A Tardy Collection Of Poems — Sommes And Songs
An Ode To Time And Again
The Bracing, Swelling Hand Of Belabored For Time —
May I wheedle you all with this little collection of Poems from another visiting station of mine?
To were, and hereto comes my pleasure to rock up the stature of Time and Zealous conjurings to settle such bestial wastes enlarged by some holy nature.
Plume and plummet the happening rest,
Wherein the maddening composer can,
Belabor just enough, for the quarterly;
To be fed and bedroomed happily,
For your query, is naught of my concern, by the simple manners of your Of tactless hollering.
Come to find me, and you shall — you may. I shall repent you all here.
Verging Unto Tomorrow
Verging unto tomorrow
I will be;
Beholden my dear sister.
Verging unto tomorrow
I will be;
Never in flux to repeat all
The Miseries of Yore;- Yet, I cannot contend,
Maybe becalmed
Shalt be over you
My dearest sister:
To never fleece innocence's broking zeal of Hope and Duress;
To never hold by agitated breasts,
The supplying desire to destroy
And behold no further entity
Than thyself to a Cause.
When you come, I shall await ye;
When you come,
Learn to find me,
I will be — you may also be,
Verging unto tomorrow.
- - — — — — —
Beaten Beet Comes My Morning
Splendid came the Morning!
Nestled, breezy and naked, and strine.
A rash hillock bending the quaking light
A dashing strip of roses gardened to I
Broaching me a repose before the midday panic!
Of hapless lovers’ in Locks and Pageants;
Oh, ode the fool, for divine misery they misdeed one
Another, whilst I harbor myself gay,
Draped and Locke,
As is my Beaten Beat comes my Morning!
- - — — — — —
Willowing Sadness
A Willowing sadness takes overall;
The rest remain speechless -
‘What else to hark? ’tis all that remains.’
- - — — — — —
In The Service Of Words
In service of words, this double-third ruling;
I dime the word by the shorting pursuits of breath.
I so retracted by the years’ preceding furlough,
Come now so halted by the service of my words;
Of these words so belated in haste.
I come to them now, as a mere servant;
Pining for the days’ wellspring before the end.
Pining for that service, I find myself,
In the lasting arch of service in these Words…
- - — — — — —
Silent Witness
If a God was bent on innate fears
It would be the immunity of a sudden song;
Never sung yet always rebelled against their power
By the silent witness, plunged to fate.
Oh, the firebrand that goes a-searching
For much, without ever the marche
To contend for why.
If my God was beholden to wield us
He would not grant us the powers of a wand
Over the minds of overtly eager men;
In that to-do-hearty pomp and zeal,
Who sounds the bleating sound of fiery
Without the fleecing currency of the Nature
All around them, commencing to all but
Idol, fury waves.
Of the suspected shadiness of an educated, tho’ overly filled and clambered
With the running zeal to be, never the wherefores and reasons why, so
Erudite as the idiot I become to them for breaking that tidy mold,
As tho’ I was brimming to be the unholy bedeviling spirit themselves!
If a God was bent on innate fears
To make his subjects mere warring things,
God expectative, God plentiful, he bashes
The wasteful man who has turned his ginned breasts
Into a neutering molehill of Erudition but
Vapid of all Humane Mistakes.
It would be the immunity of a sudden song;
Oh, ye, make this firebrand disappear from me;
I’ve had enough — pilot this apparating malady away,
And I will be the gladder ever still.
Humor me on that, ye muse of fates
Never sung yet always rebelled against their power
By the silent witness, plunged to fate.
If a God was bent on innate fears
He should’ve mistaken me for you.
- - — — — — —
The Haste For More
The Haste is ever there — ever there — ever there;
The losers in the rungs, come cheated, to delight
The chosen sight with the needed hubris of Certitude
The Haste;- Haste;- Haste for evermore;
For better than this now.
Never thriving only in the simpering
For more than this lot. He remarks now,
Only for a Marriage most virulent.
End by me, the losers in the rungs!
End by me, as we Schuff and huff at
The dashers on — repeating twice-to-be-had follies
And sum the drum that repeats us none!
For Death beholden, Death ever true — Death tomorrow, Death betiding us ever-few! By glory to service unto Death; And the Dignity life served us all;
I hereto descend the gap, Into a hobbling chamber,
With such spaces enclosed, I remain the tardy breast.
To be beheld, someday Unreturning, yet still I ado.
So therein, Rest — Rest, my warrior of lots, Rest now, and hold coldly, the remembrance to have been.
- - — — — — —
Another Collection Of Poems
Marches Of Gold; Our Publication:
Come To Medium:
As ever, Dear Reader.
