A place where I post unscripted, unedited, soulless rants of a insomniac madman
She was a Phantom of delight
When first she gleamed upon my sight;
A lovely Apparition, sent
To be a moment’s ornament;
Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair;
Like Twilight’s, too, her dusky hair;
But all things else about her drawn
From May-time and the cheerful Dawn;
A dancing Shape, an Image gay,
To haunt, to startle, and way-lay.
I saw her upon nearer view,
A Spirit, yet a Woman too!
Her household motions light and free,
And steps of virgin-liberty;
A countenance in which did meet
Sweet records, promises as sweet;
A Creature not too bright or good
For human nature’s daily food;
For transient sorrows, simple wiles,
Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.
And now I see with eye serene
The very pulse of the machine;
A Being breathing thoughtful breath,
A Traveller between life and death;
The reason firm, the temperate will,
Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill;
A perfect Woman, nobly planned,
To warn, to comfort, and command;
And yet a Spirit still, and bright
With something of angelic light.
a cicada shell
it sang itself
utterly away
Lo! where the rosy-bosom’d Hours,
Fair Venus’ train appear,
Disclose the long-expecting flowers,
And wake the purple year!
The Attic warbler pours her throat,
Responsive to the cuckoo’s note,
The untaught harmony of spring:
While whisp’ring pleasure as they fly,
Cool zephyrs thro’ the clear blue sky
Their gather’d fragrance fling.
Where’er the oak’s thick branches stretch
A broader, browner shade;
Where’er the rude and moss-grown beech
O’er-canopies the glade,
Beside some water’s rushy brink
With me the Muse shall sit, and think
(At ease reclin’d in rustic state)
How vain the ardour of the crowd,
How low, how little are the proud,
How indigent the great!
Still is the toiling hand of Care:
The panting herds repose:
Yet hark, how thro’ the peopled air
The busy murmur glows!
The insect youth are on the wing,
Eager to taste the honied spring,
And float amid the liquid noon:
Some lightly o’er the current skim,
Some show their gaily-gilded trim
Quick-glancing to the sun.
To Contemplation’s sober eye
Such is the race of man:
And they that creep, and they that fly,
Shall end where they began.
Alike the busy and the gay
But flutter thro’ life’s little day,
In fortune’s varying colours drest:
Brush’d by the hand of rough Mischance,
Or chill’d by age, their airy dance
They leave, in dust to rest.
Methinks I hear in accents low
The sportive kind reply:
Poor moralist! and what art thou?
A solitary fly!
Thy joys no glitt’ring female meets,
No hive hast thou of hoarded sweets,
No painted plumage to display:
On hasty wings thy youth is flown;
Thy sun is set, thy spring is gone—
We frolic, while ’tis May.
these hips are big hips
they need space to
move around in.
they don’t fit into little
petty places. these hips
are free hips.
they don’t like to be held back.
these hips have never been enslaved,
they go where they want to go
they do what they want to do.
these hips are mighty hips.
these hips are magic hips.
i have known them
to put a spell on a man and
spin him like a top!
Personal Reflection:
When I first heard this poem, it was on audio. It was so different from What I thought poetry was supposed to be. While in school, we had Frost, Whitman, and others shoved down our throats. Though I had grown to appreciate the classics, I definitely had a bad taste in my mouth when it came to poetry. I discovered the beauty and complexity of poetry. Thank you, Lucille Clifton and the many other poets in my library.
I would not exchange the sorrows of my heart
For the joys of the multitude.
And I would not have the tears that sadness makes
To flow from my every part turn into laughter.
I would that my life remain a tear and a smile.
A tear to purify my heart and give me understanding
Of life’s secrets and hidden things.
A smile to draw me nigh to the sons of my kind and
To be a symbol of my glorification of the gods.
A tear to unite me with those of broken heart;
A smile to be a sign of my joy in existence.
I would rather that I died in yearning and longing than that I live weary and despairing.
I want the hunger for love and beauty to be in the
Depths of my spirit,for I have seen those who are
Satisfied the most wretched of people.
I have heard the sigh of those in yearning and longing, and it is sweeter than the sweetest melody.
With evening’s coming the flower folds her petals
And sleeps, embracing her longing.
At morning’s approach she opens her lips to meet
The sun’s kiss.
The life of a flower is longing and fulfilment.
A tear and a smile.
The waters of the sea become vapor and rise and come
Together and are a cloud.
And the cloud floats above the hills and valleys
Until it meets the gentle breeze, then falls weeping
To the fields and joins with brooks and rivers to return to the sea, its home.
The life of clouds is a parting and a meeting.
A tear and a smile.
And so does the spirit become separated from
The greater spirit to move in the world of matter
And pass as a cloud over the mountain of sorrow
And the plains of joy to meet the breeze of death
And return whence it came.
To the ocean of Love and Beauty—-to God.
Well, son, I’ll tell you:
Life for me ain’t been no crystal stair.
It’s had tacks in it,
And splinters,
And boards torn up,
And places with no carpet on the floor—
Bare.
But all the time
I’se been a-climbin’ on,
And reachin’ landin’s,
And turnin’ corners,
And sometimes goin’ in the dark
Where there ain’t been no light.
So boy, don’t you turn back.
Don’t you set down on the steps
’Cause you finds it’s kinder hard.
Don’t you fall now—
For I’se still goin’, honey,
I’se still climbin’,
And life for me ain’t been no crystal stair.
I ask them to take a poem
and hold it up to the light
like a color slide
or press an ear against its hive.
I say drop a mouse into a poem
and watch him probe his way out,
or walk inside the poem’s room
and feel the walls for a light switch.
I want them to waterski
across the surface of a poem
waving at the author’s name on the shore.
But all they want to do
is tie the poem to a chair with rope
and torture a confession out of it.
They begin beating it with a hose
to find out what it really means.
Expect nothing. Live frugally
On surprise.
become a stranger
To need of pity
Or, if compassion be freely
Given out
Take only enough
Stop short of urge to plead
Then purge away the need.
Wish for nothing larger
Than your own small heart
Or greater than a star;
Tame wild disappointment
With caress unmoved and cold
Make of it a parka
For your soul.
Discover the reason why
So tiny human midget
Exists at all
So scared unwise
But expect nothing. Live frugally
On surprise.
Blues
In the night
in my half hour
negro dreams
i hear voices knocking at the door
i see walls dripping screams up
and down the halls
won’t someone open
the door for me? won’t some
one schedule my sleep
and don’t ask no questions?
noise.
like when he took me to his
home away from home place
and i died the long sought after
death he’d planned for me.
Yeah, bessie he put in the bacon
and it overflowed the pot.
and two days later
when i was talking
i started to grin.
as everyone knows
i am still grinning.
A dark unfathomed tide
Of interminable pride –
A mystery, and a dream,
Should my early life seem;
I say that dream was fraught
With a wild and waking thought
Of beings that have been,
Which my spirit hath not seen,
Had I let them pass me by,
With a dreaming eye!
Let none of earth inherit
That vision of my spirit;
Those thoughts I would control,
As a spell upon his soul:
For that bright hope at last
And that light time have past,
And my worldly rest hath gone
With a sigh as it passed on:
I care not though it perish
With a thought I then did cherish.
We love stories that speak of adventure,
Ones that tell us “You too could be a hero!
You must set out from your home
And see all the wonder that lies before.”
We hear the call, but many may weep
Upon the news of our leaving.
This makes it hard for us to be leaving.
Even if we know that the adventure
Is our glorious fate, those who weep
Remind us that a lasting hero
Is not made when he leaves but before.
This is why we hold on hard to home.
For surely it will be a different home
After there has been this leaving.
No one can deny that what came before
Is greater than any gold-rumor adventure.
He who would leave this for gold is no hero,
But will gnash his teeth and weep.
But also among those who will gnash and weep
Are those who hold on too hard to home.
We feel disgust for that which clings to a hero
And would not have him be leaving.
There is certainly a time for adventure.
Home just will not be what it was before.
So let us not idolize what came before,
But let us keep for what we weep
To the end of this old adventure
That took place in our changing home.
It may be hard for us to be leaving,
But when has hard stopped a hero?
It is not easy being a hero.
We remember what we learned before
This moment, but now we are really leaving.
And with this realization we too may weep.
We too must set out from our home
In search of a hard adventure.
I understand why heroes weep.
Before, it was right to be home,
But we have to leave for adventure.
“Hope” is the thing with feathers –
That perches in the soul –
And sings the tune without the words –
And never stops – at all –
And sweetest – in the Gale – is heard –
And sore must be the storm –
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm –
I’ve heard it in the chillest land –
And on the strangest Sea –
Yet – never – in Extremity,
It asked a crumb – of me.
The past is the past for a reason.
That is where it is supposed to stay,
But some cannot let it go.
In their heads it eats away
Until all their focus becomes
The person they used to be,
The mistakes they made in their life.
Oh, if only they could see
That you cannot change what happened,
No matter how hard you try,
No matter how much you think about it,
No matter how much you cry.
What happens in your lifetime
Happens for reasons unknown,
So you have to let the cards unfold.
Let your story be shown.
Don’t get wrapped up in the negative.
Be happy with what you have been given.
Live for today not tomorrow.
Get up, get out, and start living,
Because the past is the past for a reason.
It’s been, and now it is gone,
So stop trying to think of ways to fix it.
It’s done, it’s unchangeable; move on.
Donna. “Changing The Past.” Family Friend Poems, July 6, 2011. https://www.familyfriendpoems.com/poem/changing-the-past
I sit upon my front porch stoop
Beneath the morning sun.
Grateful for the moment spent
Away from everyone.
The air is fresh and slightly chilled,
The sky is blue and clear.
The silence that surrounds me now
Is music to my ears.
I love the morning best of all,
It’s my most tranquil time,
When the promise of a brand new day
Can ease my troubled mind.
When second chances seem more possible
And the world less cold and dark,
And hope can somehow pierce the walls
Of my sad and aching heart.
When left alone with nature
All the world seems far away
And the woes of life so trivial
When wrapped in her embrace.
But alas the birds awaken
And begin to sing their songs,
And people slowly wander by
And nod as they go on.
The sun has now grown brighter
As it rises in the sky
And in the distance there’s a whistle
As a train goes lumbering by.
The world is calling out to me
To jump back in the fray.
To have faith things can get better
And let go of yesterday.
So today I get to start again
By the morning light renewed.
Feeling brave and energized,
There is nothing I can’t do.
In life there are people that will hurt us and cause us pain,
but we must learn to forgive and forget and not hold grudges.
In life there are mistakes we will make,
but we must learn from our wrongs and grow from them.
In life there are regrets we will have to live with,
but we must learn to leave the past behind and realize it is something we can’t change.
In life there are people we will lose forever and can’t have back,
but we must learn to let go and move on.
In life there are going to be obstacles that will cause interference,
but we must learn to overcome these challenges and grow stronger.
In life there are fears that will hold us back from what we want,
but we must learn to fight them with the courage from within.
God holds our lives in his hands. He holds the key to our future.
Only he knows our fate.
He sees everything and knows everything.
Everything in life really does happen for a reason: “God’s Reason”
This is a daily reminder
To relax,
To not get angry over small things,
To stay calm.
This is a daily reminder
To be yourself,
To not care what people think,
To know you can be anything.
This is a daily reminder
To love yourself,
To not hurt yourself,
To not work yourself up.
This is a daily reminder
That you are beautiful,
That you are amazing,
That you will succeed.
This is a daily reminder
To always have hope,
To have faith,
To know everything will be okay.
This is a daily reminder
That you have made it so far already,
That you haven’t given up,
That whatever you’re doing is right,
And that you are going to be amazing.
Don’t give up.
Keep holding on and believing.
Nicolette. “This Is A Daily Reminder.” Family Friend Poems, March 7, 2015. https://www.familyfriendpoems.com/poem/this-is-a-daily-reminder
Memoirs of Madness 