There's this thing;
it's called Beauty.
but it remains
There is power in being.
There's this thing;
it's called Child.
It grows up
but there remains
There is power in being.
What line is drawn between naming and being?
Is the line just one of those things that changes?
I need this power of drawing lines.
To separate, to cocoon, to become my own thing
To remain a power
To maintain a being
In the blank pages of a book
Rests potential for fame
In some filled pages of a book
Rests potential for shame
Be careful what goes in your book
But as you sit and write
in the pages of your book
Stop and think and look at what you write
Do you write horror, war, or mystery
Or math, science, or history
Whatever you write
Keep it true no matter what you do
Let the world hear you
As you cry your solemn cry
In the pages of a book
Stop to think and ponder
Why you write your little book
Whether it be from anger, fear, or shame
Or whether it be from happiness, beer, or blame
Whatever the reason may be
I tell you
As you write you mighty story
With its long and solemn cry
Always stop to think and sit
And maybe ponder why
I wrote this about a man, I can relate this to many men I have known. They always seem to know how to trigger the pessimist in me. It also conveys a longing I find inside me that one day I will have a saviour. I do not write with any knowledge of poetry I am merely trying to express myself.
This is a poem about all the good people in the world, and those looking out for us.
"The Virtue (Guardian Angel)"
The angel screams in a voice so heavenly,
So laden with fatalistic and unanalytic virtue,
So unpresuming and inclusive,
Booming out across the countryside,
Clear like a note from a bell,
With all the killer graces of a bull,
But with all the tenderness of a lamb as well,
Nestled inside the sacred notes of the beckon.
It laments the proven appliances of the badlands it inhabits,
All night, keeping close in sight of the promised land,
And breaking each vow until his purpose is understood,
And it leaves behind the cherubim's proclamation,
To speak the trouth to a troubled soul down on the actuated, fixed, paradoxical range of a world,
That can never make a difference to those who know the angel's truth.
The angel has sprung from the farthest reaches of the world,
To tour across the oceans,
And bring its sweet notes to all who wish to know true exultation of a godly proportion.
Somewhere, tending a garden, an old widow sighs,
For her lack of glorious dreams to reach across the sky and touch,
The angel stalks the road and weathers the night,
Before taking her hand, if only for a moment,
To touch her life as only he can, in a cascade of passion-filled beauty,
And perhaps a true love and compassion,
Or perhaps he is just suspended in his spectacular performance,
From strings emanating from heaven like wispy tendrils of tears on every city of the night.
Frozen in a moment of time so sincere, so exclusive,
So as to transcend in a wormed-out hole of a deep perfect blue,
As the golden bars swirl and entwine the blue in their luster,
Only to be swallowed themselves in the black,
That leaves the angel unharmed.
Heaven's angel, God's secret assassin, the Devil's ambassador,
The angel wears many faces,
But it can only wear one soul on the outside.
For if one is to split one's soul, as we wear many faces,
One is then to sacrifice that which makes us at the level of the image in the eyes of God,
But in the eyes of man, only black and white,
For in the angel, we rise forever dynamic,
But in the eyes of man, we lie forever static.
Yes, the soul remains an angel of heaven,
A minister in the palominic panorama,
That Apollo so willingly rides.
The angel remains futilely emotion-bound,
As I echo so many a time,
How futile are our attempts to alter that which is stone!
The angel does not echo sentiment,
But brings a sentiment entirely different from the widow,
To the next man or woman to which he will touch with so close an intimacy,
And so tender a compassion,
So as to be clasped in the golden bars,
Hidden in the blue,
And enveloped, but lying unharmed, in the blackness of space.
The angel's laments are overdue,
Overdue as well are his joy and trumpetous blasts,
Screams all across the countryside.
The Lord looks upon his servant with respect and
Admiration in an unparalleled and unduplicated, yet unimitated, yet unattempted,
Complete form in his prophet.
The angel's main face is the prophet from God,
And so this face it wears as it takes the hand of those who find themselves
In dire need of something to believe in.
Thanks for reading! I hope you liked it! Remember to please keep all criticism respectful--you are the first people to read my poetry, comments and constructive criticism please, I'm young and would like to improve. I realize my poems are rather confusing sometimes. If anyone doesn't get what this is about, just ask. I will tell you immediately. More to come...unless no one liked this.
If you are looking for love poems, you have come to the right place.
Lets wear our heart on are sleeve shall we?
Lay the cards on the table and go all in.
Lets sit and wait, and watch and laugh, as life goes on, lets make this last.
But what is it really that your betting, is it worth the risk your risking?
Tick tick the clock hand moves for 7am to 9 and then 10pm.
Let's watch him make his finally move pair of jacks against a pair 'o pocket aces.
Lost his game he cashs out and the winner gets the pot amount.
What's left of a once vibrant soul is nothing but an old friend and fool.
His eyes decieve the truth, or not?
Is his risk worth risking or is it not?
If not all that glitters is gold
Then pardon me to be so bold
There’s a lady that says bring her the different smiles of the world
If only to strengthen her resolve
She seeks to capture the nostalgia before it dissolves
But the man in the moon whom she loves
Seems to turn a dark eye to her for only he knows
So she closes her eyes only to rest her head on the pillow
Descend into dreams of the fallen hero
Reminisce of a time when she looked through untainted eyes when the man would shine through her window
Alas the man shines no more he is all but captured by the shadow now
he rarely smiles now and even so it but only from the corner of his mouth
He smiles for the lady that awaits him upon his journey from north to south
We use to smile too but alas she has taken the smile of our mouth
Only to complete the man to whom she gives her love