A perfect metaphor for everyone's life is like
Standing up in a hammock or standing up on a bike
Now that's totally silly
And quite unhealthily
Could fall down, break your crown, should stick to a trike
(Alfred, Lord Tennyson, the greatest of Victorian
poets, formed a very close relationship with
Arthur Hallam and frequently visited the Hallam
home in Wimpole Street. After Hallam's sudden
death, Tennyson frequently returned to the house,
and stood weeping in the street.)
Tears, Idle Tears
When two young men are close – are more than friends,
perhaps? – as Tennyson and Hallam were,
and with one’s sudden death, the friendship ends,
what may we (faced with morbid grief) infer?
That Arthur bore the promise of the age
is well attested. But was taken young.
Is sorrow something simply to assuage,
or are there deeper wellsprings? Alfred clung
unhealthily to his. The morning rain
would lash him as he stood there, hat in hand,
in front of sixty-seven, drenched in pain
he neither could discharge nor understand:
abandoned lover, feverish and thin,
with salty raindrops dripping from his chin.
Thank You...
Sharon Moemise
For the sun that burns unhealthily
For the wind that blows continuously
A baby's cry that knows no end
A moment of silence that's heaven sent.
For waking up from under a newspaper
Rain pelting on a cardboard shelter
The stench of city air pollution
Music banging, chains rattling, much confusion
A drunk staggering across the street
An old man so tired, dragging his feet
For a flea infested wall of homeliness
Lives lived day to day, in darkness
Squalid water dripping from a leaky tap
A house pet under a tree for a quick nap
For all kind of pain that cut like a knife
Thank You Lord...for giving us life
once
a time
no longer ago than now
not future perfect but its imperfection’s past
down the river of flowing present
relatively just past the future
not when, when why is what needs answering
yet who’d care where it was
or whence it shall have been
not I for sure for despite all I am,
all I can do is think therefore
I am physically limited
these thoughts that stop and start and end
not yet begun
and yet long considered, that mind of mine is in
ill repair, unhealthily reconstructing
what was there before,
obliging nothing.
and so I spiral in swirling tides
that ebb and flow and slowly grind rocky
thoughts to ideas
concepts, hypotheses and
more thoughts that paddle me through the storms of
‘Now’
She sings a stinging melodramatic tale
Emphasizing agony and youthful betrayal.
Impulsively distraught between facts of existence
Unhealthily growing with mindful persistence.
Scaring the concerned and ignoring their cheers
Cutting the ties of her formative years.
Second guessing herself and ending confused
Her faithful conscience thinning, and bruised.
Questions arise with no meaningful answers
Wise methods disappear with kindled romances.
Fatuous smile and ever-changing eyes
This could destroy her intoxicating guise.
Am I hurting myself in the end?
Am I settling now for someone that’s a friend?
Or a love that is pure?
And a bond in which I’ve never been so sure?
But it’s you who does not know
Still it’s you who would rather hear yes than a no
Is it unhealthily wrong?
Or as right as the notes in a melodic song?
Oh, I guess we’ll never see
Where we’ll be, oh, where will we be?
But I want to be with you
And you feel the same way, too
So, don’t change and just stay, freeze time
It’s as simple as this effortless rhyme
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