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chattcatt616

The Poet Weeps

The poet weeps
She has her own way of crying,
Her tears fall in her words,
Sometime she feels them flying,
Like the soulful songs of the birds,
Some people's tears are salted,
As they fall on the cheeks,
Her tears are in the pen,
She writes what she weeps.
She cries the words of her heart,
Her tears come from out of her soul.
She writes quietly in the dark,
Of tears that never show.
A poet's tears fall,
Where they may not be heard.
With a pen she cries,
Each tear becomes the word.
She has her own way,
Of healing her broken heart.
The words come so easy in the dark.
Some people cry salted tears,
As they run down the cheeks,
Words are the tears,
That the poet weeps.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Posted: Mar 2018
About this poem:
a poem I wrote years ago
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chattcatt616

Not every day can be roses and wine

It's so much easier to live in a dream,
or a fantasy of some kind
than it is to open your eyes to reality,
not ever days can be roses and wine,

they say that love is blind,
it's so much easier to believe in Love's sweet lies,
than it is to open your eyes,
and find,

that everyone doesn't always play fair
in games of love and war,
and you don't always get what you wish for
under that star,
And the reality that love sometime dies,
or that the heart doesn't always love wise,
and that it ends sometime,
lovers don't always mean what they say
not every day can be roses and wine



Sometime you have to pay the devil his dues,
they say that some of us are born to lose,
Let me be able to say,
I can take off my shoes and dance in Love's dust,
and play in the rain like a child,
I can still play by the flame,
when love 's fire grows wild,

there are clouds sometime,
but they may have a silver line,
behind them the sun still can shine
through the rain,

and in a mountain,
they say you can find,
diamonds and a gold vein,
not ever day is sunshine,
not every day can be roses and wine
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Posted: Mar 2018
About this poem:
a poem i wrote years ago
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themirroronline today!

The quotes garden - XVI – Oasis

"The Quotes Garden"


[ XVI ]


Oasis


“Oh! My dreams will fly as the wind goes by,
While I sit to crave the muse of my grave,
- For the cricket’s song came near not so long,
Where my heart sought heaves among rusty leaves;
One by one, in turns, the notes fall when mourns,
As I ought to know where he brought this bow,
For my harp sunk deep, mirror carp to sleep; -
Then I saw my muse. I sat there, to weep.
On the scarp I seek how these roots let loose
The humble ants, - then bumble bees over the plants
In such a hover, in searching of my lover,
To dwell her silver eyes for the one that dies; -
I know. Into my oasis, step by step,
The beats vanish as it seems I perish,
- My veins loop within the rusty chains,
The pulse pushes along the sloop
It’s last tide: Tick, tack… tick… tack… tick…”


©Th3Mirr0r

Embedded image from another site
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Posted: 15 hrs ago
About this poem:
from the book "The Quotes Garden" vol. I (2017 - 2019)
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worldwide2

DAFFODILS

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed—and gazed—but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Posted: Mar 2017
About this poem:
This is one of the most famous of Lyric Poetry ever written...
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shadow1950online today!

Spring

Once again spring is on her way
gone are the icy fingers of winter.
Birds are busy building their nests
buds on the trees ready to bloom.

Long days beckon the sleepy sun
to spread her warmth to the lands.
Eagerly plants spring back to life
bees and butterflies flit around.

At last there is colour once again
gone the drab grey of winter.
My heart lightens with such joy
singing along with earth's beat.

Everywhere I walk on these hills
I see signs of life springing up anew
The moors full of lambs bleating
and skipping with heartfelt delight.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Posted: Mar 5
About this poem:
life renewed
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southmiami4321online today!

Any Day is Mother's Day

Being a mother is equally beautiful
As it is challenging
Mom, Firebomb, Supermom
She is a friend, parent, guide
Who gave birth to a child
Who fosters a child
Who adopts a child
Blood-related is not all
A mother's love is unconditional
She carefully selects
How to help them grow
Strong and healthy
Not all mothers are alike
There are uninvolved
Gives excess freedom
Teaches confidence
compassion and love
A Mother is special
For every child
Mothers grieve their loss
Unending ilnesses to handle
The list goes on
Moms are part of parenthood
Embrace our differences
Rather than judgment
Mothers to Mothers
We can stumble and fall
Trying our best
For each day we are Mothers
Let's make the foremost of it!
Happy Mother's Day!
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Posted: May 9
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worldwide2

Sonnet #17

Who will believe my verse in time to come,
If it were fill'd with your most high deserts?
Though yet, heaven knows, it is but as a tomb
Which hides your life and shows not half your parts.
If I could write the beauty of your eyes
And in fresh numbers number all your graces,
The age to come would say 'This poet lies:
Such heavenly touches ne'er touch'd earthly faces.'
So should my papers yellow'd with their age
Be scorn'd like old men of less truth than tongue,
And your true rights be term'd a poet's rage
And stretched metre of an antique song:
But were some child of yours alive that time,
You should live twice; in it and in my rhyme.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Posted: Apr 2017
About this poem:
In the earlier sonnets, the poet's main concern was to persuade the youth to marry and reproduce his beauty in the creation of a child. That purpose changes here in Sonnet 17, in which the poet fears that his praise will be remembered merely as a "poet's rage" that falsely gave the youth more beauty than the youth actually possessed, thus expressing an insecurity about his poetic creations that began in the preceding sonnet.

This disparaging tone concerning the sonnets is most evident in line 3, in which the poet characterizes his poetry as a "tomb." Such death imagery is appropriate given the frequent incorporation of time, death, and decay images throughout the first seventeen sonnets. Ironically, the poet, who has been so concerned about the young man's leaving behind a legacy at death to remind others of his priceless beauty, is now worried about his own future reputation. Will his poems be ridiculed by readers who disbelieve the poet's laudatory praise of the young man's beauty? Not, says the poet, if the youth has a child by which people can then compare the poet's descriptions of the youth's beauty to the beauty of the youth's child — now asking the youth to have a child in order to confirm the poet's worthiness.

The sonnet's concluding couplet links s*xual procreation and versification as parallel activities: "But were some child of yours alive that time, / You should live twice — in it and in my rime." The poet's task is an endless struggle against time, whose destructive purpose can only be frustrated by the creation of fresh beauty or art, which holds life suspended.
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worldwide2

Sonet #22

Sonnet #22
Posted:
XXII.

My glass shall not persuade me I am old,
So long as youth and thou are of one date;
But when in thee time's furrows I behold,
Then look I death my days should expiate.
For all that beauty that doth cover thee
Is but the seemly raiment of my heart,
Which in thy breast doth live, as thine in me:
How can I then be elder than thou art?
O, therefore, love, be of thyself so wary
As I, not for myself, but for thee will;
Bearing thy heart, which I will keep so chary
As tender nurse her babe from faring ill.
Presume not on thy heart when mine is slain;
Thou gavest me thine, not to give back again.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Posted: Apr 2017
About this poem:
Forever Young
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mcradloffonline today!

Space

When are we going to Mars?
I heard it once by Bush Jr. back around 2005
Then nothing more was done or said
Now we have a drone flying on Mars
Big deal
We had space craft on Mars way back in the 1970's
So when is a man going to Mars?
When is a woman going to Mars?
When will we be going to the moons of Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, Neptune, Pluto?
I am hoping with Elon Musk's help it will be soon
The cost of sending nine astronauts to Mars is 1.5 Trillion dollars
We spend a lot of money on other things that hurt people
Why can't we spend money on things that would bring people true hope
Like Casey Kasum used to say "Keep your feet on the ground and
Keep reaching for the stars."
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Posted: May 14
About this poem:
One of my biggest disappointments is the lack of funding of space programs. The first man on the moon cost around three percent of the government's budget and ended in 1975. We are moving forward once again towards Mars, but still the political will is not there to put up some real cash towards this goal.
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themirroronline today!

The quotes garden - XIV – To the bards

"The Quotes Garden"


[ XIV ]


To the bards


“Yee, bards! Draw out your quills with thirsty silver feathers
And fill this cup of loneliness! Let’s raise it to the heavens!
O, you, forever thriving hearts, like beggars peeled off leathers,
- In such a wilderness, your presence brings the lofty ravens!
How to not feel such lore, by noble paths of life, you mighty bards,
When all the earthly kings bow down their heraldry to taste
A glimpse of peace, from everlasting fragrance, in their yards,
As if their fame, or treasures, withers, for a silence’s waste!?..
Yee, bards! You seal my broken heart, with chants of golden harps,
To soothe this weeping, roaring beast who lurks into the darkness!
O, let me grieve along my dying muse, as nightingale enwraps
Such ravishing remembrance that I so ought to harness in my madness!
For nothing else, now matters – in such pursuit of happiness, to be
Alike a shadow in the mist, without a purpose – banished forever
From such a cruel word in which my fate resides; my love for thee,
Has split, within our shared grave; - and so I weep, I weep, I weep:
Yee, bards, take me along your path, for this silence I endeavour!.. “


©Th3Mirr0r
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Posted: May 13
About this poem:
from the book "The Quotes Garden" vol. I (2017 - 2019)
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