Any book worth banning," he’s said, “is a book that is worth reading.”
Up and down the bookstore I walked listening to a multitude of authors from the present and past…and fortunately for me…I saved the best for last..
It was Maya Angelou whose words are always inspiring, thought provoking and wise…She said, “You may kill me with your hatefulness but still, like air…I rise”.
I thanked Maya and all the other authors for their insights as I turned off all the lights
Then wished them a calm and peaceful sleep as I locked up for the night
Filled with hope that for those who want to ban books and speech…there will come a day when they will take a walk through a bookstore or a library and listen to what the voices have to say,
Firnham Wood
The day dawned bright with autumn gold
where slits of light cut through the wold,
bright flowers stood.
A blessing rang of bird and song
as waters lapped the while along
by Firnham Wood.
At length red flame turned indigo
the moon appeared a distant glow
where blackness fell.
In shifting shades of eerie light
that pressed the silence of the night,
a lonely bell.
There in the pitch of midnight dark
reflecting on the hoary bark,
a flickered flame.
As to and fro it cast about
grotesque gyrations that standout,
in this time-frame.
When shadows take on shades of life
and sounds are tremblings of strife,
so we believe.
No other date within the year
can fill the darkness with such fear,
All Hallows Eve.
Now homeward bound, the church-bell rings,
caught by a draft it once more swings
in dawn's grey light.
That cast off cigarette burned slow,
the fire it lit, a furtive glow,
to all, goodnight.
drunken dive bombers
peewit lapwings courtship play
above wet birds lake
giant crawls up hill
makes lincolnshire wold of
our detritus fen
drunken dive bombers
peewit lapwings courtship play
above wet birds lake
giant crawls up hill
makes lincolnshire wold of
our detritus fen
once our world had younger eyes,
time then moving slow;
now this present burning past,
as saplings, children grow;
what has been, was and
what would end,
small slices, measured time;
speak now ghosts of love and friends,
seeds of kindness sown in lonely wind;
but light moves dawn to dusk's beginning,
what men build all crumbles down;
oft a someday never comes,
brass shows through a gilded crown;
to live per diem on check'd off lists,
too fleeting, now it's gone;
blood turned ink and pulp for bone,
paper moments squander dawn,
while years drip out of clenching fists;
small troubles, smaller joys,
to know is not to hold;
now is all, this all is now,
kairos burnt the ancient wold;
in shining faces bloom elysian fields,
as seconds build to fade away;
hearts beat metronomic pace,
like exiled steps of men that cannot stay,
as tears rend wombs that never heal;
so gazing out to future's fright,
held clung to memory soon passed;
to hold, so close, in kodachromic reels,
while fading much too fast;
but soon to see unfettered love would stay,
when letting go is gaining all;
as authentic lives soon thrived in summer's warmth,
so too were shining carried into fall,
these human hearts were built to break away.
A call to arms has been issued and all the lyrical guns have been reissued
fierce fighting mothers handing out tissues to dab away at media blasted issues
while the news just labels and cradles out the issues to misuse without paying
dues and then we all lose yes i said we all lose while fighting towards the end
Because of men riddled with sin i think it's time to begin again with sentimental
reason to treason. start rhyming again to turn away the seasons. Why can't you
stop, can't you see the beacons? But oh no, hell no, here comes the saturated
reasons spouting from our deacons to extinguish all the beacons.
A call to arms has beened released from our fathers that are burried and
deceased. Oh no, hell no, the wonders they never decease. While problems
they steadily increase time to pick a pocket and do away with that lease. The
poor man crying while the fat cat continues to fleece us, with mistrust, thinking
we aren't tough. but life gets hard and tough, the people they have had enough.
So all the people they rise up and stand up, can't stop it up or break it up.
When the crowd starts pumping, and the cities start thumping, with this lyrical
something. Maybe the teen mothers wold stop humping, but y'know something,
when we wake up this has all been for nothing. Because the city is a monster
living in dumpsters, with parents in the house yelling at their kids upstairs, no
wonder the nation is caught unawares. We're all frightened by the nightmares,
but do nothing when the beacons start to blare. Looking up at empty hands as if
to plead with the starving air. Oh god, the answer was but now it's gone and I
don't where. Not even the gospels that are out there can tell me where. But who
cares? With all the dope selling and the fathers that aren't there.
I told yo abwot my wif and hr jalos iys,
Sh also had qwality thndr thighs
Whn sh walks thy caws lightning sparks
That cawsd fir throghowt London’s parks
n s hr thy drool and say
Plas tak this woan far away
I har th say drown hr if you will
Or ivan still giv a sicid pill
But sh is y spcial girl
Whn I look at hr sh aks hirl
But I lov hr so
And I thoght you wold lik to know
if the universe were ruled by unpredictable events, there would be no sustainable structure
to it.
you go through live living day after day the same way. wake up, turn off your alarm, get out
of bed, take a shower, and dress.
numerous changes can (and will) inflict chaos upon this routine. as you dress, a button pops
and you have to sew it back on. or go back a step and you're taking a hotter shower than
you normally do. another step back and your back hurts so you plant both feet on the floor,
clasp your hands together and raise them over your head to stretch for a good minute and a
half. its a good thing you went to bed earlier than normal last night so you wouldn't press the
snooze button on your alarm like you did yesterday morning. otherwise you wouldn't have
had that extra minute and a half to stretch because your neck and back hurt from those
pillows you bought after work the previous day and those five extra minutes to sew the
button back on your shirt. and who's to say you won't spill your morning coffee, made with
the new coffee maker wit the automatic timer you bought with those pillows.
and to further demolish the idea that life has any sustainable structure, have you ever
counted the number of breaths you take in a day, and then drew a chart and then for the
rest of that week, count all your breaths in each of the other six days and write those
numbers down on the chart you drew on the first day? no. but if you did, you would know for
a fact that at the end of the day, you wold be left with a completely different number of
breaths because wit each new day comes new situations and events that inflict new feelings
and emotions, such as the fear and anxiety you felt after hitting another car on your way to
work on the third day of this "breath experiment" you've never done which caused your
heart to race and your blood pressure to rise which consequently increased the number of
breaths you took that day and consequently made you over an hour late for work but that's
another story.
not only is the world ruled by randomness and unpredictable events but that is the only
structure that is guaranteed to be sustained in the universe.