The golden climb, with brook beside
The autumn hill, betook from my bedside
No sickly mange would stay my pride
I’d sit there where she lied
Those days of yore
Our hearts entwined, we swore
To set sail a golden shore
And live our days in golden rays,
Eve’s moonshines on the floor
Through the curtains near drawn closed
Never wanting for more
E'er the gods apposed
But hoar winds blew and change pursued
Our happy aisle shrank from view
The day I lost you, a silence crept
They bade me speak, e’er I wept
E’er the gods apposed-
I loved you
Atop the hill in autumn's chill
In nightgown, cap and playful will
The willow gloomed the evening shade
Bringing thoughtful tears, the vow made
I’d had her hand - as we had planned-
Living off the golden land
A fiery hearth had given birth
A heaven built on earth
Yet I lie in clover, the moon high over
Her willow glooms her stone
And far away the angels play
While we lie close and alone
Bhut Jolokia coin, loud and side
she smiled
moving toward speaking
the extended metaphore
of rain.
involve a glide from one vowel sound
to another vowel sound
all within the same syllabylle
to another within the same syllable
(like "oi" in "coin", where the cenrity of
the composer and the lyricst are
combiined in the effect to convey the right means
to display both talent and skill.
gold mined from the caves
and the gold from the streames are
same where the smelters combine then to
make the jewlery we favor.
Lodes and placer gold
from stream and vein
smeltered into coins. She said smiling.
From the BZook Keystone Gold Drop
a Fictional story about six Tribes and Seven Historains that
find a large amount of Gold They need
to find the deed to Property to claim the gold
but the Society that holds the deed
wants the Gold holders to
be contested through a game
where she insists a ghost
would be the one to determine who gets the prize.
Filed Under Comedy.
Each spring, the source of every brook or stream
Rises from the land which has perforce been fed
By rain that falls on earth the which would seem
To return that gift, become a fountainhead
And issue in a rich and vital flow
That feeds all life to flourish and to grow
With this metaphor I seek to realise
The interaction of a friendship that I prize
Taken from poem: The Fluence of Friendship
28 April 2019
Contest: Rithimus Divisa Poetry
Golden little cloud had night for sleeping
on the bosom of the giant mount,
Early morning took it without sound
playing azure; and old mount's keeping
dewy trace in wrinkles like some present.
There is nothing else, there's mount only,
It is pensive deeply, it is lonely,
It is crying quietly in the desert.
P.S. This is my translation of poem by Mikhail Lermontov
If I'd be born for evil deed
to capture water, land and heaven,
I'd plead you save my soul in need,
It is deformed, it's a black as raven.
You would take as warm plasticine
this miser's heart that brings the trouble,
It would be scared the king of sin,
He's harmless for you like soap bubble.
You would pass by my gloomy hall
of loses and remains of glory,
But your trial's fast, you make me fall,
And I can't shout: not guilty, sorry
for my so funny dreams and thoughts
these you remain, angel of vengeance,
You know no love, you hear no words,
And it seems I was born to menace.
To thee i am alive
Alive in a myre of bliss
Like a tender first kiss
Living away from it all
As it all passed by
From a bliss less lived
I find myself dead
In this line of poetry
I am confididing in
In a metaphore i feel
Feel is the best
Yet from my experience
I am not fully living
Living enough to call it enough
Twas why i might ask why
But why is not enough
The truth sticks out
Yet i live on.. As what?
Watch closely as life is clear to you mind
hold on tightly as you so encouraged to be kind
but what poupose will it serve
when we will all fade into the clouds
when mind,body,and spirit will curve
CHARGE they yelled steping over the mounds
taking count of the bloodshed
like pigs to the slaughter
We know were going to die
but why do we wish to
To meet your god, Your saint, Your creator
Run to dusk though we all know we fade at dawn
When you reach high and make it just know what goes up must come down
Off the top to the bottem
It's only a metaphore
That fake encounter
takes place everyday amidst peels of darkness
and terror strikes you when you were
looking for the healing torch.
Clutching the old rags of history
I sit on the pyramid of bones:
somewhere the sanity puts up a metaphore
in the abyss of ashes.
I travel with untouchables to unburden
the past; between us we throw the questions
to escape from the sizzling heat of truth,
lifting the lids of time.
Cause will suffer, the answers linger
pure as glittering lies. The purple
guilt smells of a dying flute.
SATISH VERMA
Everyone, and everyone
Who plays with the fire
Anyone whos anyone
Can see its the last of desires
Now go runnaway
Don't look at me please
Now go run and play
But your scars will become your burdons
You lie to me
You force acts of sin upon yourself
You ask me, why can't I be more like you
You'll never be me, your hardly someone else
These words written here
These lines of analogy, metaphore, sophisticated words
I shall learn these rules
And shall be glorified, and Known as the teen with words unheard
You ask me, why can't I be more like you
You constantly follow what you chase
You ask me, why can't I do what you do
You honestly think you can just pop into this place
You've got it all wrong
As I ask you, why can't I be more like you
You look at me with a smiling face and with gentle words
You already are, You are who you most fear and you fear your truth
These walls,
They're all made of mirrors
This place I'm in feeling as big as a palace
With the mirrored effect of a never ending reflection, onward into paradox
I look up upon the sky
And blink down towards the floor
I find myself outside the box
Outside the box of mirrors
I thought life was only
bad and good moments
that kept changing seats
I thought heaven was a metaphore
and that happiness was made of
some exceptional moments
I thought we should fight for
a better work, money, food, clothes
and that silence could be respectful
But bad moments are not bad
when we decide for the good ones
and heaven is to love and to be loved in return
Happiness is how we feel
when we are complete
even when we are sad.
We must fight for nothing but peace
and silence is never, never, respectful
Each word we don't say
is a missed opportunity.
Patricia Evans
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