The bastioned confidence of quarried pride
Conceived no ingress save by iron decree;
Yet vesper-dew, where noiseless graces bide,
Tutored the adamant to clemency,
Till lichened liturgies, by increments unseen,
Unthroned the obdurate from its sovereign mien.
The littoral catechised the granite's bone,
Not with assault, but sacramental wear;
Each undeciphered ripple, one by one,
Absolved the precipice of all its air,
As though the meekest ordinance of tide
Could loose what catapults had never tried.
Thereafter—vision trespassed into sense:
A child, ungarlanded by name or throne,
Inclined his silence with such innocence
That altitudes remembered they were sown;
The mountain, recollecting elder birth,
Relinquished all pre-eminence to earth.
Then every fortress, founded upon weight,
Began to expatriate its ancient claim;
The stars themselves postponed their sovereign state,
As though eternity had altered name;
And what no conflagration could dissever,
One feather of the Infinite undid for ever.
Does your brain ask why
See if you think about it
Last night I smiled cause I could hear her snore
So what happened between then and well now
Are you in pain
Nope
We’re you stressing last night
That’s me asking me
Well nothing unusually
Maybe we dreamed something sad
Who said that
From the meekest of shadows one of my shallows steps forward
Sorry I gave the voices
Some malformed shapes
Anywhys
Like Sherlock solving Artie Morty and his devilish plans
What sadness did you dream of
Which time your heart was broke
No it wasn’t that type of sad
More like a loss sad of something never more
Telling tales of heart
I call it old sad
something soothing about this sad
Like a chill in feverish Knight
One of Arthur’s less well known nights
A familiar sad
It doesn’t blue the days of rest
A warm sad
Just in its gloom
I think I will leave it at that
Anne's Gift
. for public domain
The stars that Anne sees in the sky tonight,
after she says her prayers and Amen,
shall be graced with the Hope of her unseen light,
and blessed because she gazed happy on them.
And when the Sun's dawn chases stars from the sky,
and Anne rises fresh from a long night's rest
to sing to the light of the day's bright eye,
all God's creation will then be well blest.
Blessings come from the hearts of those living,
be it from God or the meekest of us,
from whatever the source, praise the giving,
and rejoice that our world is made thus.
Created to please.
I can't do nothin else. But serve
God's meekest and weakest first.
The others can wait.
And why not?
I let the last lead, for they know
how to find water in the desert.
They know that life is sustained
and maintained through the moisture
of the woman. I AM
that river of which the ***** speaks.
Is the starlight that we see
just remnants
of where it use to be
The light that
with honour given
hangs from her meekest eyelash
stealing every shadow
The lowest mountain in the Sinai
a mountain cloaked in humility
unassuming, meek, of no particular prestige
no fortress strong in times of siege
No high peak on which to stand
no platform from which to view the sand
Little more than a glorified hill
a mountain with neither ego nor will
Yet on its top God spoke to the world
though of all men, only Moses heard
The meekest, most humble man who ever lived
To him, God chose His Torah to give
Let me try to go by pioneering heroes' spirit
That motored their antique tides of phrase,
And treat rapt souls to a mild sublime ode,
Forged to rhyme with old sonneteers' pace.
Now where does a tottering novice start
As he pens such a crystalline work of art,
To honor champs in grave's dark repose,
And regale pupil protégés in equal dose?
Let me like Andrew Marvel swiftly pen
Authentic tropes to the best of my ken;
And as Shakespeare debug tart myths,
That wit eschews meekest wordsmiths.
And deal Wordsworth such fitting due
As meets his laudable classical styles;
And for Sidney weave echoing rhapsodies
That tell masked sagas via metered guiles.
I'll like Robert Frost's swiftly twined twists,
Blame melancholia for path-splitting mists.
Man’s intrinsic apathy's negligence-justified frown
Is the actual defining substance of a mortal clown;
Who with hollowed prejudgments fellow men slays,
And likens to hallowed duty his thoughtless decays.
He is evil's meekest martyr by doom's onus bound,
The cold-blooded outlaw donning dark's lucid veils;
His the bounden call to trim unwary lives that thrive,
His a sworn charge to hit to halt sea's merriest sails.
They're hell's happiest saints of true devoted cadre,
Obstinate desperados who without real reason hate;
Theirs rare glories for wanton vitriol by meanest fate
Met on innocent casualties of villainy's vicious adder.
What grand gratification fills world's cruelest hearts
That sting undeserving souls in most delicate parts?
Why do allegedly feeling minds grow numbest to cry,
Whilst their pleading victims in iron malevolence die?
How can life’s most cognitive kind find sweet preys,
In other creatures alike in mien and all visible ways?
The shadow stood in daylights glare
and raised its face to the air
brothers sheltered in meekest corner
or under rock unturned
some dissolved in misty puddle
but others watched in wonder
as sunlight turned asunder
and beams recoiled from his form
Shadow hands joined
and myriads of shapeless born
raised eyes skyward
there thirst to see the morn
The shadows of the never gone
Mortality
Morning snowfall brings his
Moist eyes one last hurrah.
Moon-flowers and blue jays,
Meandering in step.
Malignancy strides moan
Meekest as his saviors
Mourn before it all melts.
4/19/17
Marx and Spencer
Were I to tell you what I think of Spencer
(the middle-manager, without the “man”,
and vilest cockroach since the world began),
my poem would incense the meekest censor.
But when our hands in insurrection join,
we arm ourselves to take back what is ours,
red banners streaming from the highest towers,
my first clip’s going straight in Spencer’s groin.
Don’t tell me that we’re going to do it clean,
that revolution’s flawed unless it’s surgical.
Old Shakespeare knew (and why not get liturgical?)
let slip the dogs, you get mujahideen.
Drag Spencer out and bludgeon him to death.
Revenge, and not reform? I’ve seen Macbeth.
What wild glee behind your tame grin lurks?
What shy sun fears to breach your heart’s horizon?
And to against your hidden teeth of
Alabaster gleam. Bestowing upon the earth the breadth of
Your delight. With rays of a beam that girds
Time at the waist.
The meekest mare is bridled mirth;
She walks to joy in a slow trot, afraid
To gallop forth with force,
Chary to express any clue of cheer or hope.
Who was it to chasten you so?
And rein you unto undue modesty.
From whose stable need you deliverance?
Are you by a loveless groom oppressed?
Breathe easy, Demure, smile assured that all
Your bliss is licit.
Laugh aloud while crowned with life to
Happiness permitted.
In this love that shone
Shone like the birth of the sun
At the darkest hour of the night
To penetrate the deepest part
Of the meekest soul
In this love then true
Brought the fetters
That impounded both heart and soul
Of the earth's most truest man
This very love
Has detour to a dark cloud
And has become a piercing spear
That had me shattered
In fragment that can't be heal
No! Not with any mortal balm.
©Michael Edison
18:07pm
30/5/2016
Forever Lost Within Her Evil Dreams
Life raced on merrily away, as it should:
Heartache, grief and rejected love ran
Forever striking all the dreamers it could,
shaken and shocked lay the sad heart of man.
This world, rages and breaks the weakest:
Looking for souls to cut and break
Found first are the soft and the meekest,
nightmares burning all at the stake.
Dark nights, she enters to dare tempt:
A vixen built to heart so swell
Hidden quite well her hate and contempt,
And sins she brings straight from Hell.
She, darkness coming as a heated flame:
With lies splashing in her streams
When embraced one forgets even their name,
Forever lost within her evil dreams!
Life raced on merrily away, as it should:
Heartache, grief and rejected love ran
Forever striking all the dreamers it could,
shaken and shocked lay the sad heart of man.
R.J. Lindley
Nov. 22nd 1991
Black plastic jellyfish float on the breeze,
detritus of homeless, drunk as you please.
Reminders of illness, and other things lost,
price of a forty the true smallest cost.
Gathered at feedings, the city’s unknown,
backpacks aloft, they migrate and roam.
Library, shelters, and other spots too,
wandering tribe of the destitute blue.
Aggressive panhandler or meekest ghost
trading in cigarettes and ancient boast,
past loves and triumphs now long forgotten,
family ties (and teeth) terribly rotten.
Health scares daily and fear of attack,
almost impossible to watch one’s back,
no matter comrades or their free cell phone,
when the dark one arrives, they will die alone.
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