Oh city, whom grey stormy hands have sown,
With restless drift, scarce broken now of any,
Out of the dark thy windows dim and many
Gleam red across the storm. Sound is there none,
Save evermore the fierce wind's sweep and moan,
From whose grey hands the keen white snow is shaken
In desperate gusts, that fitfully lull and waken,
Dense as night's darkness round they towers of stone.
Darkling and strange art thou thus vexed and chidden;
More dark and strange thy veiled agony,
City of storm, in whose grey heart are hidden
What stormier woes, what lives that groan and beat,
Stern and thin-cheeked, against time's heavier sleet,
Rude fates, hard hearts, and prisoning poverty.
All through an empty place I go,
And find her not in any room;
The candles and the lamps I light
Go down before a wind of gloom.
Thick-spraddled lies the dust about,
A fit, sad place to write her name
Or draw her face the way she looked
That legendary night she came.
The old house crumbles bit by bit;
Monday, July 5,2021
9: 22 AM
We must thank nature
that has provided us bright future
with many things free of cost
but things today are likely to be lost
the water was our prime need
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Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.
I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size
But when I start to tell them,
They think I'm telling lies.
You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may tread me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I'll rise.
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
I want you to know
You know how this is:
Hold fast to dreams
For if dreams die
Life is a broken-winged bird
That cannot fly.
It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of ANNABEL LEE;
The free bird leaps
on the back of the wind
and floats downstream
till the current ends
The time spent together
Now seems like a dream
What a cruelty of time
Meeting now seems a dream
Midnight strikes, and moonbeams howl
spiraling waves of ivory
Like charcoal lines of an old crone's face
Her wisdoms seldom savory
I found it on the internet,
done up in shades: black, white, a gray;
a photograph of a woman,
what her name is, I cannot say.
Of my mind the energy,
It is not always based on reason.
You see, my thoughts advance at times
In tune with the feelings of my heart
The cottage near the wood is crowded in blooms,
Its creamy facade is enlivened with many hues;
And large vases of flowers grace several rooms.
Myth of the peculiar pelican
Whose bill bloodies its feathery breast
Feeding blood to the chicks in its nest
Ancient acts ever evangelic
I was trying to mend
my mutilated poems without you.
Sometimes a nimble hand hurts.
I never think
PhD is a great degree
But I take it seriously
When people tell lies
Represented my country
In equestrian in Tokyo Olympic 2020.
Dreaming is a thought …
Portrayed during my sleep
It reminds to ponder more
What messages it bring?
The low lands call
I am tempted to answer
They are offering me a free dwelling
Without having to conquer
Beautiful is the 'thank you'
Wrapped with gratitude,
Offered to peace prone people
Who offer what is real-themselves
Indoors by technology, outdoors by speedy transport
I travel the world
Today in Japan, tomorrow in Rome,
Next day by an ancient civilization or in Hawaii or Coast Ivory,
The Peace Warrior Of Mzansi, among heroes - a colossus!
Sun Of The Nation; A rare gift of Providence.
Once, entangled in the web of racist succubus;
Unruffled he declares before High Justice:
Sweet moment, stay with me,
and pray do not flee so soon,
Let me enjoy the bliss of that
first kiss beneath the moon.
If you die before me
I would jump down into your grave
and hug you so innocently
that angels will become jealous.
No earthquake, no thunder, no volcanic eruption
Or even there was not any of other natural calamities,
A sudden loud sound broke out all through the bush
With whizzing, shuddering, cracking, tearing, echoing,
Il pleuvait sans cesse sur Brest ce jour-là
Et tu marchais souriante
Épanouie ravie ruisselante
TO AMARANTHA; THAT SHE WOULD DISHEVELL HER HAIRE.
Amarantha sweet and faire,
you put this pen
in my hand and you
take the pen from you put this pen
On this dry prepared path walk heavy feet.
This is not "dinner music." This is a power structure.
"Come, pretty birds, present your lays,
And learn to chaunt a goddess praise;
Ye wood-nymphs, let your voices be
Employ'd to serve her deity:
If you had the choice of two women to wed,
(Though of course the idea is quite absurd)
And the first from her heels to her dainty head
Was charming in every sense of the word:
A little while, a little while,
The weary task is put away,
And I can sing and I can smile,
Alike, while I have holiday.