User:Voice of All/Poems
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Welcome to my poems, from topics of humanity and death to outright lovey-dovyness! Enjoy :).
To my Love
Within my inner essence lies a Love for you
most profound as is our surging source of day...
Oh Intangible sea of wonder, solely that is you,
Why must we be two! Let us together find a way!
Encompassing within your transient symbol form,
source of your air, the inexplicable evident flare
of a rare abiding Righteousness--to thee most warm,
an invisible, twirling, Kindred glare!
Paralleled in Integrity, of bounding virtuous ties,
your graceful apparition foils any pages inked!
Dreamt have I to see those innocent sparkling eyes
to their radiant angel linked...
Within a moment, the bane of abysmal despair,
my little, living, beacon of Hope and light!
A pristine angel, in your very nature, so rare...
You enrapturing presence and ever welcome sight!
By the eminent and immortal Searing swords,
of longing heart’s desire,
no longer I withhold these honest words
of everlasting Love for you.
I hope you truly do not mind,
if I want to be with you:
I’d really like to spend time with you,
will you respond in kind?
Iridescent Flare
The restless Sky drifts in darkness,
grey clouds crackle and thunder,
followed by a sudden brightness,
then they meet their rapid sunder.
Now I see a Sky as tranquil as canvass,
sustained lilacs appear quite graceful,
heeding the blue they now may harness;
shades of life, perpetually, so needful.
I also see the nigh Stars most numerous,
silhouettes now grow and dance at night,
an unclouded moon, falsely luminous,
all appears, now, as a splendid sight.
The dreaded grey may soon return,
the sky may cry and sigh this day,
having one request with yearn:
please don’t go away.
A work of Art
I had stood there amidst the iciness;
trapped mounds and straining stalagmites;
among fronts and peaks but restlessness,
static white and grey; no sun nor other lights
I put hand to brush and drew this art:
every tree and ice-sickle, frozen leaf and blade,
fallen stem and twig, lost crate and apple cart;
framing it outside with a rack that I made
I, later, saw the timely art had remained,
and considered: should time bid return,
I ought to view, once more, the life here retained;
and so I ventured off, pregnant with yearn.
I Miss You
Wherever I am I think of you-
your graceful loving charm
your innocent method too-
resistant to emotion’s harm...
I wish we were no longer two.
Wherever I reside I think of you-
while embracing mild summer air-
I thought of your pleasant aroma;
your fair aura, countering despair,
and wished you were there...
Wherever I go I think of you-
while passing winter’s subtle trees
I felt a sudden gentle breeze-
I thought of your pretty swaying hair
and wished you were there...
Wherever I dwell I think of you-
while gazing at the grey-blue skies-
I thought of your mysterious eyes
gazing in awed reflection...
and wished you were there...
Wherever I am, I wish you are there:
when immersed in morning’s radiance-
I think of your warm, gentle, smile;
While staring at the starlit sky-
I sense your soul near me, in part;
I feel a glimmer in my eye-
and a presence in my Heart.
Broken Wing
Graciously, this lonely broken butterfly
descends from lofty faithful flight
unruly winds nigh, on a dead leaf it soon will lie,
in constant flux it lives, an odd angelic plight.
Woeful is the flower, visited a dozen times,
whose prosperity stands as testament
to short gentle lives, as perfect pantomimes
to give a gift for the grieved; a living monument.
Weak is the wing that breaks in nature’s wind,
which absorbs the nigh discolored leaves;
itself ceded to the sod, it accepts a fateful end;
a prolonged and sorrowful death it receives.
This pretty sight has rose once more,
far away from death, away from loneliness,
off it flutters, with a mended wing that tore,
to a lone path of wishful highness.
I had been lost for years, in the forest
wandering amongst the wealthy;
I, myself, resigned, one of the poorest;
Or so, naively, I had thought...
While wandering in despair, in perpetual daze
the taunting food invoked blasphemous cries,
within this great--living--baffling maze,
accessible only to thine eyes;
Or so, naively, I had thought...
In inquiry, I spoke to a prominent local:
‘Do you have any wealth to share?’
“I am sorry, but there is little I can offer,
I have but a ring, a nevus, and some blood
--in my coffer.”
He gave me one fruit, which soon became--
- a rotten pair...
I hated him for the taunt, of what I most sought;
Or so, naively, I had thought...
Desperately, I visited a prosperous shrub,
- who gently cried:
“What is it child, what can I do for you?”
“Show me exactly where the ample fruit is found”
- –was my anxious reply.
“The ample fruit kindly waits as feed,
wherever you have planted your seed.”
Disappointed, I knew it was just a lie--
as most of whom I saw had never did such work;
Or so, naively, I had thought...
Upon waking from my deathly faint,
I heard a pretty voice, and saw a radiant face;
I learned that such yearning was spreading taint,
and rose, to consume the elemental fruits;
that so clearly I had always known.
The Silent Country
Where lies this distant, curious, place,
most unlike the common land I see,
wherein lives a timid race,
to which I travel, inevitably?
Slowly, I cross the dreaded waters,
perhaps only on the weakest of wood,
weathering scurvy tides of desire,
having never done all that I could...
Yet well feared this entire journey is not,
for many a dawdling man may hath drowned
in unexpected winds, hastening his trek;
too careless to construct a worthy vessel,
from he...no one hath heard a sound.
Anxious to see this mysterious kingdom;
nostalgic to leave the familiar soil;
afraid to meet the unfathomed oceans...
I have little choice but to continue my toil--
paramount to me are my mind’s grim notions...
Feared the rapid ending of this journey is–
the humbling revealing arrival...
perchance to arrive at some endless Gate–
deciding the way of one’s abiding survival--
intransigent, now, to amend thy Fate.
What can I expect upon my entrance?
to obtain a living watery grave,
or to receive passage, in eased acceptance,
to make home this sphere of lofty rave?
Perchance to find grated drifting shells.
Strangely, I loath not this swift sword;
my heart hath given insight to the scour,
in this mysterious land of our word,
beyond my final, living, hour.
Curious Relic
Such fragile ancient artistry
made by one and made of two,
few, now, are but history,
the mysterious ones are all but new.
Who are ye, the elusive architect,
source of debate and argument,
safe from our scour and intellect;
for eons but clues layer the earth.
Who are ye, the lost shapely welder,
caster and keeper of the second flame:
upon molding these forms until it fades
they return from whence they came.
