Publicized with a sharp glower
you can read the butterfly stings.
Wretched heat of the witching hour
publicized with a sharp glower.
Dark eyes holding vacant power
give a glimpse of all fervor brings.
Publicized with a sharp glower
you can read the butterfly stings.
Every person in the world, lives under one great big sky,
we are born to live, and we live to die.
It’s not what we have, but in what we have learned,
through the fires of life, we will get burned.
We build upon our own, earthly things,
in which each, contain there own hidden stings.
We do our best to live each day,
through the trials and stumbling blocks in our way.
The fires, are the words and actions of others you see,
a trial, a tribulation, a stumbling block they can be.
If their not ours, we could be theirs,
when we’re taken over by emotions, that has no cares.
With our own words, we speak both life and death,
as our very emotions, takes on our breath.
As they go into the ears of man, they come to life,
now, emotions in the heart, brings forth healing or strife.
As we all live under, the same positive, and negative sky, until our final breath,
some will learn how to truly live life, and never taste the sting of death .
that linger.
The ones you cannot
see or hope to hold.
The stings
that those who didn't die
still feel in waves of aching.
"But life isn't just death"
and neither is death more
than living.
I found the conundrum
when I wasn't looking for it.
I couldn't find my glasses
to see when I died.
They took them away
and reaching was out
of the question.
Quicker than life can blink, death lobs a bite
To end life's beauty with a startling jab
As swine rootling truffles, it stalks with might
Trapping motley, rich or poor to its web
Amidst pleasures, our finest hope they steal
And cast in vaults where upon we shall slab
And soils are strewn over without repeal
It’s a drab drape on our wound like a scab
Who can halt this dark implacable plight?
Even conjurors’ mourn this scaring blow
With grunts, in grief and so without respite
A lobbed spear from the earth's shady shadow
Would the hand of sorrow and death be nabbed,
Yet their clutch leaves the heart stabbed.
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I'm beginning to feel odd,
hermit like if you will.
I refuse to believe all the lies
they tell wrapped up nicely like
presents presented as truth.
they even get our youth and act
like their parents when they
have none of their own.
believe me I'm not trying to
throw stones I just peep what
I know therefore I'm a homebody
where I know the truth unfolds
before my eyes in the privacy of
my home while I pray to the Upmost
author of truth for discernment to know
what He wants me to know
the veil can be removed and the light
can shine out and from within
then I have the boldness along
with courage to speak the gospel
to whomever will listen since it's
my intention to reach as many as I
can and help them understand real
love and salvation that is waiting for
them
a hermit I can be no more
~ The sting of death will always bring pain ~ grieve in peace ~
quote by poet
Every day he brings flowers to the place where the ashes are buried
The pain is at times unbearable, a dark g a t e
It takes years to learn to bear grief with grace and acceptance
Thoughts surround, envelop and overpower him completely
He can barely m u t t e r her name without crying
She placed her smile as a blooming j e w e l
Touches the s h a d o w, angels don't fall from the sky
Bedazzled in stripes
Mother nature’s warning sign
Bitter sting awaits
The stings, that disappointment brings, are deep,
When one’s believed in Love, and seen Love fail.
So often, on-track lives go off the rail,
And so, the Soul returns to caverns, deep,
And there, She waits, and gives up near all hope,
And huddles ‘between the rock, and the hard place’
And disbelieves in love, and faith and grace.
And rolls like round rocks, down a grassy slope
So gingerly, she weaves a net of rope
But lets the fish swim out! She cannot bear
To handle gentle things ungently. Where
Is gone the happy, faithful child of hope,
Who played with butterflies, and kites on strings?
O! Such an one is meant for joyful things!
How deep the stings that make men mistrust Love,
And women fly from comforts that Love brings,
And deeper is the poison in poisoned rings
That longing hearts refuse the thinking of.
There is no other station that can wound
As deeply, or as surely, as Love stabs
No other hook grabs deeply as Love grabs
And no lute, more than Love, as finely tuned
Can make my music sob, vibrate the strings
Of all the lutes that ever were, will be
With consonances. O! That I could Thee
Awaken, to the joys that Sweet Love brings.
But you would rather have than me, I think,
Brown eyes, brown hair, a Handsome with a wink!
Three wasps or hornets (I'm not clear)
Once stung my brother in his ear.
In memory, I hear his cries
Of shock and pain and pure surprise.
A horde of moms wiped off the blood
And slathered on a coat of mud,
An act my brother did endure,
Intuiting a soothing cure.
My bro was fine; the stings all healed
Yet what this incident revealed
Was how those women somehow knew,
Together, just what they should do.
Those moms are either old or dead
But what they did stuck in my head.
Communal help for one in need
Is recollection-worth, indeed.
I'm sensitive and I collect damage too easily
I sit here and I write but the words don't come too easily
I collect it from the people who come after me
I'm a collector of hurt feelings and for you it's not plain to see
it's okay, though, i'll collect it while we talk on the phone,
me to you but you to other people instead of me
maybe it's because I'm sitting here without you
writing out verses to ask myself "did you ever need me anyway?"
Bumble Bee Stings And Singing
Bee sting
Bumble is here
With fear
Fearsome
Generating
Real pain
Painful
Targeting you
To run
Running
Faster on wind
To wait
Waiting
Then get stung
Get wet
Wetter
In water sink
Hold breath
Breathless
For bee to leave
Then pray
Praying
Bee goes away
Then rise
Rising
To see it gone
Be calm
Calmer
Than the soft wind
Then sing
Singing
Is better than
Bee stings
Created on 12/01/14 for- "Mussetle Train" Poetry Contest
2 4 2 non rhyming
Watching wild Wasps
Fiercely flying forward
Sonic stings, sickly screams
Painfully piercing pandemonium
Experimenting with form I have not previously attempted.
Those lingering stings grows depths and last.
They seep their way in - to the past
To claw out your inner soul -
Those hopes you have with dents and holes.
Note: This is an old poem I wrote when I realized
I couldn't forget the past and that it would always
be a part of me: lingering.
Oh, for a life with no worries, no kinks,
possible in this world, everyone thinks;
I disagree,
that just can't be,
because when life loses its stings, it stinks!
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