—For What Could Not Die—
They say true love outlives the reach of death;
then why make war when we must say goodbye?
If wrath can keep thy shadow warm with breath,
why forge another bond before we die?
Thou lift thine eyes into the vacant blue,
as though some hidden dweller waits for you;
and sleep withdraws when evening seals the night,
as if one absent face withholds the light.
I ask the men who trade in roads and bread;
they name each street, yet cannot name thy trace.
The world wakes on; I hear its iron tread,
yet every road goes empty in thy place.
That primal word—Be—called the dark to flame;
thou mayst unmake my world, not what became.
Power without wisdom
is only noise.
Gold does not teach judgment.
Office does not teach restraint.
A ruler is measured
by what he withholds,
not by what he blurts.
Racism is not strength.
It is intellectual poverty
wearing a crown.
To insult in public
is to confess smallness.
Even beasts know
their limits.
Democracy that elevates folly
betrays its own purpose.
When ignorance governs,
the state weakens itself.
A leader in a multiracial house
who divides by skin
rules already in decline.
Votes cannot sanctify cruelty.
Elections do not absolve vice.
A builder preserves.
A destroyer provokes.
When prejudice speaks from the throne,
the empire begins
to fracture.
History is patient.
It records
everything.
He told me.
He showed me.
Boldly.
Without knowing.
Withholding.
Right now in this moment I’m a Distant misfit.
My muse isn’t finished.
The universe laughs And it told me.
The universe is going to show me.
I was going against the universe boldly.
Without knowing.
So now the universe withholds me.
Sometimes you feel like nothing good happens to you—
The Sky withholds its Blue—
Yet unnoticed—Morning passes
Bearing You—
The Orchard does not praise the Bee
That sweetens every Rose—
Nor does the Lamp recount the Dark
It softly overthrows—
You wait for Fortune—like a Guest
Who never learns the Road—
Unknowing—you are Bread and Fire
Along another’s Load—
The World keeps ledgers—bright with Gain—
But Mercy keeps no Score—
It writes its Blessings—silently—
On Doors you never saw before—
So if your Heart feels poorly paid
For all the Good you do—
Remember—God keeps better Books—
And often—Writes down the Good You do--
I have one toe that goes above its job.
The digit developed a way to give
pleasure if merely squeezed on its wee tip.
Like whenever someone plays with my hair,
massages my receptive neck or back,
it’s a prized oh-ew-ah-oh-ahhh affair.
I appreciate it so, but that bratty toe
withholds unless another does the squeeze
and my other thinks I caught an odd disease.
I feel and see your love—
how you tend to the world
that too often withholds return—
how even in your own storms
you reach outward,
checking the pulse of others
even as your own pain
pressures in.
Your resilience is not noise,
not the crash of waves,
but the quiet strength
of a butterfly—
purple softness catching light,
wings still fluttering
even when torn by fierce weather.
You remind me
that care is an art form—
in every animal you nurture,
in every friend you hold
from drifting away.
The poet within you,
the self you feel has dimmed,
is still alive—
strengthening others,
strengthening me.
I may not always say it,
but your presence steadies me—
your efforts do not go unseen.
You are valued—deeply—
today and always.
None of you has died—
you live yet still—
your love carried on every flower,
every heart
you land upon.
In the depths of his soul, the gentleman keeps chords of silent harmony,
each key a secret, a universe of sounds that will not be uttered.
He carries in his heart an orchestra of dreams that need no stage,
for true art lies in the silence between the notes, in their unplayed state.
Like a magician of silence, he weaves untold stories in his gaze,
unheard chords that dance in the air like butterflies at dawn.
Each of his gestures is a silent symphony, an invisible poem,
unfolding in the depths of his being, without the need for applause.
In his silence, he hides the sea of sounds that could resonate,
but his elegance lies in the art of keeping the music just for himself.
Just as the moonlight caresses the earth without setting it ablaze,
he leads his existence, a gentleman of silence, of perfect calm.
In a world full of noise, he chooses to be the silence that speaks,
a poet of unheard sounds, an artist of the absence of noise.
And thus, his beauty is not in what he plays, but in what he withholds,
a master of the inner chord, of music that is never revealed.
Dawn
To the most ardent hours beholding peace
Plodding through the wild night of unease
Finally meets the creases of spark
Shining through the bulky layers of dark...
The hour withholds the music of eternity
Encompassing the silence of infinity
Wide eyes watching the sky giving birth
Witnessing these hours have always been worth...
These hours enticing a steady pause
Quite stands firm on its cause
Showcasing the steadiness in its beauty
Withstanding its inevitable duty...
Man, Perhaps walks through a similar play
Entangled into chaotic cycles of the day
He awaits a dawn of serenity
An hour of pure amenity...
~Akshaya
Much-maligned during his Presidency
George W. Bush still denied residency
in the Republican Party today
‘Midst the mess in the Middle East
The GOP yet withholds its charity
~ from a leader of true moral clarity
What if He appears
As the trumpet cheers
With a train of angels
When judgment labels;
Will you hear that saintly sound?
What will you be?
Mortal forever, or immortal eternally?
Where will you be?
At the bar, the club
Or in the Church?
What if He appears
The Son of Man
In heavenly adornment
With lightnings and all glory;
Will your life attract that call—
To stir you up unto Himself?
Will you fit to sing in the light's space?
Or are you sure to enter into that palace?
What if He appears
With all power unto Him
That upholds and withholds
The devils' ancestry;
Will you, if being dead, resurrect;
And if being alive, rapture?
Or, I see, you may have fallen short!
What if He appears
In His Royal Majesty
As the scriptures said
Of that certain day
Will He say “depart, I know ye not!”.
Are your ways right?
Will your soul cry or sing for joy?
Where will you stand?
On Hell's soil?
O’ the faithful saints shall stand on Heaven's rock!
Rendezvous to barren hill tops in the still of eve, no tones to ricochet only owls and nightingales, the city lights amidst the sky like gemstones strung through dark robed cloaks glistening, our clasped hands like furled roses at twilight. And I, I remember driving, as the sun shone through your wind bound hair just like rays scatter through citrus trees in the spring. You left a kiss within my lips as lanterns in still waters are the farewell wishes for the dearly parted, and you like clouds part and then appear but at times, at times that kiss glows within my smile.
The heart withholds eternities forever.
Distances can be recovered over and again.
But you only pass once.
Submissive to our desires this quiet epitaph we call the soul
withholds us mind, body and heart
it joyfully contains and aligns us to our greatest aspirations and dreams
inside us, the soul journals our progress through accurate Akashic records never to be erased, it observes destiny's groove
This sweet little thing we call the soul,
is always present in our lives, keeping us wondrously
both human and alive.
The soul, it cannot be divided for it is here to teach us creationism
it was there the day we were born and it will be there,
until the day we die.
December 25 2022
In wild vanity your curiosity hunts
What no greedy archer ever shot;
And pining under unrequited labor,
You’ll condemn your inclement lot.
In ceaseless tilling your brow
Shall toil endlessly under sun,
Till no sweat sits on your skin;
And return with no medal won.
For your parsimonious hand
Withholds the destitute's alms;
Making poor riffraff folks curse
The sting of your stingy palms.
Kindest Heaven's warning counsel
Patient gracious amnesty supplies;
Now open those hoarding stores,
And heed the unfortunate's cries.
I know, love, you'd surely come back,
Though our conflict seems hilly crack;
Does angry moon, her waxing crop?
Do rude roses their blooming stop?
Though your ego your mind withholds,
I can hear your steps cross thresholds.
14 August 2021
When Night Withholds Its Beauty And Your Tender Breath
The Well of Memory sought I to quench my thirst
My heart remembers love's depths, how you were my first
Your Sensuality in grace, those blue-cast eyes
Our first dawn, waking underneath Heavenly skies
The Enormity of overpowering Love
Summer's wonders, an angel that fell from above
Sad now that its light has all gone, seems ages ago
Fate's blade can stop even mighty Amazon's flow.
Time and Heartache, lingering within sorrow's heart
Yet existing centuries we have been apart
None but the very brave could live on without you
When our Love was crushed into agonizing blue.
When night withholds its beauty and your tender breath
Plead I, we will be reunited after death.
R. J. Lindley, May 24th, 1979
Sonnet, ( I Thirst To Drink From The Well Of Memory )
First note: 5/24/1979
When such pain seems unbearable, what can one do
As such casts both heart and soul into a dark pit
I once believed life could only be with you
Am learning to defy this world's most savage hits.
Sub Categories
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.