A Palm Of Odes — A Passage Of American Poems II

I’ve heard it much; I’ve heard it lately, ’tis all I can gather, greatly.

Come once, come twice, come thrice. On such a kingly, bright spark of days; A belated ewe may moan over her fallen lamb by the council of Rooks and Crows: But these villains may retreat from her, in the body’s frail form by the next Winterhelden sun. But a harsh dawn will ever be thereafter by the teachings, tho’ disastrous of a slaughtered babe. She comes to, altogether by it. Time unto time, she’ll be.

Pale the hardship over with an Ode, to sup the embrace so desired for, and let this go. Let that hardship go with the solidarity of one another in the throes of pain and goes.

I’ve Heard Much Of Reason

I’ve heard much of reason

From this salt in their tracks,

Of wishful men and their ridiculous notions

So unseen!

Yet I believe them — Aquila, do I believe them!

Aren’t we all ridiculous in the pursuit

Of the evasive truths!

I’ve heard much of reason;

Yet, I’m not willing to foretell and conclude.

’Tis the harshening apple of our age now.

I’ve heard much of reasons;- Yet, it still hasn’t chosen to show itself in the blindness of most men.

A Rapacious Girl

‘Twill be good for a dozen on the whiling dime.

Dutch Was her Courage,

Ginger in the Rapacious Just;

Scotch in tinging, Snaring Tone.

Aye — water was still on the tracks;

Aye — it was her voice.

Begged, ‘twas my repassing tint for the Repose

From her Response:

A Rapacious Girl indeed; I was fond to meet her so.

Luging — Her Hearty Remains

’Tis not light; ’Tis not darkness — either or.

A striking instance; a failed Communion.

How can the frail form of the humane surmise himself by it or not?

Luging; chugging, methodical in his grandeur.

The grinding contrition of gnostic devotions,

Hapless lies and overarching truths.

A loosened ghost — a tallying broached;

Broach this man further by the confines of skin unto hardy flesh and loosened thrice again by the cleaving manner of dearly beloved friends departed.

’Tis not light; ’Tis hardly a darkening bellows.

From oblique woods far from a maddening turbillion.

’Tis only the vaguer contritions for the depleting love

Of all things that do not scorch the home grounds;

Sparse and beloved, besets their rest now.

A failing wad of suspects.

An Ode For Sanguine Acts

Oh; the Ode to for the political word to be the representative of such inquires of feeling and actuality, posed by the most meaningful means.

Oh; the prophetic Ode to be true! For that to be true;

To believe and chase the fond spirit of belief — of one another —

Wherein the words underlie the actuality than skirting around them out of shame or avarice of malice and discerning spite.

Oh; if the fuming man on his pulpit, however clandestine, binds his words by the dented wood his clenched, fisting hand does by forces — as he rises his hands aloft to block and jade the light, trickling down from unsettled beams;

To awaken the docile throng with his sex and his trust.

Oh; if that to be — the motion to live by the political poetry may come — But nay! That is the dreaming of an Old Sprite such as me to believe such woven desires of truth as that.

A Lasting Ode For Sweden

Oh, blast me further-far from these here-shores;

A thrusting cleave — Grappling me up on the littoral, come to sneer by and by that fair tide.

Ripping any guarding vessel harshly — in the depths of stark winter-held dreams; lurching as it does come, by the wintering done, we so seed.

Oh, blast me further-far from these here-shores;

Bitter tracks, heaved into the blinded mud, by the glistening rain that ado hillocks to the Eternal Luck of grinding attrition.

Dismal by hope; Dismal by plenty; fashioned true!

To end the grasp this disquieting madness alone affords

By the gentle rocks of a gaining sea

The trick of the response is to be this Madness:

Trillion’s faulting fatigue ripes the gentle skin:

This languishing ram of anguish,

By barmy brutes that froze me there.

Sliced, chapped, and chaffed by the tenderloin

To be mad ’tis to be alone utterly — Comes to grim.

To end this; this to end, the grooming Madness now, plotted to dismal lots.

Chucking this womanly enterprise to her final masterful throe; pinnacling one’s self truly to upheavals branched on ghosted, heavenly shores come to glot and gray.

Hear me that Rapicous girl, one more time for old sakes and that desire to forebear.

Away — I’ve become from the sisterly love once helden to thy cheapening bosom,

Now vanishing in phantasms of the mind, too ghastly to overthrown and say, save thee.

To sway evermore; I swear ’twas me.

Harboring; drowning gay was the content of my vanishing face hereafter;

Blotted to the waters, I’ve surrendered myself ever thusly to, marking my last reaching, thereof in kin to Jo.

’Tis all folks, I shall let you hemmer hereafter with these words; ideas; characters shared duly. If need be, I can report to you further with the next passage. Sincerely your humble scrivener, Madam Gruber.

Amen to my heavenly repose. And to you, blessed ones — My Dearest Reader.

Attributions to be lauded

Ever am I, in prospect, grateful for Landseer, and to Schenck especially and their masterful crafts to have images so befitting the sects of Humane emotions;- to a vast plain of emotes. Tragic is the piece; Hopeful Ever is my ebbing throw.

First Season Of American Poems:

Marches Of Gold; Our Publication:

Come To Medium:

As ever, Dear Reader.