Poetry and Prose for any season

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Here is my first ever write in poetry- Narrative form. Hope you may enjoy it , posted it last month on my poetry site it got over 1349 views the first three days and about 25 comments. This was written by a very much younger me..




A Dream That Came True


In my mind's eye I had seen her undress a thousand times
sending hot flashes that exploded with her moaning
Months before ever summoning the courage to speak to her
I practiced the words befitting her splendor!

She had been noticing my adoring glances as she
adjusted her skimpy bikini in the bright sun
Showing just what a man, any man would hope to see
I moved closer anticipating her charming refusal
to my shock she answered a quick yes and our date
that night was on!

I asked her to wear something sexy and she replied
how about I wear no panties?
My stammering answer made her laugh that laugh
the one that sent shivers up my spine in anticipation

It is on! We met at theatre and hardly watched the movie
for her hands were busier than mine!
A nice change to feel the heat of a woman so anxious
I almost wept with joy! What a thrill! She had kept her promise
No panties!!!
None under that sexy short skirt that had made the other men
openly lust for her charms! I saw and was amazed that this vision of
sexual beauty was actually with me!
What happened later that night you can imagine,
the earth shook, the sky fell and I heard a ringing bell!

We married two months later and it was pure sex and bliss
Non stop sex night and day.. Ahh, the memories that last a
lifetime!
Nothing that great can last forever. We burned like the Sun for
a few years and then it happened..
The crash!
My motorcycle hit a tree ,I was rushed to the hospital and woke up
three days later to discover it had been only a very vivid daydream!
My heart broke , I was sorry to have came back to the world! Then,
O' yes then in walks a vision so lovely my heart almost stopped

A new nurse. So hot the paint on the walls started melting.
Over she floats to my bedside. I sat wide eyed looking like a fool!
Awestruck with anticipation! She took my hand, took my pulse .

I fumbled for words, I fought for control. I begged for help to impress
her!
Finally, finally I felt power return and I asked her to just pinch me!
Pinch me! Let me know I am not dreaming again..
She laughed and pinched my left cheek. The lower one! I felt the earth
begin to rise. She noticed and laughed,
LAUGHED THAT LAUGH!!! That laugh!
That laugh came from those sweet lips. I begged for help and she smiled,
O' that smile!
As she turned to leave I asked her to see me again and she said yes!
I shall return in two hours to give you your bath.. Then winked at me!
Longest two hours of my life!
Then I woke up still laying beside my crashed motorcycle!
With a broken leg and shattered dream!!!
Fate can be so cruel.....
So damn cruel...... Then the door opened and I hear her say with a
smile. Time for your bath darling !!! Its late and I'll block this door!
Then she removed her clothes. Crap, dreaming again I thought...
And that is how I met my first wife. Yes she was a dream!!
Something that great never lasts, never lasts....

Robert Lindley

Dedicated to my first wife.... and some of it is even true!!!
Found this last week while rummaging around in some old files I had...

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Disappearing Ship With Shadow At The Prow


I sit with setting sun in evening twilight
gold and orange rays vanishing now
On comes the mysteries of this lonely night
disappearing ship with shadow at the prow

The night breeze so cool and silently calm
churning waters flow by with ease
Hardened heart like callouses on my palm
this dark time suddenly sets to please

Sailing on into each new imaginitive realm
constant pain tags doggedly along
Captain of my fate stirs slowly at the helm
past spirits sing their soulful song

I sleep deeper into this long flowing dream
ages fly by in streaks of enlightening rays
Serenity and solitude blessings of this stream
ship protected as its kneeling captain prays

Robert J. Lindley, 12/28/2014

Note- Reflections of a life now gone and
future time that must be wisely used.
No time for wasting efforts or foolish wants.
The mountains I sought to demolish stand as
sentinels to the futile vanity of a man and his
ego...

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Nature's Goddess Came To Greet


I stood upon a new dawn
When life was on the mend
And Spring burst in my heart
Nature's glory became my friend
Night stars and moon gave delight
As if life commanded this show
Brilliant rays cast upon the trees
A movie brightened dark the night


The forest spoke its worth
Creatures danced in sweet time
A pulse livened the glowing scene
Death and birth both sublime
Earth sent spirits to reveal
Stardust lying, lightly all around
Sights and sounds marvelous to behold
Mysteries slept in time surreal


Blast of knowledge entered in haste
Trees spoke with renewed vigor
Nightbirds sang in softened tunes
She appeared a glowing figure
Nature's goddess came to greet
Lowly man now most confused
A gift rarely ever given man
Goddess showering presents at man's feet


Set deep in this majestic night dream
Earth, Man and Nature eternally a team


Robert J. Lindley, 12-31-2014

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

My newest contest write.. Decided to spin one out tonight before hitting the hay..


Night Of The August Moon

She loved and left all too soon
my lover from nights of the August moon
Hair so black with eyes so blue
we joined, we fell in deep love , we two

Time stood still as we demand
our hearts beat in each other's hand
Dawns birthed new days of thrills
we roamed the valleys and forested hills

Ages passed in those blissful days
hold out against life's mysterious ways
Fate sent its messenger to cast
a separation that did forever last

Sun is black each day at high noon
as I cry for my lover of The August Moon

Robert J. Lindley, 1/1-2015

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Wrote another one for a new contest ..


Sweet Words Of Undying Love Spoke


O' yes, how well I remember her still
giant black oak atop big wooded hill
Those treasured days now long flown by
our free spirits flying so very high

Summer days within Nature's fine realm
majestic views that did so overwhelm
Cloudy days in the meadow far below
flowers galore, O' what a great show

My lady and I went up there to park
glorious scene set our hearts to spark
Under canopy of that old massive oak
she sweet words of undying love spoke

Our tree saw our love start to bloom
picture of that oak in our bedroom
Two years it watched our love grow
how was it to ever see or dare know

Life came and flew on us so fast
love came deeply but failed to last
Fate sent us onto far different treks
love destroyed, both lives were wrecks

Now I pass that massive tree on the hill
memory recalls her beauty , what a thrill
Time destroyed the scene it ruled then
O' the love of what should, could have been

Robert J. Lindley

note : Area cleared in the early 90's , only tree atop that hill
is that lone mighty oak!
A sentinel to the destruction that the world, man's world, wrecks
upon man and Nature alike!!

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Finished this write tonight. Posting it here first. I wrote it for a contest but have another poem halfway finished from last week . Going to wait until that one is done to decide which one to enter.



And The Piper Plays Ever On


The mystic piper paid his earthly dues
strange tunes he did so often choose
Notes that ring so loud and so clear
wiping away doubt and darkened fear

Yet each found this a false delight
shadows that lurched in evil night
Music set to lowly goals and greed
easing pains from a desperate need

Dancing in a deepened hollow ring
woes trailed all that shout and sing
Piper plays on in his standard way
as his victims spin and gaze far away

Stars spin away so very far, far above
this world needs more, always more love!

Robert J. Lindley, 01-03-2015

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Measures Of Dust On Our Treasures


Tick , tick , tick of that clock
do not be blinded or in shock
Time controls if you hear it not
nobody is fine, all have been shot

Minutes and hours just measures
of dust on our precious treasures
Layers deep we dance on along
unaware of sad ending of the song

Time races onward far, far ahead
preparing for when we are dead
Date we rarely ever get to choose
Nobody beats Fate we all lose

Tick, tick, tick the clock goes
as we play our sad little shows
Even when great love comes around
by death its ending is ever bound

Shall we despair in chains of time
or lounge in ignorance oft so sublime

Robert J. Lindley, July 24, 1989

note: An old poem, written in 1989.
I was 35 years old with my daughter KaShaundra
only one year old. I imagined a future with her
married and having 5 kids.. She is now 27 years old and
about to have a second son this week. Either I saw farther
ahead or she has been lax in the baby making department!

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

The Curves Of Those Sensual Lips


The curves that form those hips
soft curves of those sensual lips
The beauty that my mind so trips
face could launch a thousand ships

Hair that shines and so allures
from your love I want no cures
Willingly fall for all your lures
your body, please give the tours

Eyes that emerse me in a feast
power that fuels me into a beast
Bright with a slant from the East
love me, marry me, touch me at least

Legs that so thrill my eager mind
you the treasured greatest find
Wrap me up, my body please entwine
our hearts, your body must bind

Face that drives me deep into lust
have you, love you, I simply must
Beauty forever , you I simply trust
yes, love you until we both are dust

The curves that form those hips
the curves of those sensual lips
With your love I'll make no slips
we love deeply into forever trips

Robert J. Lindley, 01-05-2015

My wife challenged me to write a descriptive poem about
her in less than 20 minutes.
I banged this out in 17 minutes flat..Now posting it with no edits.
Her opinion was, "ok, it will do"...... lol
I guess thats better than, "it stinks"... lol

[gabosaurus]

Here is a "blast from your past" bit of prose for you. Straight from the ultra-liberal punk movement of the early 80's.
"We've Got A Bigger Problem Now" by my all-time favorite punk band, The Dead Kennedys.


I am Emperor Ronald Reagan
Born again with Fascist cravings
Still, you made me President
Human Rights will soon go away
I am now your Shah today
Now I command all of you
Now you're going to pray in school
And I'll make sure they're Christian too
California, uber alles
California, uber alles
Uber alles, California
Uber alles, California
Ku Klux Klan will control you
Still you think it's natural
Nigger knockin' for the master race
Still you wear the happy face
You closed your eyes, can't happen here
Alexander Haig is near
Vietnam won't come back you say
Join the army or you will pay
Join the army or you will pay
California, uber alles
California, uber alles
Uber alles, California
Uber alles, California
Yeah that's it, just relax
Have another drink, few more pretzels, little more MSG
Turn on those Dallas Cowboys on your TV
Lock your doors, close your mind
It's time for the two-minute warning
Welcome to 1984
Are you ready for the Third World War?
You too will meet the secret police
They'll draft you and they'll jail your niece
You'll go quietly to boot camp
They'll shoot you dead, make you a man
Don't you worry, it's for a cause
Feeding global corporations' claws
Die on our brand, new poison gas
El Salvador, Afghanistan
Making money for President Reagan
Making money for President Reagan
And all the friends of President Reagan
California, uber alles
California, uber alles
Uber alles, California

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Here is a "blast from your past" bit of prose for you. Straight from the ultra-liberal punk movement of the early 80's.
"We've Got A Bigger Problem Now" by my all-time favorite punk band, The Dead Kennedys.


I am Emperor Ronald Reagan
Born again with Fascist cravings
Still, you made me President
Human Rights will soon go away
I am now your Shah today
Now I command all of you
Now you're going to pray in school
And I'll make sure they're Christian too
California, uber alles
California, uber alles
Uber alles, California
Uber alles, California
Ku Klux Klan will control you
Still you think it's natural
Nigger knockin' for the master race
Still you wear the happy face
You closed your eyes, can't happen here
Alexander Haig is near
Vietnam won't come back you say
Join the army or you will pay
Join the army or you will pay
California, uber alles
California, uber alles
Uber alles, California
Uber alles, California
Yeah that's it, just relax
Have another drink, few more pretzels, little more MSG
Turn on those Dallas Cowboys on your TV
Lock your doors, close your mind
It's time for the two-minute warning
Welcome to 1984
Are you ready for the Third World War?
You too will meet the secret police
They'll draft you and they'll jail your niece
You'll go quietly to boot camp
They'll shoot you dead, make you a man
Don't you worry, it's for a cause
Feeding global corporations' claws
Die on our brand, new poison gas
El Salvador, Afghanistan
Making money for President Reagan
Making money for President Reagan
And all the friends of President Reagan
California, uber alles
California, uber alles
Uber alles, California

That's more of a chant Gabby. They may sing it but its not any level of poetry or prose to brag about IMHO. First, in poetry or prose, there should always be truth. That was chalked full of lies and is basically just political jargon slung together.
Don't you know any T.S. Eliot, Emerson, Keats , Hawthorne, Byron, Poe, Longfellow, Shelly, Browning, Stanton, Payne, Mitchel, Bryant, Frost, Whittier, Hayne, Lowell, Halleck or Freneau, to name just a few off the top of my head?
Didn't that famous university you talk about teach you about American literature, poetry and/or prose?
Surely you can post far better than that example.... --Tyr

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Here let me give ya one to ponder on ..
My favorite poem written by Phillip Freneau --Tyr


The Wild Honey-Suckle

Fair flower, that dost so comely grow,
Hid in this silent, dull retreat,
Untouched thy honied blossoms blow,
Unseen thy little branches greet;
...No roving foot shall crush thee here,
...No busy hand provoke a tear.

By Nature's self in white arrayed,
She bade thee shun the vulgar eye,
And planted here the guardian shade,
And sent soft waters murmuring by;
...Thus quietly thy summer goes,
...Thy days declining to repose.

Smit with those charms, that must decay,
I grieve to see your future doom;
They died--nor were those flowers more gay,
The flowers that did in Eden bloom;
...Unpitying frosts, and Autumn's power
...Shall leave no vestige of this flower.

From morning suns and evening dews
At first thy little being came:
If nothing once, you nothing lose,
For when you die you are the same;
...The space between, is but an hour,
...The frail duration of a flower.


Philip Freneau

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Welcoming Our Little Ty


We welcome in a baby boy named Ty
blessed we are, asking not why
Life precious and so very sweet
another grandson I'll soon greet

Life sends such blessings as it flows
we thank God and it surely shows
A future with these children's joys
daughter now has two beautiful boys

Old age brings in surprising gifts
this blessings stands and uplifts
More time I now desperately seek
with the children so mild and meek

Praying for a life much, much longer
to see my family grow so much stronger!

Robert J. Lindley, 01-08-2015

Dedicated to my new grandson ,Ty Brooks Atkinson
may God bless he and all his family..

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Eating Fire Yet Feeling No Burns



My life ran with many twists and turns
I ate fire felt not the ravaging burns,
crawled across razorblades with glee
nothing was sacred , and nothing was me

Time wrapped me in a devilish cocoon
hated the world , wanted the end soon,
sent pain out asked for more in return
wanted to fall, die and then slowly burn

Then life made a sharp , sudden return
I found her and no longer wanted to burn,
why did this blessing enter my sad life
why did she ever desire to be my wife

Our merciful God gifts as he so desires
we that foolishly eat of the evil fires,
gives generously of his fruitful trees
hears all of our sobs, moans and pleas

My life runs within a sure steady path
I sleep so well, no fear of God's wrath,
O' bright light that I finally get to see
hand of God resting over an undeserving me!

Robert J. Lindley

note: Poetry must represent truth and heart...

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Stones In The Honeyed Ring Of Time



Sitting here dejected, mere pile of bones
pleasure, just a memory in the dark past
Stripped of every lie one polishes and hones
facing this truth, nothing can forever last!

Stark, reality of deeds soaked in slime
pain, a racing bird sent to torture me
Memories, stones in the honeyed ring of time
everything costs so dearly, nothing is free!

Evil are the chains wrapping my crushed Soul
Time, a sword cutting so deeply my heart
fled pleasure of any future winning goal
sudden truth is ripping rest of me apart!


This pile of bones, only treasure I have got
smelling this meat even after a slow rot!

Robert J. Lindley, Date written ---So long ago!

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Gasping Stars, Look Down Upon My Tired Soul


When I need to again find my own way
late midnight walks are my mainstay
There is this place I walk and roam
comfort away from worries of my home

The sidewalk ends and fields begin
I imagine they stretch and never end
Cool night air soothes my tired brain
far away, whistle of an old night train

My pace slows to soak so much more in
I am not alone, night is my friend
Gasping stars look down upon my soul
Seeking calm, I then reach my goal

Dog barks sadly as I slowly trod by
moans so blue, almost seems to cry
Past the farmhouse my favorite tree
massive black oak, does so comfort me

Gazing at its massive majectic form
I see damage from a terrible storm
Ahh yes, none are immune from harm
not even this great titan on the farm

Very slowly I turn to find my way back
retracing this walk along this track
A calm has now found my lonely spirit
happiness approaches I can even hear it

My pace increases as I seek to return
to the place where my love does burn
Family , the gift of my very long life
my children, my love , my sweet wife

When I need to again find my own way
late midnight walks are my mainstay

Robert Lindley

[LongTermGuy]

:thumb:


https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pop1rMUiXP0

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Craig cornish Contest Name
Manassian Quintain Deadline2/7/2015 12:00:00 AM
Note From Sponsor
No updates yet...

Contest Description What to Submit? 1 original, poem on the theme of ......Water (a river, the sea, a lake, the rain, etc.)

The form was invented by Eileen Manassian but I have slightly altered it relative to rhyme scheme. There are 3 verses, the rhyme scheme should be ababb, cdcdd, efeff
In verse 1 the ends of lines 1&2 are used in line 5
In verse 2 the ends of lines 2&3 are used in line 5
In verse 3 the ends of lines 1&4 are used in line 5

NO NAMES




My entry.. I wrote and entered this poem because both Craig and Eileen are friends of mine that I have great respect for their integrity and poetic talents. ... I have curtailed my contests entries as of late because of some rather unsavory practices used by certain contest sponsors there. I do not like my writes starting behind a pack of favored poets that get top spots based upon their names, friendships and alliances. I enter contest with no names as a requirement.
I'd rather win a spot based upon the actual poem written rather than the rep and alliances of the author. -Tyr


Lake, Water and Sun

Blue lake stirs the youthful mind,
water shines then invites us on in.
Sunshine covers this rare new find
as delight gives each a big grin-
the youthful mind, invites us on in.

Work done, we have no more chores
sweet time for living life instead
Sun beams hot upon these shores
cool waters splashed upon each head-
no more chores, living life instead

Is this a Nirvana with a bad twist,
rhapsody set to fine love tunes;
love leaping through a watery mist
Will love burn out into the dunes-
with a bad twist...out into the dunes

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Last Sonnet


Bright star, would I were steadfast as thou art! -
Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night,
And watching, with eternal lids apart,
Like Nature's patient sleepless Eremite,

The moving waters at their priestlike task
Of pure ablution round earth's human shores,
Or gazing on the new soft fallen mask
Of snow upon the mountains and the moors -

No -yet still steadfast, still unchangeable,
Pillowed upon my fair love's ripening breast,
To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,
Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,

Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
And so live ever -or else swoon to death.

John Keats...


John Keats was an English Romantic poet. He was one of the main figures of the second generation of romantic poets along with Lord Byron and Percy Bysshe Shelley, despite his work only having been in publication for four years before his death.

Although his poems were not generally well received by critics during his life, his reputation grew after his death, so that by the end of the 19th century he had become one of the most beloved of all English poets. He had a significant influence on a diverse range of later poets and writers. Jorge Luis Borges stated that his first encounter with Keats was the most significant literary experience of his life

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

I so needed a break from the subject muslim murdering cult tonight that I sat down to write a nice little poem.
I took a walk far back into my past on a lonely country dirt road on a farm back in the sticks.
As I ventured that far afield I saw an amazing sight. A young man looking into his future. And seeing after much
heartache and misery a great gift to be bestowed. I remembered that late night walk and wrote it as it happened.
At the time and the next day it all seemed to be just a dream.
A dream that I am now living! Hope you may enjoy this write....

She A Princess God Hath Made

As I trekked one lonely night,
walking those country roads,
glowing full moon in my sight,
roaring of the croaking toads

Across the lake flowers grew,
meadow set in sweet refrain,
sweet scent so ripe and true,
I desire it again and again

Life's sacred treasure came,
a vision of your love gifted,
afterward nothing was the same
my soul was forever uplifted

I'll love her until stars fade,
majestic mountains wear down,
She a princess God hath made,
wrapped in beauty and soft gown

Not a mere dream my mind saw,
a future sight given unto me,
She was to be my lover, my all,
the answer to my fervent plea

As I returned to my empty home,
that night set me to thinking,
If true, all roads lead to Rome,
I'd best stop my whiskey drinking

Robert J. Lindley

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Ok, this is the first draft of a collaboration poem I have just finished writing after being asked to write with my friend, liam mcdaid.
First three stanza's are his writings , the last three stanzas and the ending couplet are mine. The ending couplet is a variation of the first two lines in his opening stanza. I thought it tied the two sections together quite well.
As to how it will be presented there at our poetry site, its up to him as I suggested that he present the poem. .
I gave agreement that if he likes edits can be made and discussed.
I welcome any comments, criticisms or suggestions on this, our first collaboration. -Tyr

Untitled....



returning a pearl within each silver breath one gem treasure
sweeping over deep sea waves tides turn in loves pure pleasure
blue unfolding white washed emotions, sweeping over feelings
touching feathers of an angel floats in warm strokes a celestial being

woven inside golden petals kiss the magic heart of this shell opens
hovering fingers dance fluttering hot waves galloping upon the crest breaks
sweetly landing on the sands of loves sweet beauty happiness sings
in paradise holding two souls join hands bells of heaven rings

walking towards a sun setting dream rose gold crowning beauty
eden desire bites from the tree of knowledge faraway uniting hearts duty
sweetly dance together in an ocean tune flying without wings
salt of the earth wet lips tasting destiny kissing your feet love rings

beauty graces sea nymph with eyes of diamonds and bright sea-gold hair
wonders of all majestic earth no other maiden glows quite so fair
heavenly notes echoes sweetly in the majesty of her alluring love songs
praise pours forth as she shines to delight her ever adoring throngs

Sun and sky conspire to gift her a wondrously staged ocean of calm
all the astounded world bows and eats lustily from her gentle palm
tales of her beauty greater than palaces of diamonds, rubies and gold
angelic countenance that was the envy of legendary fairy queens of old

King Poseidon bowed down in defeat, laying love vows at her dainty feet
unable to control the ardor of his massively deep white-hot love heat
she that wept for a day and time with but one deserving male human soul
soft touches and wet kisses with that lost prince her secret love goal

returning as a pearl within each silver breath she offers her treasure
sweeping over deep sea waves she rides, a dream of loves pure pleasure

[LongTermGuy]

I so needed a break from the subject muslim murdering cult tonight that I sat down to write a nice little poem.
I took a walk far back into my past on a lonely country dirt road on a farm back in the sticks.
As I ventured that far afield I saw an amazing sight. A young man looking into his future. And seeing after much
heartache and misery a great gift to be bestowed. I remembered that late night walk and wrote it as it happened.
At the time and the next day it all seemed to be just a dream.
A dream that I am now living! Hope you may enjoy this write....

She A Princess God Hath Made

As I trekked one lonely night,
walking those country roads,
glowing full moon in my sight,
roaring of the croaking toads

Across the lake flowers grew,
meadow set in sweet refrain,
sweet scent so ripe and true,
I desire it again and again

Life's sacred treasure came,
a vision of your love gifted,
afterward nothing was the same
my soul was forever uplifted

I'll love her until stars fade,
majestic mountains wear down,
She a princess God hath made,
wrapped in beauty and soft gown

Not a mere dream my mind saw,
a future sight given unto me,
She was to be my lover, my all,
the answer to my fervent plea

As I returned to my empty home,
that night set me to thinking,
If true, all roads lead to Rome,
I'd best stop my whiskey drinking

Robert J. Lindley


....Nice!

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Paul Callus Poem, my good friend and fellow poet. He graciously gave permission for me to post his poem here. As do all authors of current poetry I repost here. I always contact and ask for their permission.
This fine write so fits in with my judgment on the topic as I favored it at my poetry site and decided it worthy to be shown here.
Hope you may enjoy it as I did!-Tyr


Intolerable

I cannot tolerate the ones with haloed head
Who boast of their achievements, put on an act instead.
I cannot tolerate the perfect, always right
Who claim to love their neighbour omitting black or white.
I cannot tolerate the ones who share your pack
Pretending to be helpful then stab you in the back.
I cannot tolerate the friends who pick your brain
Intent on infiltration determined to make gain.
I cannot tolerate the types who wish you well
They swear to loyal virtue, but then they kiss and tell.
I cannot tolerate the false and double-faced
They are the parasitic, their tongue with poison laced.
I cannot tolerate the guys who look for fights
They cause much harm while pleading the law to back their rights.
I cannot tolerate the tempters with their faith
They are the instigators, the ones who love to hate.*
They cannot tolerate my face, but I’m alright
My aim is to expose them, oppose with all my might. --*

Paul Callus

* Here I am referring to those who commit crimes and injustices in the name of religion.

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Poetry form-- -Couplets..



Sweetly Loving Beauty

Returning a pearl within each silver breath lining one gem treasure
sweeping over deep sea waves tides turn in loves pure pleasure

Blue unfolding white washed emotions, sweeping over feelings
touching feathers of an angel floats inside warm strokes a celestial being

Woven inside golden petals kiss the magic heart of this shell opens
hovering fingers dance fluttering hot waves galloping upon the crest breaks

Sweetly landing on the sands of loves sweet beauty happiness sings
in paradise holding two souls join hands bells of Heaven rings

Walking towards a sun setting dream rose gold crowning beauty
Eden desire bites from the tree of knowledge faraway uniting hearts duty

Sweetly dance together in an ocean tune flying without wings
salt of this earth wet lips tasting destiny kissing your feet love rings

Beauty graces sea nymph with eyes of diamonds and bright sea-gold hair
wonders of all majestic earth no other maiden glows quite so fair

Heavenly notes echoes sweetly in the majesty of her alluring love songs
praise pours forth as she shines to delight her ever adoring throngs

Sun and sky conspire to gift her a wondrously staged ocean of calm
all the astonished world bows and eats lustily from her gentle palm

Tales of her beauty greater than palaces of diamonds, rubies and gold
angelic countenance that was the envy of legendary fairy queens of old

King Poseidon bowed down in defeat, laying love vows at her dainty feet
unable to control the ardor of his massively deep white-hot love heat

She that wept for a day and time with but one deserving male human soul
soft touches and wet kisses with that lost prince her secret love goal

Returning as a pearl within each silver breath she offers her treasure
sweeping over deep sea waves she rides, a dream of loves pure pleasure

A co write written by Liam Mcdaid and Robert Lindley thank you dear friend a pleasure writing this with you

This is as presented at our poetry site. Title and first six couplets Liam authored, the remainder
starting with --


Beauty graces sea nymph with eyes of diamonds and bright sea-gold hair
wonders of all majestic earth no other maiden glows quite so fair
on to the conclusion I authored.
Was a pleasure to co-write with my good Irish friend , Liam Mcdaid!!

[LongTermGuy]

Hope.............`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.

by Emily Dickinson

[LongTermGuy]

`.....If hope could be a color
it would be yellow
as bright as a balloon

If hope could be a taste
it would be a ripe cantaloupe

If hope could be a smell
it would be home-baked chocolate chip cookies


If hope could be a sound
it would be three part harmony


If hope could be a feeling
it would be a long hug from a dear friend


If hope could be an animal
it would be a kitten purring....`

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

`.....If hope could be a color
it would be yellow
as bright as a balloon

If hope could be a taste
it would be a ripe cantaloupe

If hope could be a smell
it would be home-baked chocolate chip cookies


If hope could be a sound
it would be three part harmony


If hope could be a feeling
it would be a long hug from a dear friend


If hope could be an animal
it would be a kitten purring....`


You must spread some Reputation around before giving it to LongTermGuy again.
I see you have talent in poetry my friend! Bravooooo.....


I hope you do not mind and may enjoy my answering to your hope poem with one based on love.
As the greatest of all is Hope and Love..-Tyr




If hope could be a color
it would be yellow as bright as a balloon

If love was a color,
it would be deep heart red as big as a mountain

If hope could be a taste
it would be a ripe cantaloupe

If love could be a taste
it would be hot cinnamon bun on a cold morn

If hope could be a smell
it would be home-baked chocolate chip cookies

If love could be a smell
it would be coffee, bacon and eggs on a hungry morning

If hope could be a sound
it would be three part harmony

If love could be a sound
it would be the sound of Nature in a deep forest

If hope could be a feeling
it would be a long hug from a dear friend

If love is a true feeling
it would be wanting to live long and die with the same person
at the exact same moment.

If hope could be an animal
it would be a kitten purring....

If love could be an animal
it would be newborn pup in the arms of a loving child`

Biased as I may be I think this would be a fine co-write to present at my poetry site.
pm on the way...

[LongTermGuy]

I see you have talent in poetry my friend! Bravooooo.....


I hope you do not mind and may enjoy my answering to your hope poem with one based on love.
As the greatest of all is Hope and Love..-Tyr




If hope could be a color
it would be yellow as bright as a balloon

If love was a color,
it would be deep heart red as big as a mountain

If hope could be a taste
it would be a ripe cantaloupe

If love could be a taste
it would be hot cinnamon bun on a cold morn

If hope could be a smell
it would be home-baked chocolate chip cookies

If love could be a smell
it would be coffee, bacon and eggs on a hungry morning

If hope could be a sound
it would be three part harmony

If love could be a sound
it would be the sound of Nature in a deep forest

If hope could be a feeling
it would be a long hug from a dear friend

If love is a true feeling
it would be wanting to live long and die with the same person
at the exact same moment.

If hope could be an animal
it would be a kitten purring....

If love could be an animal
it would be newborn pup in the arms of a loving child`

Biased as I may be I think this would be a fine co-write to present at my poetry site.
pm on the way...


*no talent from me* friend....just wanted to post....anonymous `

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Poets Dream To Inspire Others


Very few share their deepest inner thoughts and fears
those birthed before ever first had soft baby tears
Takes one stout of heart and secure in giving mind
to share such freely and openly with all of mankind

Such thinkers and poets are truly a special breed
freely forcing their hearts and minds to bleed
That others may gain some insight, some small part
of how man weds his inner soul with his open heart

No declaration that such men much better or worse
than any other people living with this world's curse
Just far more willing to be criticized or given praise
for thoughts presented and wonderful hope they raise

Robert J. Lindley

note: Poetry is a lot of things but first and foremost it should be about
giving to others by way of writing for the edification of those that read it.

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

White Crane And Beauty's Flight

White crane flying high overhead
swooping down to its feeding bed
Brilliant flash of gliding white
awesome in high circling flight

Shimmering water receives a guest
one bound with a hungering quest
Majestic beauty stops for a feast
as sun beams down from the east

Grace and calm marks its hot task
seeking prey beneath waters mask
Patience may just bring a reward
yet every hunt is so very hard

This scene, bird awaiting its meal
almost magic as its often surreal
Waters give up that precious dish
As white crane gobbles up its fish

To the blue skies it quickly goes
flashing its gleaming white shows
White wings beating slow and wide
destined to return next low tide

White crane leaving high overhead
quite content as its so well fed
Magnificent sight in the blue sky
fish flopping in the lake nearby

Robert J. Lindley

note : A dear friend asked me to write a poem about a beautiful bird.
And paint it in Nature as it would be most days.
I've always marvelled at the white cranes and their great white wings as
they fly by , so out came this write today...

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Did My Death Hurt

Winter cold breaks the bones
of this man so very old
A life was taken, the joy sold
let hell take the dark bygones

Spring spits out another new
soul that eats away time
Your hate was the dark crime
your cuts gave more than due

Summer buried deep its hate
of love then very dead
My skin you bade me to shed
when resurrection was too late

Fall can hold no new spirit
your words ate my heart
My death you set to rip apart
sad music, darkness hears it

Darkness covers well broken bones
crushed by your heart of jagged stones!

Robert J. Lindley, 01-20-2015

note: This is a rewrite of a much longer poem
written back in the late 70's. A major rewrite so its
virtually new as it only used about 20% of the
original poem. That poem is private and is in my private
collection to go to my daughter and son after my death.
As it names the villian by name and exposes much more than
I want made public while I am still above ground!

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Flightless, Tired Old Birds

I spill ink upon a most sadden page
life of youth was once all the rage
Good times were to readily be had
even a dull day was not all that bad
For each new morn brought renewed hope
nothing, nothing seem beyond our scope

This ink sets in its newborn form
tired words seem to be my new norm
A whisper and a cry rarely ever call
newborn days of hope I can not recall
Why does time eat thus at my soul
when more livin' was always my goal

Looking back I see ink spilt long ago
the energy was quick the heart aflow
Deep energetic words jumping all about
laughter and joy always loudly rang out
Love was rampant always in the mix
secret night moves our passionate fix

O' youth why venture so far astray
yes , you just had to have it your way!

Robert J. Lindley

note: Time we always pray for more .
Yet after life abundant we sometimes regret
having had too much . For memories of our youth
beckon and shout. We then feel old, alone and so left out.
Then we ramble and write tired old words.
Looking to the skies as flightless old birds!
Thanks Peter, your butterfly poem brought this out of me
tonight. I saw yours was so upbeat yet mine came out as a
cry and a wail

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

My entry.. I wrote and entered this poem because both Craig and Eileen are friends of mine that I have great respect for their integrity and poetic talents. ... I have curtailed my contests entries as of late because of some rather unsavory practices used by certain contest sponsors there. I do not like my writes starting behind a pack of favored poets that get top spots based upon their names, friendships and alliances. I enter contest with no names as a requirement.
I'd rather win a spot based upon the actual poem written rather than the rep and alliances of the author. -Tyr


Lake, Water and Sun

Blue lake stirs the youthful mind,
water shines then invites us on in.
Sunshine covers this rare new find
as delight gives each a big grin-
the youthful mind, invites us on in.

Work done, we have no more chores
sweet time for living life instead
Sun beams hot upon these shores
cool waters splashed upon each head-
no more chores, living life instead

Is this a Nirvana with a bad twist,
rhapsody set to fine love tunes;
love leaping through a watery mist
Will love burn out into the dunes-
with a bad twist...out into the dunes

Made a mistake in the required form. Error in the second stanza.-Tyr

Corrected it reads this way--Tyr



Lake, Water and Sun

Blue lake stirs the youthful mind,
water shines then invites us on in.
Sunshine covers this rare new find
as delight gives each a big grin-
the youthful mind, invites us on in.

Work done, we have no more chores
sweet time for living life instead
Sun beams hot upon these shores
cool waters splashed upon each head-
upon these shores, living life instead ********* correction here !

Is this a Nirvana with a bad twist,
rhapsody set to fine love tunes;
love leaping through a watery mist
Will love burn out into the dunes-
with a bad twist...out into the dunes
Robert J. Lindley


note: My good friend and fellow poet Richard Lamoreuax alerted me to this mistake.
He did this even though our entries are in competition for top prize in the contest.
Had he not done so my entry would have been eliminated first round of judging!
Yes, many fine people I've met at that site. Over a dozen have become good friends..
Richard is one of those..

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

The "Midnight Special" in that context was a train.
The song was originally by Ledbelly (Huddy Ledbetter) and covered by CCR.
The Midnight Special was a train that shone it's light through Ledbelly's jail cell window and to him it represented freedom. Thus "Let the midnight special shine it's light on me"


The Midnight Special

Yonder come Miss Rosie, how in the world do you know
Well I know by the apron and the dress she wore
Well an umbrella on her shoulder, piece of paper in her hand
Well I'm gonna ask the governor, he turn a-lose a-my man


Let the midnight special, shine the light on me
Let the midnight special, shine the ever-lovin' light on me


When you get up in the mornin', when that big bell ring
You go and march to the table, see the same damn thing
Knife and fork are on the table, there's nothin' in my pan
And if you say anything about it, havin' trouble with the man


Well I went to the nation and to the territo(ry)
Well I thought about the girl I love, in that Mexico


If you ever go to Houston, oh you better walk right
And you better not squallow and you better not fight
Sheriff Rocko will arrest you, Eddie Boone will take you down
You can bet your bottom dollar, penitentiary bound


Well jumpin' little Judy, she was a mighty fine girl
Well Judy brought jumpin' to this whole round world
Well she brought it in the mornin', just a while before day
She brought me the news, that my wife was dead
That started me to grievin', then hollerin' and a-cryin'
Then I had to give the worry about a been a long time


Has always been my favorite CCR song and that takes a lot because they have over
a dozen that I dearly love.

Presented here because it is pure poetry .... -Tyr

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Someday You'll Get Your Due


I have had about enough of you,
that murder in God's holy name
Someday you'll get your damn due,
until then it is a cryin' shame

Yes, there is a magnificent God,
but your kind knows him not
Spoiled child you got no rod,
if justice is served you'll be shot

Wicked deeds are your Holy Grail,
innocent lives you destroy
Your destination will be Hell,
where you'll be evil Allah's toy

Yes, we that have a loving God,
stand with him on forgiven ground
As children we got that rod,
which made us whole and sound

I have had about enough of you,
that murder in God's holy name
Someday you'll get your damn due,
until then it is a cryin' shame

Robert J. Lindley 01-22-2015

note: Innocent lives are murdered all around the globe.
ISIS has murdered over 2,000 men, women and childrem in less than a week ,
wiping out entire villages. Burning out entire sections of Nigeria while shouting
praise Allah.
When will the world wake up and stop this insanity inspired by Islam????
We are tired of the religion of peace lie that has protected this cult for 1400+ years.
Something must be done soon. Either they stop murdering or they will have to be stopped
the hard way.. Reality demands actions not appeasing words and cowardice!
I deal in reality myself and mince no words when doing so..
http://sultanknish.blogspot.com/2015...ne_19.html?m=1

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Sex Wrapped In A Song

"I saw the dark in your praise,"
as you spread on that rich glaze
Treasure I sought cried play along,
this girl has sex wrapped in a song!

Those days my youth gave me much,
deep kisses, softness of your touch
Rich nights in your hot, hot bed
the greatness found when you spread.

Hours spent in night's sweet embrace
your goddess body my saving grace
Memories of those vibrant little moans
curve of your back, excited my bones

Promises of never ending love sent
sex action until our love was spent
"I saw the dark in your praise,"
as you spread on that rich glaze
Treasure I sought cried play along,
this girl has sex wrapped in a song!

Robert J. Lindley, 01-22-2015

NOTE: She came one cool August night, a vision to behold
I knew that first moment , this was treasure greater than gold
I jumped on, for the ride of my life. The heartache of her loss
has now remained now for the most of my life.
Who knew such a girl could give so much and break so bad,
the heart of a teenager still just a lad?

I wrote this poem for a contest. It is based upon a real life experience.
Youth has a great disadvantage in that so often a truly good thing is taken for granted and even
treated with a lack of discretion and arrogance..
Says I, the younger man that could mess up a one car parade.
Still, life lessons have to be first learned before they can be regretted and looked back upon with a
mixture of fondness, dismay, regret, amazement and/or even sadness.
We are the products of the life we lived.... Be that good or bad.. -Tyr

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

In Dunkersfield Lies A Neglected Grave



In Dunkersfield lies a neglected grave
last vestige of a precious life gave
No massive stone to mark the resting spot
of a simple man that gave all he got

Town people say they knew him so well
had big secrets he'd never dare tell
One was about a child he'd never seen
bastard son of a lady named Ilien

Others solemnly swear he kilt' a man
beat him with that mighty right hand
Hard truth lies somewhere in between
his life imagined and one he had seen

Ole Stoner Ace was a gambler for sure
had lots of women, none were too pure
Worked that farm, won on a lucky bet
hard life even for a tough combat vet

No church did he ever bother to attend
lived alone with not a single friend
Money sent to pay for nephew's school
kept his secrets, was nobody's fool

Christmas night he died old and alone
his savings given away, every penny gone
Good deeds he always kept to himself
bad maybe but he always was topshelf

In Dunkersfield lies a neglected grave
last vestige of a precious life gave
No massive stone to mark the resting spot
of a simple man that gave all he got

Robert J. Lindley, 01-23-2015

NOTE: Poem was written based upon the real life of a friend's uncle.
A tough old bird that had quite a reputation. Lived a wild life as young man
and had served time in prison for beating a man to death that had stabbed him in
the back in a barfight. My Dad knew him well. Told me that he was an upright guy
that came out of prison and left the wild life behind.
Sometimes life just beats the hell out of you and if you are lucky you still
manage to survive!

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

I wrote a new poem this fine morn.
Just a little philosophy wrapped in poetic verse.
Hope it may be an enjoyable read and perhaps give some
small tidbit of wisdom gained from a long and wild life lived.-Tyr







Those Sounds That Now Arrive In Early Morn


Can one ever believe in this hope and life?
when infancy now has no great strife
Yet soon a decision simply must be made
nobody sits forever in contented shade

In this ole world evil and chaos abounds
chases us like a mad pack of wild hounds
Across flowering meadows we swiftly race
doing most anything to not this life face

Sadly, desperate flaws we all must endure
our souls weak, none so clear and pure
Living bravely is what we really should do
this world's low standards give no clue

Often our silence seals our sad fate
yell or scream before its too late
When that boulder hits you from above
curse it and swiftly give it a shove

Along this path signs will soon appear
yield not to the ever present fear
Boldly strive to give love that is true
knowing, a record is always kept on you

We may see with our poor, muddy eyes
its all there in our imagination skies
A ship with our happiness its only load
upon these stormy seas we must be bold

Are we to be mere victims of our world?
never defiant with our banner unfurled
Nay, tis better we pray for hope greater
follow not the path of saddened life hater

This life is now resting in a true, loving place
faith, love and joy smile upon this face
Those sounds that now arrive in early morn
Yes, I remember-
they were there back when, I was first born!

Robert J. Lindley, 01-24-2015

note: Facing life with courage and hope.
Ending will come someday but I now know I was granted mercy,
a great blessing and true love of wife , family and friends!

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Wrote another poem today, this time for a contest. Going to post here and think about it for a few days to see if edits
for improvement come to me.
I have an urge to expand it but not sure if it being longer will enhance it at all.
Should anybody care to suggest or ask any questions about the poem feel free to do so.
Here is what I inked out an hour ago. --Tyr




Danced Into Heaven On Feet So Very Fast



A man-child that shall not ever hear
echoes of future songs in his deaf ear
Yet joy he found one brightened day
as classical music he learned to play

Vibrations that taught him the beat
soon danced along with his quick feet
A taste in the rush of the air
revealed his music far more than fair

Soon fans paid him to dance and perform
this life he soon found to be his norm
Echoes of applause he never heard
yet praise came in such flattering words

Onward time took him to his desired goal
to hear the music clearly in his soul
That special day was to be his blessed last
as he danced into Heaven on feet so fast

Robert J. Lindley

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Within Sweet Dreams Her Lover Resides


Within sweet dreams her lover resides
surrounded by flowers on all sides
Wind blows to soothe her poetic heart
as each night's loving dreams start

Dreaming shadow realm brings her love
angelic prince from heaven above
Golden palace graces their sweet dance
all perfect in this epic romance

Singing clouds, the music softly plays
as she adores prince's gentle ways
Each dance matches her heart's beats
as she lays in soft satin sheets

Here space and time stands very still
as she embraces a joyous thrill
The softest kiss ever so sweetly given
upon lips of a girl now truly livin'

With every love touch he speaks to her
hours glide by in a kissing blurr
Before each dawn they find deeper joy
as her prince becomes a lover boy

Moments before true romance breaks
a climax through her body rakes
Only then does her prince bid goodbye
as she wakes with a joyous cry

Within sweet dreams her lover resides
surrounded by flowers on all sides
Wind blows to soothe her poetic heart
as each night's loving dreams start


This poem was inspired by the poetess, Gail Angel Doyle's,
wonderful poem titled-- "A Bed of Petals"...
Thank you very much my sweet friend.
I was looking for inspiration to write a romantic poem for
a contest and found it within your fine write tonight!

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

As Midnight Moon Shines Upon Her Eyes


In a dream world where fantasies abound
shall be where my princess is found
Wrapped in her vision an angelic choir
cherubs singing her heart's desire

Her voice soothes every hearing soul
spreading happiness her daily goal
As midnight moon shines upon her eyes
a thought comes to me so very wise

Surely she could come to me down here
easing my hurt, wash away my fear
A soft gentle touch to my spirit renew
help me find a love any man is due

In a dream world such fantasies exist
your heart's desire, anything on your list

Robert Lindley
March 21, 2001

Note, 1/27/2015 - Modern sonnet, written when my soul was lost
and seeking the path back into happiness, back into a world devoid of misery, heartache and pain.
That night I bowed my head and asked for help. Best decision I ever made.
For in faith I had then put my trust , over that of my foolish vanity and insufferable pride!
Now looking back, I see the answer came ever so swiftly..
This poem comes from my "private collection" (intended for my children) after my demise and
is now presented for the first time for others to read..
That night I dreamed of a dark hair angel that came to me and helped me return to the world of the living.
Thats her in my picture given here. My wife now of ten beautiful and happy years!
Bountiful extra blessing of a beautiful son we now share !

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Resting Under My Favorite Old Tree



Lucky bird sings a jolly little tune
of ravishing sunshine in late June
Graced by soft breeze to give a thrill
among the junipers on lakeside hill

I stop my journey into Nature's treat
to breathe in this melody so sweet
Well trodden path leads me on down
into a wilderness far, far from town

Birds fly and scared rabbits race away
as if I did not also come just to play
Hawk flying low gives me a great view
offering acrobatic stunts right on cue

Fish flopping in clear flowing stream
day so wonderful, feels like a dream
As the large blue lake comes into view
afternoon sun tells me time really flew

Now to rest under my favorite old tree
a bit of good food and a nap is key
Then back up the path to my sweet home
God, it is so great to thru Nature roam!

Robert J. Lindley

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

How about a dark one. Written many decades ago...--Tyr



In Desolation She Stands

She stands in desolation
her life a vile desecration
dying victims stink her perfume
sacrifice and pain her fill up her room

Hate and sin her sole wish
madness sits in her left hand
blackened blood covers each breast
she tortures , her victims never rest

Scars lace around her eyes
dark hair flows with contempt
pain invades with her loud cry
she laughs as innocent children die

Eyes have seen such misery
ripping living bodies apart
her lusting flesh the fatal lure
in her web, death is the only cure

Courageous victims fight back
with fury at being so deceived
she guts them with renewed delight
as evil eyes watch the scene at night

She stand desolate
awaiting her nightly feast
smell of rotten flesh in her teeth
her foot-claws anchored in hell beneath

She stands defiant
lusting for putrid blood
screams exciting her rancid ardor
as she slashes deeper and harder

Valiant heroes are her prey
she that shuns light of bright day
greater their fame more she glows
bloody ripping apart sells her shows

None stopped her blood lust
every night-feast a new victim dies
even courage lacks the deep power
to defeat, to end forever her darkest hour

She desires ever bigger feasts
as she increases her lusting traps
putrid blood and rotten flesh stain
her songs of misery, torture and pain

She stands engulfed
in the vile darkness eating
the rotting remains of her prey
powerful monster so, so very afraid
of the purifying light that loving God made!

Robert Lindley
Nov, 16th, 1974

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Started this write for a contest on the day I got sick. Just finished it tonight..--Tyr




I Lay My Desires Deep Into You


In my mind, I am reminded

Sweet nights in your soft bed
longing for your deep kiss
As my body aches for your touch
all of you I so lustily miss

I need all that you have lived
the love your heart reaps
Your perfection and sexy body
make my desires jump in leaps

As the bed holds our hot love
your skin quivers at my touch
I pull you gently beneath me
passion is urgent and too much

My mind crashes into deep spasms
I lay my desires deep into you
I beg for your sweetest treasures
your beautiful living essence too

As we flame into that vivid world
fires unite into swirling ecstasy
I grow drunk off purest pleasure
of your deepest sexual fantasy

The rhythm builds into a tempest
moans match a thundering waterfall
I live deep into your hot dreams
striving to give it forever my all

I close my eyes to make the image
of your beauty there so nude
The satisfaction thunders upward
gifting the best of this fantasy mood

Our lips meet again to finish
this deep feast of heated passion
You the queen of my longing desires
we united in love and our compassion

Robert J. Lindley, 01-31-2015

Note-- I had half of this poem written the day I got sick, just
tonight found the inspiration to finish it.
And yes, my wife is home tonight early from work.. lol
Where did you think I got that inspiration?

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Life Stirs Me To This Confess


Life stirs me to get around,
chasing the treasure I have found
Nothing of glitter or of gold,
just pure beauty if truth be told

A dance and a party each day,
she smiles and gets her loving way
A just reward for her gifts,
her love-filled joy that so uplifts

I've been down many trails,
hit hard, beaten against the rails
Each time she stood by my side,
holding, giving such love and pride

Life stirs me to this confess,
until she saved me, my life was a mess!

Robert J. Lindley, 02-02-2015

note--A man is nothing if he has not the capacity to feel gratitude for a blessing
and openly express his faults and missteps. I've not lived a boring, tamed, or dull life.
For good or bad, much of it was due to my stubborn, defiant nature.
Yet even now I will not renounce that pure defiant fighting spirit that lays
within me. For it has saved me more than once in my wild young life!
I did however discover it could be managed for good and not harnessed for
darkness to play with. Sadly, many die never making that discovery ,
never finding that light.. -Tyr

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Find In Our Eternity, Sweet Love

Find in my Heart,
cast away misdeeds never to be embraced
Find in my heart,
a love of you that can never be erased

Find in this Soul,
a friend so gladly embracing all of you
Find in this soul,
true lover that forever loves all you do

Find in my Dreams,
golden paradise I built for your pleasure
Find in my dreams,
a deep love, gentle and without measure

Find in my Desires,
gentle touch, a touch of your pretty face
Find in my desires,
nights seeing you dressed up in black lace

Find in my Life,
a sworn oath to your deep love be true
Find in my life,
to each bright morn, our deep love renew

Find in our Eternity,
a golden palace made just for you and I
Find in our eternity,
united love, as great as a Heavenly sky

Robert J. Lindley, 02-03-2015


note: I failed to write my darling wife her daily poem yesterday(first time in ten years).
So she being playful demanded I write a double good one this fine morning.
I hope this effort will do. If not, then I am lost as this came directly from
my loving heart to her, my sweetest sunshine, my darling wife.

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Can Not Wash Away All Your Pain


I can not make it rain,
can not wash away all your pain
Those dark clouds steal,
the joy that should be your thrill

I can not stop those hurts,
your heart cries out in spurts
No shoulder can relieve,
misery or the anguish you conceive

I can hold you tonight,
kiss you deeply, stop the fright
Make a fortress for you to rest,
giving you my all, my very best

You can put your trust,
as my love for you is a must
You can send your tears,
into my heart with no deep fears

Together we can both renew,
this fantastic love we always knew
As I hold you to fall asleep,
let my heart be yours to always keep

If I could make it rain,
wash away all your shattering pain
Moving heaven and earth,
gifting you my soul for all its worth
I would then sacrifice,
give it all, pay any heavy price
Set my life to just serve you,
face against the world, just we two!

Robert J. Lindley, 02-05-2015

I read a poem tonight and it so struck me that this
just poured out. I stayed up late getting it down before
it ran away! I hope it may inspire others to comfort
a person in pain and needing a friend. Life is far too
short for us to live so selfishly as to ignore those
in great pain and great need.

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

A Dream, A Message and A Poetic Write

The fields are soaked by the rain;
Within this Universe life grows
Springing forth, both joy and pain;
The world is blind and it shows.

Marvelous are the heavenly mountains;
Their hats touching the bluest sky
Life flows, waters from its fountains;
As delicious as home made apple pie.

This magic prevails against all;
For light yields its deepest fruits
Natures serves the Master's sweet call;
Every tree has heavenly roots.

Ancient words tell this great tale;
This world formed by divine hands
Divine art shines, it can never fail;
Life singing across all of God's lands.

Within our hearts dwells his words;
Thoughts and prayers that ring out
We can hear the melody by the birds;
The loving message is an echoed shout.

Can you hear that melodic , sweet refrain;
If not then listen, ever so quietly yet again.

Robert J. Lindley, 02-07-2015

note- I had a very vivid dream last night and this write
came to me from that dream. I can only hope that this
is the whole message sent to me...

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

For The Love Of Coffee, I Tarry


Just one more cup of coffee before I have to go
the weather is bad and the boss will surely know
If I tarry along and fail to clock in on time
no mercy there, excuses aren't worth even a dime

Yes, one more of the black joe if you please
it settles my worries , sets my mind at ease
I need to drink this hot coffee in a minute
my job is to drive a truck, I'd best be in it

One last cup just for the snow covered road
work awaiting, I'll not be late or so bold
Black magic, it damn sure hits the sweet spot
cranks my brain, gets me going like a rifle shot

Yes my fair lady, please pour just one more
I need the boost to race out the front door
That tastes so like goodness in a great kiss
love my black coffee, morning joe I never miss

Yes darling, I promise this last cup for me
I have many miles to drive, so much to see
Few more drinks to blast me into the big race
to deal with those crazy drivers I have to face

Sweetheart, brew some more, that pot I drank
woke me up fine and I have you darling to thank
Please, this cup of black magic will be my last
I'll bolt out that door, you'll see how very fast

Just one more cup of coffee before I have to go
the weather is bad and the boss will surely know
If I tarry along and fail to clock in on time
no mercy there, excuses aren't even worth a dime

Robert J. Lindley, 02-08-2015

note: For medical reasons I can no longer drink lots
of coffee. I miss that the most in cold weather as it was
a godsend then. Just thankful that I no longer have to
work out in the cold without my cup of joe.

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

A Tribute To Frank L. Stanton's poem - Lazy Chap. -Tyr


Rising Early From My Bed, Close To Noon

I lay about and often just wonder why
others do not rest in the by and by
Any lazy day finds me right in tune
This lazy day sings this month of June

Rising early from my bed, close to noon
stagger into the kitchen none too soon
Eat a full plate of eggs and fried bacon
so true, I am a lazy man never fakin'

Afternoon resting under my favorite tree
I never bother work, work never bothers me
About supper time I wander back inside
if I am late to eat, wife will tan my hide

The meal finished, I turn on big screen set
easy day flowed so well but not done yet
A few beers the wife faithfully brings me
sets my sails and fills my soul with glee

Late night news tells me its time for bed
to lay me down and rest this weary head
Another day will come about ever so soon
I best be ready for that early rise at noon!

Robert J. Lindley, 02 09-2015

note: Frank L. Stanton my favorite poet, a simple man that wrote
beautiful and simple poetry. Ihave now started to write a few tributes
to his great poetry. My friend Peter Duggan's poem inspired me to
pay homage to my favorite poet before I pass on. Thank you Peter!

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

http://www.poetryfoundation.org/bio/rudyard-kipling


Rudyard Kipling
1865–1936

Rudyard Kipling is one of the best-known of the late Victorian poets and story-tellers. Although he was awarded the Nobel Prize for literature in 1907, his unpopular political views caused his work to be neglected shortly after his death. Critics, however, recognize the power of his work. "His unrelenting craftsmanship, his determination to be 'master of the bricks and mortar of his trade,' compels respect, and his genius as a storyteller, and especially as a teller of stories for children," writes William Blackburn in Writers for Children, "will surely prove stronger than the murky and sordid vicissitudes of politics." "Although Kipling's overall career still awaits judicious critical re-evaluation," Blackburn concludes, "the general public—and especially the young public—has long since rendered its own verdict. His status as a writer for children is rightfully secure, and none of his major works has yet gone out of print."

Kipling was born in Bombay, India, at the end of the year 1865. His father, John Lockwood Kipling, was principal of the Jeejeebyhoy School of Art, an architect and artist who had come to the colony, writes Charles Cantalupo in the Dictionary of Literary Biography, "to encourage, support, and restore native Indian art against the incursions of British business interests." He meant to try, Cantalupo continues, "to preserve, at least in part, and to copy styles of art and architecture which, representing a rich and continuous tradition of thousands of years, were suddenly threatened with extinction." His mother, Alice Macdonald, had connections through her sister's marriage to the artist Sir Edward Burne-Jones with important members of the Pre-Raphaelite movement in British arts and letters.

Kipling spent the first years of his life in India, remembering it in later years as almost a paradise. "My first impression," he wrote in his posthumously published autobiography Something of Myself for My Friends Known and Unknown, "is of daybreak, light and colour and golden and purple fruits at the level of my shoulder." In 1871, however, his parents sent him and his sister Beatrice—called "Trix"—to England, partly to avoid health problems, but also so that the children could begin their schooling. Kipling and his sister were placed with the widow of an old Navy captain named Holloway at a boarding house called Lorne Lodge in Southsea, a suburb of Portsmouth. Kipling and Trix spent the better part of the next six years in that place, which they came to call the "House of Desolation."

The years from 1871 until 1877 became, for Kipling, years of misery. "In addition to feelings of bewilderment and abandonment" from being deserted by his parents, writes Mary A. O'Toole in the Dictionary of Literary Biography, "Kipling had to suffer bullying by the woman of the house and her son." Kipling may have brought some of this treatment on himself—he was a formidably aggressive and pampered child. He once stamped down a quiet country road shouting: "Out of the way, out of the way, there's an angry Ruddy coming!," reports J. I. M. Stewart in his biography Rudyard Kipling, which led an aunt to reflect that "the wretched disturbances one ill-ordered child can make is a lesson for all time to me." In Something of Myself, however, he recounted punishments that went far beyond correction. "I had never heard of Hell," he wrote, "so I was introduced to it in all its terrors.... Myself I was regularly beaten." On one occasion, after having thrown away a bad report card rather than bring it home, "I was well beaten and sent to school through the streets of Southsea with the placard 'Liar' between my shoulders." At last, Kipling suffered a sort of nervous breakdown. An examination showed that he badly needed glasses—which helped explain his poor performance in school—and his mother returned from India to care for him. "She told me afterwards," Kipling stated in Something of Myself, "that when she first came up to my room to kiss me good-night, I flung up an arm to guard off the cuff that I had been trained to expect."

Kipling did have some happy times during those years. He and his sister spent each December time with his mother's sister, Lady Burne-Jones, at The Grange, a meeting-place frequented by English artisans such as William Morris—or "our Deputy 'Uncle Topsy'" as Kipling called him in Something of Myself. Sir Edward Burne-Jones occasionally entered into the children's play, Kipling recalled: "Once he descended in broad daylight with a tube of 'Mummy Brown' [paint] in his hand, saying that he had discovered it was made of dead Pharaohs and we must bury it accordingly. So we all went out and helped—according to the rites of Mizraim and Memphis, I hope—and—to this day I could drive a spade within a foot of where that tube lies." "But on a certain day—one tried to fend off the thought of it—the delicious dream would end," he concluded, "and one would return to the House of Desolation, and for the next two or three mornings there cry on waking up."

In 1878, Kipling was sent off to school in Devon, in the west of England. The institution was the United Services College, a relatively new school intended to educate the sons of army officers, and Kipling was probably sent there because the headmaster was one Cormell Price, "one of my Deputy-Uncles at The Grange ... 'Uncle Crom.'" There Kipling formed three close friends, whom he later immortalized in his collection of stories Stalky Co (1899). "We fought among ourselves 'regular an' faithful as man an' wife,'" Kipling reported in Something of Myself, "but any debt which we owed elsewhere was faithfully paid by all three of us." "I must have been 'nursed' with care by Crom and under his orders," Kipling recalled. "Hence, when he saw I was irretrievably committed to the ink-pot, his order that I should edit the School Paper and have the run of his Library Study.... Heaven forgive me! I thought these privileges were due to my transcendent personal merits."

Since his parents could not afford to send him to one of the major English universities, in 1882 Kipling left the Services College, bound for India to rejoin his family and to begin a career as a journalist. For five years he held the post of assistant editor of the Civil and Military Gazette at Lahore. During those years he also published the stories that became Plain Tales from the Hills, works based on British lives in the resort town of Simla, and Departmental Ditties, his first major collection of poems. In 1888, the young journalist moved south to join the Allahabad Pioneer, a much larger publication. At the same time, his works had begun to be published in cheap editions intended for sale in railroad terminals, and he began to earn a strong popular following with collections such as The Phantom 'Rickshaw and Other Tales, The Story of the Gadsbys, Soldiers Three, Under the Deodars, and "Wee Willie Winkie" and Other Child Stories. In March 1889 Kipling left India to return to England, determined to pursue his future as a writer there.

The young writer's reputation soared after he settled in London. "Kipling's official biographer, C. E. Carrington," declares Cantalupo, "calls 1890 'Rudyard Kipling's year. There had been nothing like his sudden rise to fame since Byron.'" "His poems and stories," writes O'Toole, "elicited strong reactions of love and hate from the start—almost none of his advocates and detractors were temperate in praise or in blame. Ordinary readers liked the rhythms, the cockney speech, and the imperialist sentiments of his poems and short stories; critics generally damned the works for the same reasons." Many of his works were originally published in periodicals and later collected in various editions as Barrack-Room Ballads; famous poems such as "The Ballad of East and West," "Danny Deever," "Tommy," and "The Road to Mandalay" date from this time.

Kipling's literary life in London brought him to the attention of many people. One of them was a young American publisher named Wolcott Balestier, who became friends with Kipling and persuaded him to work on a collaborative novel. The result, writes O'Toole, entitled The Naulahka, "reads more like one of Kipling's travel books than like a novel" and "seems rather hastily and opportunistically concocted." It was not a success. Balestier himself did not live to see the book published—he died on December 6, 1891—but he influenced Kipling strongly in another way. Kipling married Balestier's sister, Caroline, in January, 1892, and the couple settled near their family home in Brattleboro, Vermont

-------------------------

Career


Poet, essayist, novelist, journalist, and writer of short stories. Worked as a journalist for Civil and Military Gazette, Lahore, India, 1882-89; assistant editor and overseas correspondent for the Allahabad Pioneer, Allahabad, India, 1887-89; associate editor and correspondent for The Friend, Bloemfontein, South Africa, 1900, covering the Boer War. Rector of University of St. Andrews, 1922- 25.

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Tenebrosi Diabolus , Funesta Pugna


The snake that slithered in lay quite still
as if testing my shaky resolve, my weak will
I saw its blackness and that shining skin
mesmerized , my body was so quickly drawn in

So fast did it flicker its forked tongue
warning bells hell, none were ever rung
This great danger set upon me a great thrill
that this opponent could very easily kill

Inside my guts turned to quivering jelly
sickness rushed up deep into my belly
A wave of nausea wrapped my daring heart
why, why had I chosen this battle to start

My brain screamed to run, run quickly away
damn, this is no damn time to stupidly play
Closer I stepped to deliver a swift hit
it coiled up, this demon from the dark pit

I heard the hiss as it struck out at me
on these lightning feet my body did flee
I looked to see my opponent ready for more
then I saw that baseball bat beside the door

One quick step and that weapon was mine
now we could do battle , I felt right fine
That sinister gleam from the demon's eyes
told me it was ready, ready for all my tries

My resolve was, end this combat early tonight
no more nightly repeats of this epic fight
With courage I moved in to deal that final blow
gain victory that would ease my troubled soul

A flash and a strike but the snake had missed
such relief, then anger, man was I pissed
I felt the smash as the bat struck that head
no more fighting this night, the demon was dead

I saw this dark limp body just vanish away
never to return again as I knelt down to pray

Robert J. Lindley, O2-11-2015

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

An Old Battlefield , by Frank L. Stanton


The softest whisperings of the scented South,
And rust and roses in the cannon's mouth;

And, where the thunders of the fight were born,
The wind's sweet tenor in the standing corn;

With song of larks, low-lingering in the loam,
And blue skies bending over love and home.

But still the thought: Somewhere,-upon the hills,
Or where the vales ring with the whip-poor-wills,

Sad wistful eyes and broken hearts that beat
For the loved sound of unreturning feet,

And, when the oaks their leafy banners wave,
Dream of the battle and an unmarked grave!

Frank L. Stanton

------------------------------------------------------
My tribute below, to this great man and his fine poem
quoted above.


Where Now Sings The Sweetest Morning Lark


The morning dew falls upon the ground
precious soil, where blood was laid down
Fine men, hearty soldiers one and all
upon this battlefield they did bravely fall

Silence now , no loud cannons booming out
no screaming in an agonizing painful shout
Bullets once whizzed onward to hit their mark
where now sings the sweetest morning lark

Morning mists now wrap the towering hills
where war took so many with senseless kills
Courage so true, could still save no man
not if cruelest Fate had a different plan

Death raced about in the air with glee
sad was every blood soaked dying plea
Of brave men that fought and valiantly died
leaving behind family that forever cried

The setting sun casts a saddened glow
on this once bloody soil covered with snow
No victor's glory can ever stand to replace
these fallen that lost their greatest race

No laurels given at that deadly finish line
no great banquet to celebrate and dine
Only quiet and forgotten memories remain
of this great battle and its bloody stain

Robert J. Lindley, 02-12-2015

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

A contest entry, on conflict and dead romance. -Tyr



The Fight, A Show That Sells Out

Lights blink in time
with ghost music playing loud
Words set in rhyme
conflict draws a happy crowd

Curses all the rage
her hurt makes him so proud
Wisdom of a sage
agreement is simply not allowed

Each cut a jab
seeking blood to flow deep
Take it quickly grab
music echoes within her weep

No solace this day
each seeks a deeper hell
Misery sent to play
chiming of a darkened bell

Crowd cheers for more
painful words cast to do harm
Accuse her the whore
ringing out lying false alarm

Each on a mountain top
this bastard cutting her throat
Can anything make it stop
she cries as he joyfully gloats

Dueling demons dance
firing the blaze with flames
Death to all romance
bullet hits exactly were he aims

Black cloud in this room
death shadow settles on down
Lost love was her doom
destruction grows in this evil town

Robert J. Lindley, 02-12-2015

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Shining Fruits From A Solid Tree

As I rest on this high mountaintop
blessings come, they never stop
All my family are blessings to me
shining fruits from a solid tree

The clouds parting early each dawn
sunshine on flowers on the lawn
Looking closer I am content to see
smooth waves upon my family sea

Whenever this life sends some bad
I reflect on blessings I've had
Bow my head and settle in to pray
good Lord, thank you for every day

As my time for leaving comes near
I stand in faith not abject fear
Seeing my family in heaven my goal
praying God's mercy on every soul

As I rest on this high mountaintop
blessings come, they never stop
All my family are blessings to me
shining fruits from a solid tree

Robert J. Lindley, 02-14-2015


Note- A poet wrote to me recently that I should make up my mind if I am Christian or not!
That some of my poetry is not very Christian-like. I had to agree some of it is not but my writing is divorced from my religion or rather separated from my personal faith in God.
I reminded him that when I do a spiritual write there is nothing bad ever in it. Just truth and praise to God. My other writes are not to be cast into that pot of stew. For that one is special and is to be exempt from all others.
Am I a weak Christian for my other writes? I guess so but perhaps I am not driven to be in a higher station in Heaven but quite content to just be allowed in as a janitor or lawn-keeper as long as I can be with my family there my station there is unimportant to me. Some may say such humility is to be praised. I say its just me , I seek no praise for it..
This friend, went on to mention my "bad streak" and my past that I write about so often. How I seem to praise violence as a means to settle conflicts. I replied, "yes much of that is true but I can write no other without lying about my past--that I will not do"!
Hope you enjoyed this spiritual poem and reflect upon our God and the blessing that our loving God gave you!--Tyr

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

O To Live With Nature Again


O to live with Nature again,
cross the forested paths
Be one with her as a friend
avoid most of her wrath

Stalk the woods every day,
join in life's course
In our world we all must pay,
for better or for worse

Wade free flowing streams,
eat the wild fruits
Live, live within dreams,
fly back to our roots

Lost is the way to live,
pleasure of each morn
Harvest but do freely give,
grateful for being born

O to live with Nature again,
cross the forested paths
Be one with her as a friend
avoid most of her wrath

Robert J. Lindley

[LongTermGuy]

O To Live With Nature Again


O to live with Nature again,
cross the forested paths
Be one with her as a friend
avoid most of her wrath

Stalk the woods every day,
join in life's course
In our world we all must pay,
for better or for worse

Wade free flowing streams,
eat the wild fruits
Live, live within dreams,
fly back to our roots

Lost is the way to live,
pleasure of each morn
Harvest but do freely give,
grateful for being born

O to live with Nature again,
cross the forested paths
Be one with her as a friend
avoid most of her wrath

Robert J. Lindley


I Like this one....

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

To the Memory of the Brave Americans

Under General Greene, in South Carolina,
who fell in the action of September 8, 1781


AT Eutaw Springs the valiant died;
Their limbs with dust are covered o'er-
Weep on, ye springs, your tearful tide;
How many heroes are no more!

If in this wreck or ruin, they
Can yet be thought to claim a tear,
O smite your gentle breast, and say
The friends of freedom slumber here!

Thou, who shalt trace this bloody plain,
If goodness rules thy generous breast,
Sigh for the wasted rural reign;
Sign for the shepherds, sunk to rest!

Stranger, their humble graves adorn;
You too may fall, and ask a tear;
'Tis not the beauty of the morn
That proves the evening shall be clear.-

They saw their injured country's woe;
The flaming town, the wasted field;
Then rushed to meet the insulting foe;
They took the spear- but left the shield.

Led by thy conquering genius, Greene,
The Britons they compelled to fly;
None distant viewed the fatal plain,
None grieved, in such a cause to die-

But, like the Parthian, famed of old,
Who, flying, still their arrows threw,
These routed Britons, full as bold,
Retreated, and retreating slew.

Now rest in peace, our patriot band,
Though far from nature's limits thrown,
We trust they find a happier land,
A brighter sunshine of their own.


Philip Freneau

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

I sat here just to write a poem today
amidst the activity of my long life
With true heart and purpose to say
my past still cuts deep like a knife

Lost dreams haunt my every daily task
memories of those I once dearly loved
Why and where, questions I need to ask
mysteries held by those once beloved

My coffee was as hot as her thrill
she of raven hair and legs so long
Dared not hold her against her will
vanished back in the worldly throng

Another filled with style and grace
dance in singing hold me so tight
Even I, could never match her pace
lovefilled acrobat every sweet night

All passed on as a hot blowing wind
each had grace and unique charms
Departed for thrills around next bend
leaving these outstretched loving arms

Sweet lost dreams eat away at my mind
did my heart fail to hold their love
Was my life destined to be so unkind
with storm clouds always lurking above

I sat here just to write a poem today
amidst the activity of my long life
With true heart and purpose to say
my past still cuts deep like a knife!

Robert J. Lindley

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

I Refusing To Cry, You To Ever Yield

I never went into your dark room
never saw your silent rage
In my mind your cannons never boom
nor does your face ever age

I never felt your lonely trance
never saw you naked in a cage
In this dark world you truly dance
with the melodic words of a sage

We never journeyed to the Keys
never saw that perfect moonlight
In your gaze rested your pleas
to be so closely held at midnight

We never lived in each other's dreams
never wept to the same sad tune
Side by side we waded cool streams
yet we never wed in early June

Our days, were they numbered badly
sunburnt harvest stripped from the field
Was it destined to end that sadly
I refusing to cry and you to ever yield

Robert J. Lindley

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Graced By Skies With Multi-Colored Blues

Were I to live ruling in my own domain
life would sail with everything to gain
Love would flow freely from a fountain
life as sheltered as snow upon a mountain

Mountains wrapped in those majestic hues
graced by skies with multi-colored blues
Meadows below glisten in panoramic sheen
awash with virgin colors in every scene

Trails swirling through forested stands
blessed travels within beautiful lands
Nature kissing the brightest blue skies
mornings whispering promises of no lies

Each trek an adventure into epic bliss
paradise scenes a shame to ever miss
Every cool breeze a tonic for the soul
discovery the pleasure, the final goal

Seasons set to comfort the spirit of man
adventure in the journey without a plan
Free spirit away from many roads of Rome
a Nature's feast in this wilderness home

As each morn's beautiful Sun did rise
every day in sweet life would surprise
My land, far away in this golden dream
where Man and Nature are a true team
Flying birds plentiful , beauty upon wings
so majestic that each heart and soul sings
Death shall not visit to cast its deep hell
life will journey forever down this trail

Could I ever conjure up this paradise place
Pray a blessing of God's mercy and divine grace!

Robert J. Lindley , 02-17-2015

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

A triple selection today by three truly great poets. I start it of with - A Poison Tree, by Blake because that poem so fits my sense of justice and admiration for a plan well laid, well executed that bears such promising fruit!--Tyr



A Poison Tree

by William Blake



I was angry with my friend:
I told my wrath, my wrath did end.
I was angry with my foe:
I told it not, my wrath did grow.


And I watered it in fears,
Night & morning with my tears;
And I sunned it with smiles,
And with soft deceitful wiles.


And it grew both day and night,
Till it bore an apple bright ;
And my foe beheld it shine,
And he knew that it was mine,

And into my garden stole
When the night had veil’d the pole:
In the morning glad I see
My foe outstretched beneath the tree.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

As Kingfishers Catch Fire

by Gerard Manley Hopkins




As kingfishers catch fire, dragonflies, dráw fláme ;
As tumbled over rim in roundy wells
Stones ring ; like each tucked string tells, each hung bell’s
Bow swung finds tongue to fling out broad its name ;
Each mortal thing does one thing and the same :
Deals out that being indoors each one dwells ;
Selves—goes itself ; myself it speaks and spells,
Crying Whát I do is me : for that I came.
I say móre : the just man justices ;
Kéeps gráce : thát keeps all his goings graces ;
Acts in God’s eye what in God’s eye he is—
Chríst—for Christ plays in ten thousand places,
Lovely in limbs, and lovely in eyes not his
To the Father through the features of men’s faces.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


When I was one-and-twenty

by A.E. Housman



When I was one-and-twenty
I heard a wise man say,
‘Give crowns and pounds and guineas
But not your heart away;
Give pearls away and rubies
But keep your fancy free.’
But I was one-and-twenty,
No use to talk to me.

When I was one-and-twenty
I heard him say again,
‘The heart out of the bosom
Was never given in vain;
’Tis paid with sighs a plenty
And sold for endless rue.’
And I am two-and-twenty,
And oh, ’tis true, ’tis true.

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Never have I appreciated poetry more than at this stage in my life,
as I peek at the closing curtain
Tumult, chaos and turmoil all are edges of that same evil knife,
find one, find the others for certain
A Saving Grace, now that is the treasure I truly dare to seek,
for none of the other matter
This dark world, a hell of a place for those sweet and so meek,
righteous hearts that shatter
Robert J. Lindley, 02-21-2015

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Three poems-Poetry tribute presented as a gift to all that may enjoy



To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time

by Robert Herrick



Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,
Old Time is still a-flying:
And this same flower that smiles to-day
To-morrow will be dying.


The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun,
The higher he's a-getting,
The sooner will his race be run,
And nearer he's to setting.


That age is best which is the first,
When youth and blood are warmer;
But being spent, the worse, and worst
Times still succeed the former.


Then be not coy, but use your time,
And while ye may, go marry:
For having lost but once your prime,
You may for ever tarry.
--------------------------------------------------------

The Skylark

by James Hogg




Bird of the wilderness,
Blithesome and cumberless,
Sweet be thy matin o’er moorland and lea!
Emblem of happiness,
Blest is thy dwelling-place—
Oh, to abide in the desert with thee!

Wild is thy lay and loud,
Far in the downy cloud,
Love gives it energy, love gave it birth.
Where on thy dewy wing,
Where art thou journeying?
Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth.

O'er fell and fountain sheen,
O'er moor and mountain green,
O'er the red streamer that heralds the day,
Over the cloudlet dim,
Over the rainbow's rim,
Musical cherub, soar, singing away!

Then, when the gloaming comes,
Low in the heather blooms,
Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be!
Emblem of happiness,
Blest is thy dwelling-place—
Oh, to abide in the desert with thee!
--------------------------------------------------------

Anthem for Doomed Youth

by Wilfred Owen




What passing-bells for these who die as cattle ?
Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
Only the stuttering rifles’ rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons.
No mockeries now for them ; no prayers nor bells,
Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs, ―
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells ;
And bugles calling for them from sad shires.

What candles may be held to speed them all ?
Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes
Shall shine the holy glimmers of good-byes.
The pallor of girls’ brows shall be their pall ;
Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,
And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Note- Why is it that when most agree that--"War is never the answer" yet its the only one given?
Answer is, the heart of man ,truly lost and unredeemed knows none other. --Tyr

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Ok, could not sleep--so one more...- :laugh:--Tyr

-----------------------------
Dylan Thomas

1914-1953



Dylan Marlais Thomas is buried in the over-spill graveyard of St. Martin's Church, Laugharne, Dyfed, Wales. His grave is marked by a plain white cross. His wife, Caitlin Thomas, is buried in the same grave and her name appears on the reverse side of the cross.

Thomas died on November 9, 1953 while on a lecture tour of America. He had been drinking heavily the night he died in the White Horse pub in Greenwich Village, New York. Later that evening he returned to his hotel room in great pain and summonsed a doctor. Unfortunately the doctor (Dr Feltenstein) administered an abnormally large dose of morphine sulphate and Thomas slipped into a coma. Thomas' last words were: "I've had 18 straight whiskies......I think that's the record." He was 39 years old. His body was brought back to Laugharne.

Thomas and Caitlin lived at The Boathouse in Laugharne in Wales from 1949 onwards after it was purchased for them by Margaret Taylor (the wife of the historian A.J.P. Taylor). However, Thomas used to write in a wooden garage which stood on the cliff edge a short distance from the house. The garage, which is still there today, overlooks the beautiful Taf estuary.



DO NOT GO GENTLE INTO THAT GOOD NIGHT


Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rage at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

On The High Mountaintop I See The Stars


On the high mountaintop I see the stars
they wait for me shining brightly there
Blasting like high beams on speeding cars,
or glowing lanterns at the top of the stairs

Those night sentinels dearly comfort me
with steadfastness in that galactic realm
Beckoning, come forth, venture to be free
a ship sailing with you master at the helm

Over that horizon Hope awaits its turn
promises unfulfilled sing a melodic tune
A man with great courage to use and burn
can find them with a leap over the moon

More lies in abundance a bit farther out
mysteries, loves and great treasure galore
When I find it I let out a mighty shout
thank God for creating every distant shore

On the high mountaintop I see the stars
they wait for me shining brightly there
Blasting like high beams on speeding cars,
or glowing lanterns at the top of the stairs

Robert J. Lindley, 02-21-2015

[LongTermGuy]

<tbody>
John Lindley (1952 - present)

</tbody>

http://www.famouspoetsandpoems.com/pictures/middle/john_lindley.jpg


An experienced performer, John has read at pubs, clubs, theatres and at the Buxton and Edinburgh fringe festivals. He staged a self-written show, Screen Fever: Movie Poems, at Congleton Library in September 1999, which married poems written on the theme of cinema to film music and dialogue. The show has since been performed for arts groups and at the Jon Silkin Memorial Festival in Camelford, Cornwall and at Ledbury Poetry Festival.

John has won the Words of Silk Open Poetry Competition, been a runner up in the Jackson’s Arm Poetry Pamphlet Competition, a three times prize-winner in the Lancaster Literature Festival and a prize-winner in the Manchester Open Poetry and the Blythe Spirit Open Poetry competitions.

Two booklets of his poems appeared in 1976 and 1982 and were followed by his first full-length collection, Stills from November Campaigns, which was published by Tarantula in 1998. This was followed by Scarecrow Crimes, published by New Hope International in 2002 and Cheshire Rising, published by Cheshire County Council in 2005.

John was appointed as the literary ‘Arts Form Specialist’ by Congleton Borough Council to work on their 18 month Imprints Community Arts Project. Other recent commissions include running workshops in schools for Buxton Opera House for their Feeder Reader – Living Book project, for Ellesmere Port’s Fusion project and in day centres for Age Concern for both the WearPurple arts project and the BBC’s People’s War project. He also provides distance learning workshops for writers in Africa as part of the British Council’s Crossing Borders project and travelled to Kenya to run workshops and give a reading.

He was appointed Cheshire Poet Laureate for 2004.

John Lindley can be contacted for readings and workshops at:

Tel: 01260 273219 (home)
07816 766611 (mobile)
e-mail: johnlindley@uk2.net
website: www.johnlindley.co.uk

Address: 26 Albert Place
Havannah Street
Congleton
Cheshire
CW12 2AJ

REVIEWS

“The directness, the levelling craic, eyeball to eyeball, the sheer pace of these poems is exhilarating, upbeat and a tonic for our troubled times.” Mike Bannister, ‘Links’

“.... ranging widely in form and content, yet unquestionably in one, very authoritative voice. These well turned and elegant poems contain wit, pathos, humour, tenderness, humanity, profundity and emotional depth. They are often moving but never sentimental. He has a wry and sympathetic eye for the frailties of the famous and the unknown.” John Latham, poet and novelist.

“Unlocks life’s little moments with uncanny insight. Beautifully written with warm attention to detail; emotionally engaging with nice touches of humour.” Agraman, The Buzz cabaret club.

“His poetry, which is vibrant and taut, is wide ranging in form and theme.” Sean Body, Tarantula publications.

“John Lindley’s poems exist in the twilight world between the merely fanciful and the genuinely disturbing” iota

“.... a quirky, lively talent with a way for the unexpected image. Nothing seems to escape his attention.” Mary Knight, Prop.

“ Lindley’s is an acutely observed world...(his) poetry is sexy, lyrical and by turns melancholic.” Keith Armstrong, National Association of Writers’ Groups magazine.

“An easeful voice pushes you along with a deceptive, unforced elegance.” Steven Waling, City Life.

:)


Yes, EventuallyEventually life sends a message clear embrace courage abandon your fearTake big steps to lead a life of hope anything is possible given enough ropeEventually a great storm will try to slay prepare faithfully for such a tragic dayTake all our evil vices into account upon a charging steed soundly mountEventually critics will call for your head by lying about things you never saidTake measure of the false steps they make shine a great light proving they are fakeEventually the world will learn to respect youEven then, fools and knaves will not have a clueRobert J. Lindley, 07-27-2014 </pre>:beer:

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

<tbody>
John Lindley (1952 - present)

</tbody>

http://www.famouspoetsandpoems.com/pictures/middle/john_lindley.jpg


An experienced performer, John has read at pubs, clubs, theatres and at the Buxton and Edinburgh fringe festivals. He staged a self-written show, Screen Fever: Movie Poems, at Congleton Library in September 1999, which married poems written on the theme of cinema to film music and dialogue. The show has since been performed for arts groups and at the Jon Silkin Memorial Festival in Camelford, Cornwall and at Ledbury Poetry Festival.

John has won the Words of Silk Open Poetry Competition, been a runner up in the Jackson’s Arm Poetry Pamphlet Competition, a three times prize-winner in the Lancaster Literature Festival and a prize-winner in the Manchester Open Poetry and the Blythe Spirit Open Poetry competitions.

Two booklets of his poems appeared in 1976 and 1982 and were followed by his first full-length collection, Stills from November Campaigns, which was published by Tarantula in 1998. This was followed by Scarecrow Crimes, published by New Hope International in 2002 and Cheshire Rising, published by Cheshire County Council in 2005.

John was appointed as the literary ‘Arts Form Specialist’ by Congleton Borough Council to work on their 18 month Imprints Community Arts Project. Other recent commissions include running workshops in schools for Buxton Opera House for their Feeder Reader – Living Book project, for Ellesmere Port’s Fusion project and in day centres for Age Concern for both the WearPurple arts project and the BBC’s People’s War project. He also provides distance learning workshops for writers in Africa as part of the British Council’s Crossing Borders project and travelled to Kenya to run workshops and give a reading.

He was appointed Cheshire Poet Laureate for 2004.

John Lindley can be contacted for readings and workshops at:

Tel: 01260 273219 (home)
07816 766611 (mobile)
e-mail: johnlindley@uk2.net
website: www.johnlindley.co.uk

Address: 26 Albert Place
Havannah Street
Congleton
Cheshire
CW12 2AJ

REVIEWS

“The directness, the levelling craic, eyeball to eyeball, the sheer pace of these poems is exhilarating, upbeat and a tonic for our troubled times.” Mike Bannister, ‘Links’

“.... ranging widely in form and content, yet unquestionably in one, very authoritative voice. These well turned and elegant poems contain wit, pathos, humour, tenderness, humanity, profundity and emotional depth. They are often moving but never sentimental. He has a wry and sympathetic eye for the frailties of the famous and the unknown.” John Latham, poet and novelist.

“Unlocks life’s little moments with uncanny insight. Beautifully written with warm attention to detail; emotionally engaging with nice touches of humour.” Agraman, The Buzz cabaret club.

“His poetry, which is vibrant and taut, is wide ranging in form and theme.” Sean Body, Tarantula publications.

“John Lindley’s poems exist in the twilight world between the merely fanciful and the genuinely disturbing” iota

“.... a quirky, lively talent with a way for the unexpected image. Nothing seems to escape his attention.” Mary Knight, Prop.

“ Lindley’s is an acutely observed world...(his) poetry is sexy, lyrical and by turns melancholic.” Keith Armstrong, National Association of Writers’ Groups magazine.

“An easeful voice pushes you along with a deceptive, unforced elegance.” Steven Waling, City Life.

:)


Yes, EventuallyEventually life sends a message clear embrace courage abandon your fearTake big steps to lead a life of hope anything is possible given enough ropeEventually a great storm will try to slay prepare faithfully for such a tragic dayTake all our evil vices into account upon a charging steed soundly mountEventually critics will call for your head by lying about things you never saidTake measure of the false steps they make shine a great light proving they are fakeEventually the world will learn to respect youEven then, fools and knaves will not have a clueRobert J. Lindley, 07-27-2014 </pre>:beer:

Thanks for the information on John Lindley. I already had heard and read about him but never that much info. Very likely a distant relative since my bloodline comes from English/Irish roots..

Here is that poem of mine that you quoted, as it is now after it was edited and a finished product ..

Yes, Eventually

Eventually life sends a message very clear
embrace courage abandon your great fear
Take big steps to lead a life of hope
anything is possible given enough rope

Eventually a great storm will try to slay
prepare faithfully for such a tragic day
Take all our evil vices into account upon
a charging steed soundly courageously mount

Eventually critics will call for your head
by lying about things you never said
Take measure of the false steps they make
shine a great light proving they are fake

Eventually the world will learn to respect you
Even then, fools and knaves will not have a clue

Robert J. Lindley, 07-27-2014

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

To Truly Love and Drink The Cold, Cold Beer


What I once was and just why I survived
I remember a life so damn contrived
Reaching for moon and stars in the skies
as time ate onward, my soul cries

There was this ache that had to be fed
I remember vividly each treasure in bed
Reaching for ever more, such great pleasures
as time ate onward, my heart lost treasures

Then came pride that most vicious master
I remember forced me to race ever faster
Reaching for more laurels to fed appetites
as time ate onward, greater were the fights

Later revenge on the world was the new call
I remember punishing many, me most of all
Reaching for a deeper, harder kind of pain
as time ate onward, all folly made so plain

What I once was and just why I am now here
I gave up the war, the race, the endless fights
to truly love and drink the cold, cold beer!

Robert J. Lindley, 02-22-2015

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Home Thoughts from Abroad

by Robert Browning


Oh, to be in England
Now that April's there,
And whoever wakes in England
Sees, some morning, unaware,
That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf
Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf,
While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough
In England - now!


And after April, when May follows,
And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows!
Hark, where my blossomed pear-tree in the hedge
Leans to the field and scatters on the clover
Blossoms and dewdrops - at the bent spray's edge -
That's the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over,
Lest you should think he never could recapture
The first fine careless rapture!
And though the fields look rough with hoary dew
All will be gay when noontide wakes anew
The buttercups, the little children's dower
- Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower!
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Meeting at Night

by Robert Browning

The gray sea and the long black land;
And the yellow half-moon large and low;
And the startled little waves that leap
In fiery ringlets from their sleep,
As I gain the cove with pushing prow,
And quench its speed i’ the slushy sand.

Then a mile of warm sea-scented beach;
Three fields to cross till a farm appears;
A tap at the pane, the quick sharp scratch
And blue spurt of a lighted match,
And a voice less loud, through its joys and fears,
Then the two hearts beating each to each!
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


Browning grew up in Camberwell in south-east London. He was educated at home where he had access to his father's extensive library. At an early age he was inspired by the work of romantic poets such as Byron, Keats and Shelley. In 1828 he began a course at London University but abandoned it in his second term.

In 1845 he began corresponding with Elizabeth Barrett after reading and enjoying some of her poems. Due to opposition from Elizabeth's father the couple eventually married in secret and then eloped to Italy in 1846. There they had a son together - Robert Wiedmann Barrett Browning - who was known by the nickname 'Pen'.

Although quintessentially a Victorian poet, Browning's work was hugely influential in heralding in modernism. In particular, his dramatic monologues such as My Last Duchess and Bishop Blougram's Apology provided inspiration for the work of both T.S.Eliot and Ezra Pound.




Robert Browning

After his wife's death in 1861 Browning returned to England and continued to write poetry.

Browning died in Venice in 1889 and it was his wish to be buried alongside his wife in the English Cemetery in Florence however, by that stage, the city authorities had prohibited any new burials.

Browning never achieved the commercial success of Tennyson. However, in his old age he was a hugely respected literary figure. He received an honorary degree from Oxford University and in 1881 The Browning Society was founded.

His best known collections include The Ring and the Book (1868-69) and Men and Women (1855). His last collection of poems Asolando was published on the day of his death

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Dreaming of Elysian Fields



Those dreams of Elysian Fields I so miss
gentle days by the Okeanos flow
Soothing nights with you in such bliss
our souls flying with hearts in tow

Long days spent on the Fortunate Isle
walking the shady parks of Pindar fame
You dancing, dressed in golden style
loving echoes of you calling out my name

Cronus dare not take your sweet hand
for fear of my defending assault
We sing and dance with angelic band
in pleasure our true love has bought

Elysian angels dancing at your feet
the chorus of admirers a great throng
All is perfect, our lives a treat
joyous eternally in our own love song

Robert J. Lindley, 02-25-2015
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Wanted to get this in....-Tyr

Sir John Betjeman

John Betjeman was born on August 28th, 1906, near Highgate, London. His father was a cabinet maker, a trade which had been in the family for several generations. The family name was Betjemann, with two 'n's, but John dropped the second 'n' during the First World War, to make the name less German.
Sir John Betjeman is ranked #254 in the top 500 poets


In Westminster Abbey by Sir John Betjeman

Let me take this other glove off
As the vox humana swells,
And the beauteous fields of Eden Bask beneath the Abbey bells.
Here, where England's statesmen lie, Listen to a lady's cry.
Gracious Lord, oh bomb the Germans, Spare their women for Thy Sake,
And if that is not too easy
We will pardon Thy Mistake.
But, gracious Lord, whate'er shall be,
Don't let anyone bomb me.
Keep our Empire undismembered
Guide our Forces by Thy Hand,
Gallant blacks from far Jamaica, Honduras and Togoland;
Protect them Lord in all their fights,
And, even more, protect the whites. Think of what our Nation stands for,
Books from Boots' and country lanes,
Free speech, free passes, class distinction, Democracy and proper drains
. Lord, put beneath Thy special care
One-eighty-nine Cadogan Square.
Although dear Lord I am a sinner,
I have done no major crime;
Now I'll come to Evening Service Whensoever I have the time.
So, Lord, reserve for me a crown,
And do not let my shares go down.
I will labour for Thy Kingdom, Help our lads to win the war,
Send white feathers to the cowards Join the Women's Army Corps,
Then wash the steps around Thy Throne
In the Eternal Safety Zone. Now I feel a little better, What a treat to hear Thy Word,
Where the bones of leading statesmen
Have so often been interr'd.
And now, dear Lord, I cannot wait Because I have a luncheon date. -

-----------------------------------------
Trebetherick


We used to picnic where the thrift
Grew deep and tufted to the edge;
We saw the yellow foam flakes drift
In trembling sponges on the ledge
Below us, till the wind would lift
Them up the cliff and o’er the hedge.
Sand in the sandwiches, wasps in the tea,
Sun on our bathing dresses heavy with the wet,
Squelch of the bladder-wrack waiting for the sea,
Fleas around the tamarisk, an early cigarette.

From where the coastguard houses stood
One used to see below the hill,
The lichened branches of a wood
In summer silver cool and still;
And there the Shade of Evil could
Stretch out at us from Shilla Mill.
Thick with sloe and blackberry, uneven in the light,
Lonely round the hedge, the heavy meadow was remote,
The oldest part of Cornwall was the wood as black as night,
And the pheasant and the rabbit lay torn open at the throat.

But when a storm was at its height,
And feathery slate was black in rain,
And tamarisks were hung with light
And golden sand was brown again,
Spring tide and blizzard would unite
And sea come flooding up the lane.
Waves full of treasure then were roaring up the beach,
Ropes round our mackintoshes, waders warm and dry,
We waited for the wreckage to come swirling into reach,
Ralph, Vasey, Alistair, Biddy, John and I.

Then roller into roller curled
And thundered down the rocky bay,
And we were in a water world
Of rain and blizzard, sea and spray,
And one against the other hurled
We struggled round to Greenaway.
Blesséd be St Enodoc, blesséd be the wave,
Blesséd be the springy turf, we pray, pray to thee,
Ask for our children all happy days you gave
To Ralph, Vasey, Alistair, Biddy, John and me.

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

We Once Danced Into The Midnight Rain


We once danced into the midnight rain
while our love was growing deep and firm
All was exciting nothing was ever plain
"love you baby", was our endearing term

We saw life mellow within our world
as sweet days and nights floated away
Into a loving lake we were thus hurled
making our love in that secluded bay

Yes there, time stood ever so still
testament to our love's greatest powers
Racing up to top every beautiful hill
never a care for the many wasted hours

That summer, cool and so very gay
resting beneath our favorite oak tree
Never a thought of ever having to pay
for nothing, nothing in life is free

Wet hair, shining in that glowing light
so refreshed after our picnic foray
Longing for the romance of coming night
you and I, we both always getting our way

We once danced into the midnight rain
while our love was growing deep and firm
All was exciting nothing was ever plain
"love you baby", was our endearing term

Robert J. Lindley, 02-26-2015

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

A sonnet, just because I haven't written one in months.. --Tyr




The Best Any Mother Ever Birthed And Reared


He stared back at his life amazed
a scattering of miracles here and there
many cried out that he was crazed
when he gave that stern look and stare

Back there vast plains loudly waved
forested jungles crept up so very slow
Nature he wanted touched and saved
a tragedy of pain that the angels know

Dry, dead cities awaited his return
the man that set beauty in the blue sky
his life , a tree destined to burn
walking where others feared to even try

A man among men they admired and feared
the best any mother ever birthed and reared!

Robert J. Lindley, 02-27-2015

note: Dedicated to H D L ....

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

The Prisoner



He saw the dim rays cascading down
the small room and his legs in chains
One small window, sunshine's gown
sprinkles splattering in when it rains

Prisoner for these many decades now
captured in a terrible massive defeat
Every day escape called but just how
weakened by only stale bread to eat

Those fierce battles long since dead
no more slashing foes with his sword
Pain and bloodshed rips into his head
he muses, tis' better than being bored

He fears not the Gods lurking above
offers no prayers divine intervention
Dreams of the wife he so dearly loves
as he wastes away in miserable detention

Warrior spirit resides in his brave soul
living to see his family again his goal
Morning rays renew his weakened spirit
the morning lark sings so he can hear it

Days are torture, time the enemy in years
heart beats to hold onto his former life
Nights eat away at his misery and fears
greatest one that he may never see his wife

Three decades bound in rusty chains
never giving up on that one cherished hope
Her lost touch by far the worst of pains
giving in to hopelessness a slippery slope

One bright August morn the jailer came
he heard the footsteps coming so fast
And a woman's voice screaming out his name
this day in prison would be his last

For relief and freedom now, he was unbound
crying as he walked into the bright light
Waiting was his wife in her wedding gown
Nightmare over, he had won the long fight

Soon both were flying upward, swiftly away
thru clouds and mist they did gladly fly
She so very beautiful on this great day
for that blessed morn they reunited to die!

Robert J. Lindley, 02-28-2015

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Weep Not For My Many Pains


Weep not for my many desperate pains.
Instead demand that I again renew;
Our deeper love displaying greatest gains.
Weep not for my many desperate pains
Forgetting forever the darkest stains
Where seasons are miserable and blue.
Weep not for my many desperate pains.
Instead demand that I again renew.


Robert J. Lindley


A Triolet

Syllables Per Line: 10 10 10 10 10 10 10 10 Total # Syllables: 80 Total # Lines: 8 (Including empty lines) Words with (syllables) counted programmatically: N/A Total

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

The beauty of the wetlands


The beauty of the wetlands
Have you seen, lake Joondalup
In Yellagonga there?
Oh what a lovely place she be
There’s wild life everywhere
It be a precious wonderland
Of trees and birds and flowers
It’s a place that be so beautiful
All filled with natures power

Frogs, they croak, and insects sing
And the birds in all their glory
They sing from trees all bent and gnarled
Such a blessed song it be
As breeze it plays it’s melody
And trees dance gracefully
To leave the mind without a doubt
That there be a deity

I walk these trails most every day
As I’m stunned by the sweet power
Of everything that’s beautiful
Every tree and every flower
And bird, and beast and tiny insect
Do tell a wondrous story
Of life among these wetland spaces
All filled with precious glory

AUTHOR-- Peter Duggan.
------------------------------------------

My humble tribute to this great poem written by my good friend...-Tyr



A Lazy Afternoon Walking About

A lazy afternoon walking about
bird singing almost in a shout
Trees swaying to a cool breeze
Spring bursting forth in a tease

My favorite place a mile ahead
under giant oak my resting bed
Afternoon stroll to ease my mind
What new mystery shall I find

Critters scurrying for their food
got to feed their growing brood
Squirrels racing from tree to tree
what gift to be so happy and free

This trail I use to soothe and heal
gives me delight and such a thrill
Every tree, flower and singing bird
renews my faith in God's holy word

Nature talks in such great scenes
So smooth except when man intervenes

Robert J. Lindley, 03-07-2015

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

I got a big kick out of reading this so I decided to share it here for others to get that laugh.--:laugh:--Tyr



"Can Poetry Matter?"
by
Stephen Dobyns

Heart feels the time has come to compose lyric poetry.
No more storytelling for him. Oh, Moon, Heart writes,
sad wafer of the heart's distress. and then: Oh, Moon,
bright cracker of the heart's pleasure. Which is it,
is the moon happy or sad, cracker or wafer? He looks
from the window but the night is overcast. Oh, Cloud,
he writes, moody veil of the Moon's distress. And then,
Oh, Cloud, sweet scarf of the Moon's repose. Once more
Heart asks, Are clouds kindly or a bother, is the moon sad
or at rest? He calls scientists who tell him that the moon
is a dead piece of rock. He calls astrologers. One says
the moon means water. Another that it signifies oblivion.
The girl next door says the Moon means love. The nut
up the block says it proves Satan has us under his thumb.
Heart goes back to his notebooks. Oh, Moon,, he writes,
confusing orb meaning one thing or another. Heat feels
that his words lack conviction. Then he hits on a solution.
Oh, Moon, immense hyena of introverted motorboat.
Oh, Moon, upside down lamppost of barbershop quartet.
Heart takes his lines to a critic who tells him that the poet
is recounting a time as a toddler when he saw his father
kissing the baby-sitter at the family's cottage on a lake.
Obviously, the poem explains the poet's fear of water.
Heart is ecstatic. He rushes home to continue writing.
Oh, Cloud, raccoon cadaver of colored crayon, angel spittle
recast as foggy euphoria. Heart is swept up by the passion
of composition. Freed from the responsibility of content,
no nuance of nonsense can be denied him. Soon his poems
appear everywhere, while the critic writes essays elucidating
Heart's meaning. Jointly they form a sausage factory of poetry:
Heart supplying the pig snouts and rectal tissue of language
which the critic encloses in a thin membrane of explication.
Lyric poetry means teamwork, thinks Heart: a hog farm,
corn field, and two old dobbins pulling a buckboard of song.

(from Pallbearers Envying the One Who Rides, 1999)


---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The reason it is so damn funny is that I know that feeling so very well.
Any poet that can not laugh at himself will surely go mad. Trust me on that. One must keep the 'ole ego in check or else calamity claims another victim... Tyr

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Confessions Of A Poet


As the dark hour slays the great setting Sun
earthly fires in the nether regions flame
The poet's heart must see both to have fun
words spit forth earnestly but not a game
Slashing one's own soul to get the job done

In the midst of the darkest lonely night
poetry burns deeply to release its heat
Poet's heart must feel all to truly write
claws that gash and sharp teeth that eat
Epic battle marching words into the fight

Each verse sings softest melody just to him
as the sky cast down its deepest blues
The poet must see with a mind never dim
searching heaven and hell for any clues
Play with words and toss 'em out on a whim

So says a drunken Muse, the envy of my Soul
she that sulks and cries to beat the band
Pretends winning her heart should be my goal

Robert J. Lindley, 03-09-2015

note-- I asked but why, but why end with that closing three verses. Got back the usual snarky reply, "just shut up and write."! :laugh:-Tyr

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Liberty And Freedom, Twins Now Captured And Bound


Illusions and delusions leads to mass confusions
why is it never too late to use lies and hate
Freedom conceptions are lost in masked deceptions
hope is denied by the cry it is just too damn late

Liberty and freedom, twins now captured and bound
our nation, abomination more concerned with domination
True freedom, so longed for but rarely ever found
we are caged animals doomed for the usual castration

The greater Truth has been casted into a dark pit
greed and power now reign as the twin tyrants playing
All past greatness so quickly turning into horseshit
yet we place great hope in the futile act of delaying

American dream has became a nightmare spinning on down
why work or live right when government pays to not
Wearing happy faces, inside each cries an unhappy clown
that feels heart and soul sinking into a darkened rot

Illusions and delusions leads to mass confusions
why is it never too late to use lies and hate
Freedom conceptions are lost in masked deceptions
hope is denied by the cry it is just too damn late

Robert J. Lindley, 03-11-2015

Note- A rare political poem from me.

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

The Broken Heart And Last Desperate Plea



This broken heart lays in bitter moonlight
evidence of a great tragedy that cold night
Yes, I had fallen for her sexy, devilish charms
swept her so deeply into my cheating arms

Next morning guilt began to feed, eat into me
for only then your sweet face did I start to see
Pain burst into this miserable cheating heart
I had broke the vow we made on our loving start

Now I sit in a lonely dark cave I foolishly made
a fool that she used, ever so gleefully played
I told you my sin attempting to wash it away
sadly, you told me to get out and forever stay

My soul is now a casted away, derailed train
my greatest regret is causing you such pain
Forgive this miserable and demolished fool
I was a liar and such an arrogantly stupid tool

Search your sweet heart for the kindness there
remember the good times and love we did share
I beg you with remorse and down on bended knees
hear my lament and my sincere remorseful pleas

The trap that the devil cleverly laid for me
was a cage with many locks but no saving keys
Mercy I beg my lady that once loved this clown
I have no smiles, my face wears an eternal frown

Forgive me dearest, wipe away your bitter wrath
allow me to walk with you on that romantic path
My broken heart and soul is yours to now save
Renew this great love that we both forever crave

This lesson I have just in deepest misery learned
nothing is worse than finding my love for you spurned
Save me, I am nothing without you to love and hold
This dark cavern is deep, lonely and so very cold

Robert J. Lindley, 03-11-2015

Note- A writer's imagination, not based upon any current or recent
event in my life! Although I once should have written something similar to this to a lady but was just too damn prideful to do so. Live and learn..

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

After a sincere and heartfelt request from a dear poetess friend at my poetry site I have decided to break my promise to myself to not enter any more contests there. Truly, I only break promises to--myself-- as I then know who the beat up on for doing that.;)

Here is that effort , just finished this fine morn.
By the way, won the big money pool tournament Thursday night, taking first place and the prize money.
Today at 3:00 pm starts the even bigger prize money(450 bucks first place) Saturday tournament with 32 top shooters. Wish me luck, as only having came back to shoot (once a week) about 11 weeks ago after a 13 year lay off , I will need it.. :laugh:-Tyr
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Contest entry:
Forms: Sonnet (a,b,a,b) (c,d,c,d) (e,f,e,f) (g,g)
Three stanzas and a couplet(a summary) ..
Ten syllables per line

You may search and find a saying to inspire you please
include the quote on your work..
Please use_ A Penny For Your Thoughts as your title..
Forms: Sonnet or The Form Of Poulter Measure Explained
PM me if you have any questions..
------------------------------------------------------


A Penny For Your Thoughts

Father said, son listen to that church bell
life just may beat you into submission
or drag you deep into a living hell
to avoid that seek truth as your mission

Sound of truth rings so very loud and clear
let goodness be your greatest living guide
On that path the Light casts away all fear
your love and deeds you will not have to hide

Son asks, dad how can I always be sure
will there not be days of terrible doubt
My son, live your life seeking to be pure
then his love you will never be without

Tis' the courage to continue that counts
In this race , best we use our finest mounts

Robert J. Lindley, 03-14-2015
Poem contest entry...
Results shown:

Poem Syllable Counter Results
Syllables Per Line: 10 10 10 10 0 10 10 10 10 0 10 10 10 10 0 10 10
Total # Syllables: 140 Total
# Lines: 17 (Including empty lines)
Words with (syllables) counted programmatically:
N/A Total # Words: 115


------------------------------------------------------
Nationality: English
Type: Statesman
Born: November 30, 1874
Died: January 24, 1965

"Success is not final, failure is
not fatal: it is the courage to
continue that counts."

Winston Churchill

My quote chosen comes from the famous and brilliant
quote from the epically great Sir Winston Churchill.
I had to slightly rephrase the quote to meet the ten syllable
requirement of the sonnet form used.

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Another sonnet, written this morning.
There is a movement to convince billions that evil does not exist.
Nothing, nothing could be further from the truth.. --Tyr



Darkness Likes To Ride Solely Unmolested


By not believing in evil one becomes its ally
such darkness likes to ride solely unmolested
Wait, wait to shoot the ducks when they fly
hunting in the realms of darkness uncontested

Believe in nothing but the drunk in the gutter
incoherent ravings of madmen with fake degrees
Listen for the melody of lies they readily utter
soothe yourself with the insanity of their disease

The scholar at least has the comfort of some facts
shallow though many of those sweet beauties may be
Watch the hands of those that arrange pious acts
full of deceit, barrenness and dark, leafless trees

He, the great deceiver, loves to pretend not to exist
vapor of black fog dissipating into the vanishing mist

Robert J. Lindley, 03-15-2015

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Rudyard Kipling

Part One----


The Ballad of Boh Da Thone
This is the ballad of Boh Da Thone,
Erst a Pretender to Theebaw's throne,
Who harried the district of Alalone:
How he met with his fate and the V.P.P.*
At the hand of Harendra Mukerji,
Senior Gomashta, G.B.T.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Boh Da Thone was a warrior bold:
His sword and his rifle were bossed with gold,

And the Peacock Banner his henchmen bore
Was stiff with bullion, but stiffer with gore.

He shot at the strong and he slashed at the weak
From the Salween scrub to the Chindwin teak:

He crucified noble, he sacrificed mean,
He filled old ladies with kerosene:

While over the water the papers cried,
"The patriot fights for his countryside!"

But little they cared for the Native Press,
The worn white soldiers in Khaki dress,

Who tramped through the jungle and camped in the byre,
Who died in the swamp and were tombed in the mire,

Who gave up their lives, at the Queen's Command,
For the Pride of their Race and the Peace of the Land.

Now, first of the foemen of Boh Da Thone
Was Captain O'Neil of the Black Tyrone,

And his was a Company, seventy strong,
Who hustled that dissolute Chief along.

There were lads from Galway and Louth and Meath
Who went to their death with a joke in their teeth,

And worshipped with fluency, fervour, and zeal
The mud on the boot-heels of "Crook" O'Neil.

But ever a blight on their labours lay,
And ever their quarry would vanish away,

Till the sun-dried boys of the Black Tyrone
Took a brotherly interest in Boh Da Thone:

And, sooth, if pursuit in possession ends,
The Boh and his trackers were best of friends.

The word of a scout -- a march by night --
A rush through the mist -- a scattering fight --

A volley from cover -- a corpse in the clearing --
The glimpse of a loin-cloth and heavy jade earring --

The flare of a village -- the tally of slain --
And. . .the Boh was abroad on the raid again!

They cursed their luck, as the Irish will,
They gave him credit for cunning and skill,

They buried their dead, they bolted their beef,
And started anew on the track of the thief

Till, in place of the "Kalends of Greece", men said,
"When Crook and his darlings come back with the head."

They had hunted the Boh from the hills to the plain --
He doubled and broke for the hills again:

They had crippled his power for rapine and raid,
They had routed him out of his pet stockade,

And at last, they came, when the Daystar tired,
To a camp deserted -- a village fired.

A black cross blistered the morning-gold,
And the body upon it was stark and cold.

The wind of the dawn went merrily past,
The high grass bowed her plumes to the blast.

And out of the grass, on a sudden, broke
A spirtle of fire, a whorl of smoke --

And Captain O'Neil of the Black Tyrone
Was blessed with a slug in the ulnar-bone --
The gift of his enemy Boh Da Thone.

(Now a slug that is hammered from telegraph-wire
Is a thorn in the flesh and a rankling fire.)

. . . . .

The shot-wound festered -- as shot-wounds may
In a steaming barrack at Mandalay.

The left arm throbbed, and the Captain swore,
"I'd like to be after the Boh once more!"

The fever held him -- the Captain said,
"I'd give a hundred to look at his head!"

The Hospital punkahs creaked and whirred,
But Babu Harendra (Gomashta) heard.

He thought of the cane-brake, green and dank,
That girdled his home by the Dacca tank.

He thought of his wife and his High School son,
He thought -- but abandoned the thought -- of a gun.

His sleep was broken by visions dread
Of a shining Boh with a silver head.

He kept his counsel and went his way,
And swindled the cartmen of half their pay.

. . . . .

And the months went on, as the worst must do,
And the Boh returned to the raid anew.

But the Captain had quitted the long-drawn strife,
And in far Simoorie had taken a wife;

And she was a damsel of delicate mould,
With hair like the sunshine and heart of gold,

And little she knew the arms that embraced
Had cloven a man from the brow to the waist:

And little she knew that the loving lips
Had ordered a quivering life's eclipse,

Or the eye that lit at her lightest breath
Had glared unawed in the Gates of Death.

(For these be matters a man would hide,
As a general rule, from an innocent Bride.)

And little the Captain thought of the past,
And, of all men, Babu Harendra last.

. . . . .

But slow, in the sludge of the Kathun road,
The Government Bullock Train toted its load.

Speckless and spotless and shining with ghi,
In the rearmost cart sat the Babu-jee.

And ever a phantom before him fled
Of a scowling Boh with a silver head.

Then the lead-cart stuck, though the coolies slaved,
And the cartmen flogged and the escort raved;

And out of the jungle, with yells and squeals,
Pranced Boh Da Thone, and his gang at his heels!

Then belching blunderbuss answered back
The Snider's snarl and the carbine's crack,

And the blithe revolver began to sing
To the blade that twanged on the locking-ring,

And the brown flesh blued where the bay'net kissed,
As the steel shot back with a wrench and a twist,

And the great white oxen with onyx eyes
Watched the souls of the dead arise,

And over the smoke of the fusillade
The Peacock Banner staggered and swayed.

Oh, gayest of scrimmages man may see
Is a well-worked rush on the G.B.T.!

The Babu shook at the horrible sight,
And girded his ponderous loins for flight,

But Fate had ordained that the Boh should start
On a lone-hand raid of the rearmost cart,

And out of that cart, with a bellow of woe,
The Babu fell -- flat on the top of the Boh!

For years had Harendra served the State,
To the growth of his purse and the girth of his p]^et.

There were twenty stone, as the tally-man knows,
On the broad of the chest of this best of Bohs.

And twenty stone from a height discharged
Are bad for a Boh with a spleen enlarged.

Oh, short was the struggle -- severe was the shock --
He dropped like a bullock -- he lay like a block;

And the Babu above him, convulsed with fear,
Heard the labouring life-breath hissed out in his ear.

And thus in a fashion undignified
The princely pest of the Chindwin died.

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Part Two--





Turn now to Simoorie where, lapped in his ease,
The Captain is petting the Bride on his knees,

Where the whit of the bullet, the wounded man's scream
Are mixed as the mist of some devilish dream --

Forgotten, forgotten the sweat of the shambles
Where the hill-daisy blooms and the gray monkey gambols,

From the sword-belt set free and released from the steel,
The Peace of the Lord is on Captain O'Neil.

. . . . .

Up the hill to Simoorie -- most patient of drudges --
The bags on his shoulder, the mail-runner trudges.

"For Captain O'Neil, Sahib. One hundred and ten
Rupees to collect on delivery."
Then

(Their breakfast was stopped while the screw-jack and hammer
Tore waxcloth, split teak-wood, and chipped out the dammer;)

Open-eyed, open-mouthed, on the napery's snow,
With a crash and a thud, rolled -- the Head of the Boh!

And gummed to the scalp was a letter which ran: --
"IN FIELDING FORCE SERVICE.
Encampment,
10th Jan.

"Dear Sir, -- I have honour to send, as you said,
For final approval (see under) Boh's Head;

"Was took by myself in most bloody affair.
By High Education brought pressure to bear.

"Now violate Liberty, time being bad,
To mail V.P.P. (rupees hundred) Please add

"Whatever Your Honour can pass. Price of Blood
Much cheap at one hundred, and children want food;

"So trusting Your Honour will somewhat retain
True love and affection for Govt. Bullock Train,

"And show awful kindness to satisfy me,
I am,
Graceful Master,
Your
H. MUKERJI."

. . . . .

As the rabbit is drawn to the rattlesnake's power,
As the smoker's eye fills at the opium hour,

As a horse reaches up to the manger above,
As the waiting ear yearns for the whisper of love,

From the arms of the Bride, iron-visaged and slow,
The Captain bent down to the Head of the Boh.

And e'en as he looked on the Thing where It lay
'Twixt the winking new spoons and the napkins' array,

The freed mind fled back to the long-ago days --
The hand-to-hand scuffle -- the smoke and the blaze --

The forced march at night and the quick rush at dawn --
The banjo at twilight, the burial ere morn --

The stench of the marshes -- the raw, piercing smell
When the overhand stabbing-cut silenced the yell --

The oaths of his Irish that surged when they stood
Where the black crosses hung o'er the Kuttamow flood.

As a derelict ship drifts away with the tide
The Captain went out on the Past from his Bride,

Back, back, through the springs to the chill of the year,
When he hunted the Boh from Maloon to Tsaleer.

As the shape of a corpse dimmers up through deep water,
In his eye lit the passionless passion of slaughter,

And men who had fought with O'Neil for the life
Had gazed on his face with less dread than his wife.

For she who had held him so long could not hold him --
Though a four-month Eternity should have controlled him --

But watched the twin Terror -- the head turned to head --
The scowling, scarred Black, and the flushed savage Red --

The spirit that changed from her knowing and flew to
Some grim hidden Past she had never a clue to.

But It knew as It grinned, for he touched it unfearing,
And muttered aloud, "So you kept that jade earring!"

Then nodded, and kindly, as friend nods to friend,
"Old man, you fought well, but you lost in the end."

. . . . .

The visions departed, and Shame followed Passion: --
"He took what I said in this horrible fashion,

"I'll write to Harendra!" With language unsainted
The Captain came back to the Bride. . .who had fainted.

. . . . .

And this is a fiction? No. Go to Simoorie
And look at their baby, a twelve-month old Houri,

A pert little, Irish-eyed Kathleen Mavournin --
She's always about on the Mall of a mornin' --

And you'll see, if her right shoulder-strap is displaced,
This: Gules upon argent, a Boh's Head, erased!

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

I Sought To Touch All The Burning Fires

This moment is not for being lazily idle
in the distance starting gunshot sounds
This racehorse needs no governing bridle
Race like the rabbit running from the hounds

Wind streams by as I run to nothing ahead
behind lay unfullfilled , selfish desires
Images of Gods and demons flash in my head
as I seek to touch all the burning fires

Yet hope promises a future great release
a settled place for my lost soul to rest
Can I find that light to set me at peace
this lost bird fallen from my safe nest

Aware of my great failings I surrender to fate
Crying for mercy, praying it is not too late

Robert J. Lindley, 03-16-2015

Note, this is an edited, shortened piece.
The original was much longer and very personal in
language and scope.

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

No, Never Enough Blessed Time


No, never enough blessed time
not enough to squeeze out more
stealing moments is not a crime
time erodes on a failing shore

Up early before the first light
rushing about to get more done
all is needed in this great fight
time race is on, I got to run

Set the clocks to cheat my mind
grab more hours to rush all about
duty calls and life often so unkind
need more, need more, never a doubt

Last time I waste about this plight
Save that for more ammo in this fight


R.J. Lindley

Note- Ran ragged and tired as hell,
the fight is on heard the bell,
running all about like mad,
never enough, all I have had...

Written in the early 80's...

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

The Last Letter


Death faced with defiant scowl
Clutching her last letter tight
Fierce fighter let out a howl
Gave up the ghost in this fight

Last image was her blonde hair
Short blue dress fit her well
How he asked her out on a dare
thinking to get shot all to hell

Then she accepted and gave a kiss
O' just to gently touch her hand
Her everything he was sure to miss
as he died in this distant land

Sure that his love would not know
Life had rewarded him with her love
Leaving her was the greatest blow
Yet Hope promised seeing her above

The brave soldier breathed his last
earth melted into a distant shape
She the great treasure of his past
from her love he wanted no escape

Death faced with defiant scowl
Clutching her last letter tight
Fierce fighter let out a howl
Gave up the ghost in this fight

Robert J. Lindley, 03-17-2015
Note-- From my journal, Dreams Of My Past ........
last chapter--Shelter from the Storm.

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

This Will Be My Last Romance

If you were here with me now-
the sky would kiss my face
We would both find out just how
to together win every race

As the Spring rain pelts our bare skin-
the days gift us precious hours
We eat the life we are living in
as rain gives us our daily showers

If only you were here with me now-
life would sing and dance
First I saw you my heart said wow
this will be my last romance

This vow I promise eternally to you-
we shall never ever truly part
Each rain washes in our love anew
you are the eternal owner of my heart

Robert J. Lindley , 03-18-2015

Note--Written to and for my wife, just completed..
She is doing a twelve hour shift today at the hospital
in her clinicals....
She will find this poem in her jewelry box tonight as
she sheds her jewelry tonight to go to bed.
I rarely present such private writes but today is
special. I asked her to marry me exactly twelve years ago today.
Exactly two years to the day into our long distance romance....

[Drummond]

Home Thoughts from Abroad

by Robert Browning


Oh, to be in England
Now that April's there,
And whoever wakes in England
Sees, some morning, unaware,
That the lowest boughs and the brushwood sheaf
Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny leaf,
While the chaffinch sings on the orchard bough
In England - now!


And after April, when May follows,
And the whitethroat builds, and all the swallows!
Hark, where my blossomed pear-tree in the hedge
Leans to the field and scatters on the clover
Blossoms and dewdrops - at the bent spray's edge -
That's the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over,
Lest you should think he never could recapture
The first fine careless rapture!
And though the fields look rough with hoary dew
All will be gay when noontide wakes anew
The buttercups, the little children's dower
- Far brighter than this gaudy melon-flower!
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Meeting at Night

by Robert Browning

The gray sea and the long black land;
And the yellow half-moon large and low;
And the startled little waves that leap
In fiery ringlets from their sleep,
As I gain the cove with pushing prow,
And quench its speed i’ the slushy sand.

Then a mile of warm sea-scented beach;
Three fields to cross till a farm appears;
A tap at the pane, the quick sharp scratch
And blue spurt of a lighted match,
And a voice less loud, through its joys and fears,
Then the two hearts beating each to each!
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


Browning grew up in Camberwell in south-east London. He was educated at home where he had access to his father's extensive library. At an early age he was inspired by the work of romantic poets such as Byron, Keats and Shelley. In 1828 he began a course at London University but abandoned it in his second term.

In 1845 he began corresponding with Elizabeth Barrett after reading and enjoying some of her poems. Due to opposition from Elizabeth's father the couple eventually married in secret and then eloped to Italy in 1846. There they had a son together - Robert Wiedmann Barrett Browning - who was known by the nickname 'Pen'.

Although quintessentially a Victorian poet, Browning's work was hugely influential in heralding in modernism. In particular, his dramatic monologues such as My Last Duchess and Bishop Blougram's Apology provided inspiration for the work of both T.S.Eliot and Ezra Pound.




Robert Browning

After his wife's death in 1861 Browning returned to England and continued to write poetry.

Browning died in Venice in 1889 and it was his wish to be buried alongside his wife in the English Cemetery in Florence however, by that stage, the city authorities had prohibited any new burials.

Browning never achieved the commercial success of Tennyson. However, in his old age he was a hugely respected literary figure. He received an honorary degree from Oxford University and in 1881 The Browning Society was founded.

His best known collections include The Ring and the Book (1868-69) and Men and Women (1855). His last collection of poems Asolando was published on the day of his death:clap::clap::clap::clap:

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

A good friend has asked me to enter his newest poetry contest. I relented out of friendship and wrote this one for entry.
Just finished it a few minutes ago.. Any feedback appreciated even should it be negative. I have two weeks to enter a poem and already promised to do so.. Maybe needs a bit more depth..




They In Love, Both Sought To Teach


They in love both sought to teach
hearts melded together each to each
Spritely wind in each blowing sail
both wished same, coin in the well

Standing determined hand in hand
weathering every storm in this land
She feeling deeply his every fall
he racing to her every beck and call

Old age found them together strong
walking side by side right on along
She turned to help him as he slowed
he kissed her hand, her smile glowed

They in love both sought to teach
hearts melded together each to each
Failing wind now in each blowing sail
both wished same, coin in the well

One Spring day neither rose from bed
his arm around her, both lay quite dead

Robert J. Lindley, 03-18-2015

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

The Indian Burying Ground


In spite of all the learn'd have said;
I still my old opinion keep,
The posture, that we give the dead,
Points out the soul's eternal sleep.

Not so the ancients of these lands --
The Indian, when from life releas'd
Again is seated with his friends,
And shares gain the joyous feast.

His imag'd birds, and painted bowl,
And ven'son, for a journey dress'd,
Bespeak the nature of the soul,
Activity, that knows no rest.

His bow, for action ready bent,
And arrows, with a head of stone,
Can only mean that life is spent,
And not the finer essence gone.

Thou, stranger, that shalt come this way.
No fraud upon the dead commit --
Observe the swelling turf, and say
They do not lie, but here they sit.

Here still lofty rock remains,
On which the curious eye may trace,
(Now wasted, half, by wearing rains)
The fancies of a older race.

Here still an aged elm aspires,
Beneath whose far -- projecting shade
(And which the shepherd still admires
The children of the forest play'd!

There oft a restless Indian queen
(Pale Shebah, with her braided hair)
And many a barbarous form is seen
To chide the man that lingers there.

By midnight moons, o'er moistening dews,
In habit for the chase array'd,
The hunter still the deer pursues,
The hunter and the deer, a shade!

And long shall timorous fancy see
The painted chief, and pointed spear,
And reason's self shall bow the knee
To shadows and delusions here.


Philip Freneau

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Their time came and passed, and I suspect that ours is well on its way out. We brought it on ourselves when we decided not to hit back at those hellbent on our destrcution. We decided that appeasement was far easier that sacrifice and fighting to preserve that which we have. So we get the time of scum we have now ruling over us. A traitor being heralded as a hero , messiah and saviour.
Would make for a great comedy were it not a massive tragedy in the making. Fact..
60+ million babies murdered(aborted) and a price is gonna be paid for that.. God's justice can never be avoided and never fails to deliver. -Tyr

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

And A Rambling I Go

I saw, the rot of selfish desires,
burning endlessly in clever fires
Piles of cash a mountain high
stolen by those that steal and lie
six days every week ,
while they go to church pretending
to be so mild and meek

The preacher crying all to give so much more
while he lives in a mansion with a golden door
drunks living with no other life
have sacrificed family and wife
naked women on the the street,
selling thier pride and body like meat
hustlers getting rich selling poisonous dope
as they hang themselves with an evil rope

I looked for solace and found there was none
just endless cowards crying on the run
A world teaching wrong is so damn right
blind monkeys never seeing the light
dancing in fruitless trees,
tree-rats eating with relish their rotting cheese

Looking for Spring to bring life anew
I too am blind and without a damn clue
a fool holding onto a false hope
on a tight leash and even shorter rope

Where is the miracle we each think can come
we see it shining there for some
A treasure glaring in the glimmering Sun
gifted not stolen by guile and a gun
So I finally turned to family for relief
ease my Soul, winter in my long lost belief
that Life must give us all a saving line
other than more food when we sit to dine

Ahh yes, I swing in one of those fruitless trees,
a monkey often doing just as I please
yet dare to think to have so much more
salvation on a far away dazzling shore
My arrogance is in my daring to wish to be better
a fool writing fantasy in an inquiry letter
Is death the only, the one saving grace
a vacation from this sadness infecting the human race

I wonder, can man ever journey forth without greed
without pride of the darkness in his seed
with the guiding light pointing to that place
where joy and love beams in every shining face
All the vanity I once held firmly, so damn dear
was no more than vanishing suds in my lousy beer
Standing now to look over my own selfish deeds
I see a child still lost in the tall, tall weeds
sometimes crying for help to rush on to rescue
is sweet salvation only for the chosen few

Spring came when I had completely given up on me
a beaten man , crying out in a desperate plea
Once I had lost my arrogant, foolish pride
I had no shelter in which to stupidly hide
As darkness raced to force me into its trap
that restraining leash did finally snap
I took one step into the waiting light
away from darkness of that life enslaving night

And only then, only then did I see-
The huge rot of all my selfish desires,
burning endlessly in my clever fires
Piles of my cash a mountain high
stolen by we that relentlessly steal and lie
six shameful days every week ,
while we go to church pretending
to be so damn clever, mild and meek

Robert J. Lindley

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Contest--Evils of the Night.
Any form but no more than 32 verses, rhyme preferred.
No names, list contest name and poem must be new .



Death And Night-Stalker


Deep hunger drives all
deadly cuts in the night
fate gives its call
you deliver bloody sight

of every dark lust
and lowly darkened hell
you find that you must
crack every singing bell

night sets to your will
you slash its legs
to get your wicked thrill
as each victim vainly begs

savage aches force your pain
you eat its surge
to hold all of your gain
demonic evil in every urge

Flee far, far away
skulking into the dark
never view break of day
truth is just too stark

Echoes resound from your cuts
smirk at your deeds
blood oozes from their guts
the sight feeds your needs

Night comes again to reward
your darkness with more
No mercy, heart stone hard
you spread the gore

Night-Stalker on the prowl
death is the goal
you bellow a fiendish howl
as you kill another soul

Robert J. Lindley
Contest--Evils Of The Night

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Asking How Your Beauty Can Be



In my dreams, dancing in those night dreams as I do
I met HE that hung the bright stars in the night sky
Asking a thousand questions, I failed in asking why
Spring rain is so perfect, the Autumn moon is too
the world be so ugly but such beauty rests in you!

Spring rain sings out as it cascades on down
little songs sprout up after it hits the ground
So perfect that massive Oak from such a tiny seed
Nature's wisdom which we would do well to heed
Yes, in my night dreams these thoughts are found

Autumn moon splattering its light down upon you
giving your lovely face the beauty that it is due
The perfect form to match those deep brown eyes
hanging there to shine on you from the night skies
If I ever saw perfection it must have been in you

This world so ugly, dark nights are blessed gifts
yet that relief pales to your grace that so uplifts
As your heart inspires, my mind finds its treasure
we fill our cup and forget to ever our love measure
In my dreams these images dance with the moon shifts

In my dreams, dancing in those night dreams as I do
I met HE that hung the bright stars in the night sky
Asking a thousand questions, I failed in asking why
Spring rain is so perfect, the Autumn moon is too
the world be so ugly but such beauty rests in you!

Robert J. Lindley, 03-22-2015

Note-- Written for my wife. After ten years putting up with me she deserves even better verses but this is the best that I can do since,
I 'ze jest bez a po' dumb Southern redneck dat don't no nothing...
Or so I've been told by many a "brilliant, kollege edumucated, liberal fooooool". :laugh:--Tyr

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Justin wants to say something today.--Tyr



Hello my friends. have you all been good and fine
I want to show you this.

:banana::reindeer::shakegift::nudie::blabla::dance ::cheers2::pirate1:

:fighting0040::omg::disco::deejay::ahole::mooning: :pave::neptune::flyflag:

Ok, my son the artist finished his masterpiece. ;)
He is in second grade, just read my most recent poem perfectly. Made all A's and is very good at every computer game he plays. I wish he was more into outside activities but seems being a book reading, game playing child he favors.
This summer and Fall I plan on getting him heavy into shooting guns.
The wife will just have to understand, a man got to do what he knows to be best for his kids.

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

I have never seen this done before but will try to show the basic method I use when writing poetry. When not inspired by a dream or a memory this works well.

A project to illustrate a method to conceive, write, edit and create a finished poem.




"When you enter a grove peopled with ancient trees, higher than the ordinary, and shutting out the sky with their thickly inter-twined branches, do not the stately shadows of the wood, the stillness of the place, and the awful gloom of this doomed cavern then strike you with the presence of a deity?"
- Seneca

^^^^ Write a poem based upon a famous quote or beautiful object..


I chose this quote because I too have felt that spirit when coming upon an "old growth" forested section of my favorite hunting grounds as a kid.
It is real and certainly not imagined, as one can actually feel it, same as touching soil or water.

Poem title will be--

Did The Tree Spirits Die Too


Next step--believe me this one is hard--
wait for the opening verse to come to you.
Sometimes it comes in a few minutes other times a few days or even a few weeks.
Rarely ever can you consciously force it and still end up with a good poem.................
I just may dream most of the poem tonight if I am lucky.
Or wake my lazy muse tomorrow if I can even find her...--Tyr

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

I have never seen this done before but will try to show the basic method I use when writing poetry. When not inspired by a dream or a memory this works well.

A project to illustrate a method to conceive, write, edit and create a finished poem.



^^^^ Write a poem based upon a famous quote or beautiful object..


I chose this quote because I too have felt that spirit when coming upon an "old growth" forested section of my favorite hunting grounds as a kid.
It is real and certainly not imagined, as one can actually feel it, same as touching soil or water.

Poem title will be--

Did The Tree Spirits Die Too


Next step--believe me this one is hard--
wait for the opening verse to come to you.
Sometimes it comes in a few minutes other times a few days or even a few weeks.
Rarely ever can you consciously force it and still end up with a good poem.................
I just may dream most of the poem tonight if I am lucky.
Or wake my lazy muse tomorrow if I can even find her...--Tyr




Did The Tree Spirits Die Too


Shadows wrap the mighty black oaks
moving so slow like the older folks
Many decades have grown trees strong
I listen for that most ancient song

-----------------------------------------------

Sometimes the poem flows right on to the finish, while others times
it comes in spurts.

Tonight this opening came....
I need sleep and hope the rest of the poem comes tomorrow..-Tyr



One step at a time..-Tyr

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

After a sincere and heartfelt request from a dear poetess friend at my poetry site I have decided to break my promise to myself to not enter any more contests there. Truly, I only break promises to--myself-- as I then know who the beat up on for doing that.;)

Here is that effort , just finished this fine morn.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Contest entry:
Forms: Sonnet (a,b,a,b) (c,d,c,d) (e,f,e,f) (g,g)
Three stanzas and a couplet(a summary) ..
Ten syllables per line

You may search and find a saying to inspire you please
include the quote on your work..
Please use_ A Penny For Your Thoughts as your title..
Forms: Sonnet or The Form Of Poulter Measure Explained
PM me if you have any questions..
------------------------------------------------------


A Penny For Your Thoughts

Father said, son listen to that church bell
life just may beat you into submission
or drag you deep into a living hell
to avoid that seek truth as your mission

Sound of truth rings so very loud and clear
let goodness be your greatest living guide
On that path the Light casts away all fear
your love and deeds you will not have to hide

Son asks, dad how can I always be sure
will there not be days of terrible doubt
My son, live your life seeking to be pure
then his love you will never be without

Tis' the courage to continue that counts
In this race , best we use our finest mounts

Robert J. Lindley, 03-14-2015
Poem contest entry...
Results shown:

Poem Syllable Counter Results
Syllables Per Line: 10 10 10 10 0 10 10 10 10 0 10 10 10 10 0 10 10
Total # Syllables: 140 Total
# Lines: 17 (Including empty lines)
Words with (syllables) counted programmatically:
N/A Total # Words: 115


------------------------------------------------------
Nationality: English
Type: Statesman
Born: November 30, 1874
Died: January 24, 1965

"Success is not final, failure is
not fatal: it is the courage to
continue that counts."

Winston Churchill

My quote chosen comes from the famous and brilliant
quote from the epically great Sir Winston Churchill.
I had to slightly rephrase the quote to meet the ten syllable
requirement of the sonnet form used.

I have received many first place finishes in the contests at my poetry site but this one holds special meaning to me.
As the poem features the quote of my all time favorite leader and statesman (Sir Winston Churchill) plus the message that Jesus Christ is the only Salvation for mankind.
Contests results came in this morning...

A Penny For Your Thoughts
Contest Judged: 3/24/2015 12:00:00 AM
Sponsored by: Sara Kendrick

Place, PoemTitle, Poet
1 A Penny For Your Thoughts Robert Lindley
2 A Penny For Your Thoughts Sandra Haight
3 A Penny For Your Thoughts Broken Wings
4 A Penny For Your Thoughts Catie Lindsey
5 Unbowed Craig Cornish
5 A Penny For Your Thoughts Andrea Dietrich
6 A Penny For Your Thoughts Sasha Maharaj
7 A Penny For Your Thoughts Robert Stoner Jr
8 A Penny for Your Thoughts Carolyn Devonshire
9 A Penny For Your Thoughts jack horne
10 A Penny For Your Thoughts george seal
11 A Penny for your Thoughts Seren Roberts
12 A Penny For Your Thoughts John lawless
13 A PENNY FOR YOUR THOUGHTS nette onclaud
14 Of Fallen Leaves Carrie Richards
14 A Penny for My Thoughts Debbie Guzzi
15 A Penny for your thoughts Abdul Malik
Honorable Mention A penny for your thoughts Richard Lamoureux

-------------------------------------------------------

REMEMBER--

"Success is not final, failure is
not fatal: it is the courage to
continue that counts."

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Did The Tree Spirits Die Too


Shadows wrap the mighty black oaks
moving so slow like the older folks
Many decades have grown trees strong
I listen for that most ancient song

Terrible storms have left their mark
trees scarred, cut, bent and swayed
Dark black trunks of fire burnt bark
where forest fires savagely played


Second stanza down , either six more verses for a sonnet or
2/3 stanzas for a more in-depth presentation.
At this point there is still much to be decided.
As this write has not just flooded out on a torrent as some
often do..-Tyr

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Song of Nature


Mine are the night and morning,
The pits of air, the gulf of space,
The sportive sun, the gibbous moon,
The innumerable days.

I hid in the solar glory,
I am dumb in the pealing song,
I rest on the pitch of the torrent,
In slumber I am strong.

No numbers have counted my tallies,
No tribes my house can fill,
I sit by the shining Fount of Life,
And pour the deluge still;

And ever by delicate powers
Gathering along the centuries
From race on race the rarest flowers,
My wreath shall nothing miss.

And many a thousand summers
My apples ripened well,
And light from meliorating stars
With firmer glory fell.

I wrote the past in characters
Of rock and fire the scroll,
The building in the coral sea,
The planting of the coal.

And thefts from satellites and rings
And broken stars I drew,
And out of spent and aged things
I formed the world anew;

What time the gods kept carnival,
Tricked out in star and flower,
And in cramp elf and saurian forms
They swathed their too much power.

Time and Thought were my surveyors,
They laid their courses well,
They boiled the sea, and baked the layers
Or granite, marl, and shell.

But he, the man-child glorious,--
Where tarries he the while?
The rainbow shines his harbinger,
The sunset gleams his smile.

My boreal lights leap upward,
Forthright my planets roll,
And still the man-child is not born,
The summit of the whole.

Must time and tide forever run?
Will never my winds go sleep in the west?
Will never my wheels which whirl the sun
And satellites have rest?

Too much of donning and doffing,
Too slow the rainbow fades,
I weary of my robe of snow,
My leaves and my cascades;

I tire of globes and races,
Too long the game is played;
What without him is summer's pomp,
Or winter's frozen shade?

I travail in pain for him,
My creatures travail and wait;
His couriers come by squadrons,
He comes not to the gate.

Twice I have moulded an image,
And thrice outstretched my hand,
Made one of day, and one of night,
And one of the salt sea-sand.

One in a Judaean manger,
And one by Avon stream,
One over against the mouths of Nile,
And one in the Academe.

I moulded kings and saviours,
And bards o'er kings to rule;--
But fell the starry influence short,
The cup was never full.

Yet whirl the glowing wheels once more,
And mix the bowl again;
Seethe, fate! the ancient elements,
Heat, cold, wet, dry, and peace, and pain.

Let war and trade and creeds and song
Blend, ripen race on race,
The sunburnt world a man shall breed
Of all the zones, and countless days.

No ray is dimmed, no atom worn,
My oldest force is good as new,
And the fresh rose on yonder thorn
Gives back the bending heavens in dew.


Ralph Waldo Emerson

---------------------------------------------------------------------

This is my favorite Emerson poem. To me very few poems excel it in depth , clarity of message , and understanding of Nature and human nature with its dark ills.--Tyr

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Did The Tree Spirits Die Too


Shadows wrap the mighty black oaks
moving so slow like the older folks
Many decades have grown trees strong
I listen for that most ancient song

Terrible storms have left their mark
trees scarred, cut, bent and swayed
Dark black trunks of fire burnt bark
where forest fires savagely played

At times whispers can be heard
listen and one can so clearly hear
tree spirits uttering a single word
a moaning cry without a single tear

Stop cutting to just foolishly waste
we are here for another important reason
think long term act not in haste
allow us each and every growing season

Think of clean air and beauty we provide
not just the money to be greedily made
We each have growing hearts deep inside
and spirits we would never ever trade

Shadows guard the mighty black oaks
moving so slow like the older folks
Many decades have grown trees strong
I listen for their most ancient song

Robert J. Lindley, 03-28-2015

note: Must give credit to the teachings of my Native American heritage.
Pagan it may be but they worshipped mother earth, the streams and the trees, the animals etc.
I have many, many books on the Native Americans and their religious beliefs are fascinating...


Writing I went to the sonnet form at 14 verses but felt the need to go farther.
Repetition of the opening stanza in my closing stanza is normally done with no changes
but in this poem I made slight changes for a reason.--Tyr


This represents a normal method I use to write. However sometimes I write as if tuned into a different dimension.
I see the words coming at me from afar and write as they come, not reading until it stops. That I call my muse
and she is indeed often a vindictive and tantalizing vixen. ;)--Tyr

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Guardian of the Light

As night wind blows its many wicked chills
upon an earth filled with darkened blight
Fleeting shadows stir upon the night kills
as evil comfort comes from the dark of night

Those commanded to in wickedness engage
wander this earth free to their evil ply
Hatred and wicked deeds soothe their rage
upon this hardened earth and nighted sky

Yet relief comes with each brilliant dawn
rising of that splendid ever shining Sun
I look out across my huge sunlit front lawn
thinking of all this light forever has spun

Man needs the rest of each blessed night
body and soul gains anew in our sleep
A weapon to guard and to use in needed fight
darkness rises , evil spirits kill and reap

Nothing protects more than coming light of day
against the terrors and deeds of dark nights
Evil must never be allowed to get its way
or triumph in the many desperate, hidden fights

Time has the remedy of this eternal black war
when sending the eternal Guardian of the Light
Earth wakes to the rising of the shining Sun
rescuer from many terrors of evil man's night

God's hand this gift for us so wisely made
a beauty is its rising and setting sight
Or in resting under a fine tree's blessed shade
shielded from intensity of the Guardian of Light

Night winds chills are held in eternal check
by Sun and its life giving,life growing rays
Like thirty-two guns on a battleship's deck
it blasts the dark night's evil far, far away

Our brilliant Sun is our Guardian of the Light
an eternal warrior set in man preserving mode
Rays cast forth to defeat wrong and protect right
as it shines within our eyes like glittering gold

Robert J. Lindley, 03-29-2015

Note-- A rewrite of an older poem that I wrote back
in the early 80's. Shortened a few verses and tidied
up a wee bit. Original was never titled, so I did so now..
As memory serves this is the title that was intended.
As Sun and the "Son" are both represented in the piece.

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Contest write....

My Love, You Taught Me To Ride A Hurricane


My love, you taught me to ride a hurricane
here without you I have gone insane
Nights once dance filled with your moves
are now broken records with no grooves

My lover, you never told me why you ran
it was certainly not for another man
Nights now eat into my grieving soul
was such deep pain and hurt your goal

My love, can you race back to a new me
I will change whatever you please
Nights are cutting into my shattered heart
will you give us a chance, another start

My lover, ask and I will race to you
anytime, anywhere, any place you choose
Nights stab into my aching lost mind
I remember you were so loving and kind

My love, you taught me to ride a hurricane
here without you I am now truly insane
Nights once so filled with your soft touch
are now dungeons that break me too much
Read my words and give me the epic release
slay this dark dragon, end my great grief.

Robert J. Lindley, 03-30-2015

Note, finished today .
Will leave it up a few days to study to see if changes are need before I enter it..

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Simple Man by Lynrd Skynrd

A song that is pure poetry , as is the -- Ballad of Curtis Loew.. ----Tyr



Mama told me when I was young
"Come sit beside me, my only son
And listen closely to what I say
And if you do this it'll help you some sunny day"

"Oh, take your time, don't live too fast
Troubles will come and they will pass
You'll find a woman and you'll find love
And don't forget, son, there is someone up above"

"And be a simple kind of man
Oh, be something you love and understand
Baby be a simple kind of man
Oh, won't you do this for me, son, if you can"

"Forget your lust for the rich man's gold
All that you need is in your soul
And you can do this, oh baby, if you try
All that I want for you, my son, is to be satisfied"

"And be a simple kind of man
Oh, be something you love and understand
Baby be a simple kind of man
Oh, won't you do this for me, son, if you can"

Oh yes, I will

"Boy, don't you worry, you'll find yourself
Follow your heart and nothing else
And you can do this, oh baby, if you try
All that I want for you, my son, is to be satisfied"

"And be a simple kind of man
Oh, be something you love and understand
Baby be a simple kind of man
Oh, won't you do this for me, son, if you can"

Baby, be a simple, really simple man
Oh, be something you love and understand


Greatest Southern rock band ever.. -Tyr

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Brave Actions Dispel The Darkest Of Foes


Brave actions dispel the darkest of foes
when righteous cuts heal massive woes
Deep into battles never truly completed
rise spirits again never truly defeated

Undaunted courage swings into the fray
with warrior's sword and its cutting ray
Each battle eats a few more lost souls
as demonic forces reach their evil goals

Neither wins in this eternal dark fight
the great fury blocks victory from sight
Yet victory resides in darkness quelled
not the number of savage combatants felled

On a special night a light will shine
evil goes hungry and courageous heroes dine
On triumph in its crafted golden shell
as the slain flee back into their dark Hell

Brave actions dispel the darkest of foes
when righteous cuts heal massive woes
Deep into battles never truly completed
rise spirits again never truly defeated
Every sunrise glory rains upon this earth
we fall to see blinded by our fleshly birth!

Robert J. Lindley, 03 31-2015

Note-- Written as requested by a dear friend.
And Alexander the time used was less than 15 minutes.. check your watch
You requested 20 verses in 20 minutes -no edits, I gave 22..
Deliver the bottle of whiskey anytime... no cheap stuff....... lol

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

A sonnet, that I wrote ages ago. Was motivated to post this one at my poetry site so decided
to post it here as well.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

In Defeating You, I Slay The World You Live In


Stoning you, I slay you , cut into you
with hatred in my rapid surging heart
Such is very deserved and more is due
I try to break your body all apart

As you cry for sweet mercy try to think
you that lived and wallowed in darkest sin
Gleefully you drove me into the brink
as you grew the hate that I once lived in

Beg, graven coward for any relief
as I break another bone for sweet joy
Deriding my every moral belief
claimed power over me as a mere boy

You shame me so, my dark and evil twin
I defeat you, sink the world you live in

Robert J. Lindley, 1973

Poetry Form: Sonnet


Poem Syllable Counter Results
Syllables Per Line:
10 10 10 10 0 10 10 10 10 0 10 10 10 10 0 10 10
Total # Syllables: 140
Total # Lines: 17 (Including empty lines)
Words with (syllables) counted programmatically:N/A
Total # Words: 111

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Just finished this poem for another contest. -Tyr

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I See You In The Earth, Wind And Sky


Darling, cut my throat if you think it best
these past days and nights I never rest
I rummage in the photo albums you gave
for a picture to lay on your lonely grave
At night I sit in bed and endlessly stare
looking for you my darling everywhere

Sweetheart, I kept you favorite perfume
I spray it everywhere in our bedroom
Your pillow I hold so close all night
futile is my miserable longing plight
I know death has you in its hidden cage
some nights I beat the walls in my rage

I see you in the earth, wind and sky
your lost beauty makes me weep and cry
Why, why did you take all those pills
our life was great, you needed no thrills
That tragic morn you failed to ever wake
I stupidly tried my own sad life to take

Darling, you would have been twenty-three
I was there for you but you were not for me
Curse the pain you have cast into my heart
no more life or family we promised to start
I sleep each night in your old antique bed
missing you, hugging your soft pillow instead

Darling, this letter will be my very last write
pistol is loaded, I'll drop the hammer tonight.

R.J. Lindley

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Another contest write.. This is by far my longest poem written for a contest.
Admittedly , I did not write it solely for the contest but rather to record the TRUTH
of light and dark, evil and good, death and salvation.
Hope you may enjoy the read....--Tyr

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


God's Own Hand Formed The Soul Of Man


After my hatred grew as deep as swamp mud
I fed evil each day with my soul's rich blood
Those feedings were such a great bliss
Sweetest joy my dark soul does so miss
I did often dream of those I wanted dead
arrow in the gut or bullet in the head
A sharp knife to cut out their hearts
blind their eyes with my throwing darts
No mercy to ease pain and desperate woes
just more carnage for demonic happy shows

Now that evil turned so viciously upon me
I cry out in a lost and loud maddening plea
How dare you attack your most willing host
cutting me down, rendering me into a ghost
Have I not served your lustful hate well
tis too damn early to send my soul to hell
Ask your dark master to now let me just be
stop attacking, set this foolish servant free
Tonight I expect a pardon and full release
if not I'll race to the nearest true priest

In a flash the replay blasted out in my head
dog, you serve the master until you are dead
Now bow and plead for more of this deep pain
for we'll deliver it and more, again and again
Your weak cries, music that sends us such thrills
we will eat your bones and gloat on such kills
Be silent while we cut out your blackened heart
you a master, a dream you were never that smart
As darkness descends on your soul this next moon
you will weep and moan in Hell a most sad tune

Caught like a tired old fox in a hunter's trap
I knew evil had me with no way to beat the rap
If I could remember those words my father said
something about salvation that rang in my head
Now it comes, believe in me accept my only Son
your soul will be saved, God's will always done
No other choice, I must bow down to that Light
renounce this evil and end this slavery tonight
Father forgive me my arrogance and wicked sin
accept this lost soul, and please let me on in

In a flash, sweet release washed into my lost soul
I found love and forgiveness, the cherished goal
Angels came to welcome a child back into His arms
no more pain, torture and evil retribution alarms
Once again I saw family gone that I dearly missed
My family, my mother that I had never truly kissed
Next visions of Heaven and its happy cheering crowds
where no darkness, pain or evil was ever to be allowed
A promise to one day be gifted eternal life right here
In happiness, crying, I shed not even a solitary tear

Was this to be my true fate or just a wishful dream
The answer any will find if they join the Son's team
You may have heard wisdom in, seek and ye shall find
A promise that is true if one has a faith-filled mind
You have but to ask and you will most assuredly receive
do that and evil loses all its great power to deceive
Never again will you have to live in fear and doubt
solace will come, happiness you'll just have to shout
Can you, will you , dare you fall down upon bended knee
Accept the Word and receive the answer to your soul's plea

Robert J. Lindley, 03-30-2015

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

The Depths Of Loneliness

Lonely, gloom eats at my heart
days that can never be undone
A bed that fits only just one
quilt never to be given a restart


House, that holds no sweet acts
nights eating into my lost mind
This state of confusion so unkind
science book with no clear facts

Screams, sit deep within my soul
darkness splashing its way out
Silence in a soft plastic shout
feeling in an endless dirt hole

Help, a lost cause destroy hope
memories singing a sweet name
Life is defeated, love is lame
holding onto a long broken rope

Me, a child in a small hidden cage
defenseless against time and fear
Eyes blinded and dry of any tear
wilderness of round stones and rage

Lonely house screams help me live
ghosts have all ran into the light
Moonlight shines down each night
on empty rooms with nothing to give!

Robert J. Lindley

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Those Winter Sundays
by Robert Hayden


Those Winter Sundays


Sundays too my father got up early
And put his clothes on in the blueback cold,
then with cracked hands that ached
from labor in the weekday weather made
banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.

I'd wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.
When the rooms were warm, he'd call,
and slowly I would rise and dress,
fearing the chronic angers of that house,

Speaking indifferently to him,
who had driven out the cold
and polished my good shoes as well.
What did I know, what did I know
of love's austere and lonely offices?
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


I'd wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.

^^^^ Remember this well as a child and our father did the same got up early , carried in wood , built a fire in the stove and about 30 minutes later woke us to get up at 6 am.
How I long to visit that time again and touch my dad . I miss him terribly, even now in my own old age..
He gave me the tools to survive and loved his children 100%.
He was firm but never cruel and never denied the cruel reality of the world. -Tyr

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Sexy Smile You Gift Me To See


Wrote a love poem for you today
I love you, all its meant to say
I tossed in extra pretty words
as majestic as singing songbirds

Poured out my heart, my mind too
darling you are it and all I do
How could I not praise your eyes
more beautiful than morning skies

I noted the touch of your hair
how it sent me all the way there
How each kiss is a rose from you
life without you just wouldn't do

Sexy smile you gift me to see
the pleasure of just saying "we"
Each morn that I see you asleep
my love grows ever the more deep

Wrote a love poem for you today
I love you, all its meant to say
I tossed in extra pretty words
as majestic as singing songbirds

Robert J. Lindley, 04-03-2015

Note: I wrote this poem yesterday morning
for my Riza. She read it last night after
arriving home from a 12 hour shift at the
hospital.
Scared me at first as she burst out crying!
Then she hugged me so hard it almost hurt.
I guess I hit the right note after all.
Posting this to urge you poets to also write
to and for your loved one.

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

I felt inspired today and in honor of Easter wrote this poem.
Truth is , a comment by a very fine member here inspired this poem.
He reminded me that some of my comments are very unchristian like.
A truth it took me a few hours to properly digest.
So thanks to that insight and bit of wisdom I owe him for the inspiration for this write!
Hjmick, thanks for the honesty and wisdom in your words. My anger got the best of me and I
acted rashly in my comments about the lady's death.
Here is that poem.


The Storm's Fury, Can Be Tempered


When you are overfilled with a deep hate,
grab not a gun but rather the good book,
Carefully read, give Proverbs a close look
think of love and mercy before its too late;

Why act in a foolish and hard hearted way,
with the temper of the moment in your heart,
here death is final, we get not another start
all must bow on the promised judgment day;

And cultivate love in your everyday travels,
soften every hurried step in your desires,
mercy is the best wood for your hottest fires
failure to heed this and life often unravels;

When you are overfilled with a deep hate,
grab not a gun but rather the good book,
Carefully read, give Proverbs a close look
think of love and mercy before its too late.

Robert J. Lindley, 04-04-2015

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

For Roy Jerden's contest, theme --Makeover.
Basically the sponsor wants old poems improved by the author and presented both versions.
Judging will be on the poems most improved and the judge lists in his contest rules the nature and emphasis on those types of improvements. Shortening or lengthening poems was included in the rules but due to my choice being a sonnet I can do neither.

My choice is a very limited type of poem, a sonnet, which can only be 14 verses and 140 syllables.
Yet I chose this poem because I wrote it about my wife when we first met(3 years before we married).
And already knew I had not cared to worry about syllable count etc when writing this poem.
Notice that I did not change even one end word rhyme. Thats because
I view those as exceptional and the most important part of story being told.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Original version ( 03/21/2001)

As Midnight Moon Shines Upon Her Eyes

In a dream world where fantasies abound
shall be where my princess is found
Wrapped in her vision an angelic choir
cherubs singing her heart's desire

Her voice soothes every hearing soul
spreading happiness her daily goal
As midnight moon shines upon her eyes
a thought comes to me so very wise

Surely she could come to me down here
easing my hurt, wash away my fear
A soft gentle touch to my spirit renew
help me find a love any man is due

In a dream world such fantasies exist
your heart's desire, anything on your list

Robert Lindley March 21, 2001

Syllables Per Line: 10 8 10 8 0 8 9 9 10 0 9 9 12 10 0 10 10
Total # Syllables: 132
Total # Lines: 17 (Including empty lines)
Words with (syllables) counted programmatically: N/A
Total # Words: 98

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Revised version below.......(Greatly improved!)



As Midnight Moon Shines Upon Her Eyes


In a dream world where fantasies abound
in this fantasy my princess is found
Wrapped in her vision an angelic choir
cherubs singing her sweetest heart's desire

Beautiful voice soothes every hurting soul
spreading happiness, is her daily goal
A midnight moon shining upon her eyes
this thought comes to me so very wise

Heaven is her coming to me down here
easing my hurt, washing away my fear
Softest touch my heart it does renew
helping me find love any man is due

Lovely dream world such fantasies exist
her heart's desire, anything on her list

Robert Lindley, 04-04-2015

Syllables Per Line: 10 10 10 10 0 10 10 10 10 0 10 10 10 10 0 10 10
Total # Syllables: 140 Total # Lines: 17 (Including empty lines)
Words with (syllables) counted programmatically: N/A
Total # Words: 97
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Note-- Had my goal been placing high in the contest I'd not chosen a sonnet to improve!
My goal was to improve this poem I wrote for and about my wife.....
An exercise in learning and yes even humility , as upon close examination I saw
much to be reworded. -Tyr

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

I slaved for an hour writing this poem for a contest.
First version was great but met not the syllable count, there went 40 minutes.
Took me another 20 minutes to change to met perfect ten syllables per verse.
And to do so without changing the message and spirit of the write!

I think this will place very, very high.. A sonnet is a much harder poetry form to write.
Simply because one must limit the words/syllables used.
Often a hard task when trying to convey a complicated or intensively deep or emotional
message! I was tempted to tweak it to hit the 100 word mark but 101 words is ok....
Here she be, hope you may enjoy this one...

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

When I Slumber Where Rushing Waters Play


As my worries invade my tortured mind
I wake to find another place to be
Misery and despair both so unkind
sending me racing to be gone and free

I run to the nearest water flowing
soothing sounds blast into inner spirit
Even better if soft breeze a blowing
comfort abounds whenever I hear it

Soft waves of time ebb and begin to stop
gurgling sounds grab onto wings of my soul
All my loves racing upward to the top
like waters rushing out of gaping hole

Man's spirit latches on to such great gifts
Racing waters sends treasure that uplifts

Robert J. Lindley, 04-06-2015


Poem Syllable Counter Results

Syllables Per Line: 10 10 10 10 0 10 10 10 10 0 10 10 10 10 0 10 10
Total # Syllables: 140
Total # Lines: 17 (Including empty lines)
Words with (syllables) counted programmatically: N/A
Total # Words: 101

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

I slaved for an hour writing this poem for a contest.
First version was great but met not the syllable count, there went 40 minutes.
Took me another 20 minutes to change to met perfect ten syllables per verse.
And to do so without changing the message and spirit of the write!

I think this will place very, very high.. A sonnet is a much harder poetry form to write.
Simply because one must limit the words/syllables used.
Often a hard task when trying to convey a complicated or intensively deep or emotional
message! I was tempted to tweak it to hit the 100 word mark but 101 words is ok....
Here she be, hope you may enjoy this one...

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

When I Slumber Where Rushing Waters Play


As my worries invade my tortured mind
I wake to find another place to be
Misery and despair both so unkind
sending me racing to be gone and free

I run to the nearest water flowing
soothing sounds blast into inner spirit
Even better if soft breeze a blowing
comfort abounds whenever I hear it

Soft waves of time ebb and begin to stop
gurgling sounds grab onto wings of my soul
All my loves racing upward to the top
like waters rushing out of gaping hole

Man's spirit latches on to such great gifts
Racing waters sends treasure that uplifts

Robert J. Lindley, 04-06-2015


Poem Syllable Counter Results

Syllables Per Line: 10 10 10 10 0 10 10 10 10 0 10 10 10 10 0 10 10
Total # Syllables: 140
Total # Lines: 17 (Including empty lines)
Words with (syllables) counted programmatically: N/A
Total # Words: 101
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Here is the original poem before the tweaking..-Tyr


When I Slumber Where Rushing Waters Play

As worries invade my tortured mind
I wake to find another place to be
Misery and despair both so unkind
send me racing to be gone and free

I run to the nearest water flowing
the sound soothes my inner spirit
Even better if soft breeze a blowing
comfort abounds whenever I hear it

Waves of time slowly begin to stop
nature sounds grab wings of my soul
All my loves race forth to the top
like waters rushing out a gaping hole

Man's spirit latches on to such gifts
Racing waters sends treasure that uplifts

Robert J. Lindley

Note, see the uniformity of the verses in the original?
That was sacrificed to meet the syllable count...
Modern sonnet does not have to meet the ten syllable count but its best when entering a contest to do so.. -Tyr

[LongTermGuy]

~ "As my worries invade my tortured mind
I wake to find another place to be
Misery and despair both so unkind
sending me racing to be gone and free..............." ~

:cool:....can relate ...Nice...!
http://thumbs.dreamstime.com/z/man-thinking-finger-to-face-horizontal-looking-up-has-33417565.jpg

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Creatures All Lost In Arrogant Vanity


Many have tried but all have failed
yet even these losers are often hailed
Mortal man trying a utopia to make
only succeeds in getting lives to take

All the deaths caused by these men
tens of millions murdered in the end
Hitler, Stalin and Mao all did fail
surely those evil three rot in Hell

Creatures all lost in arrogant vanity
destroying worlds with their insanity
There can be no true paradise here
man operates on greed, lust and fear

Man's imperfections invades all he builds
rots bountiful harvests in fertile fields

Robert Lindley, 04-07-2015

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Body And Soul Had To Part


Call out my true name
friend of my long life
I touch you these years
We found not sweet fame
felt cuts from a knife
bled our hot sad tears

You joined my epic pains
as our heart sadly wept
this life ate its fill
We danced into soft rains
sang happily as we slept
each dream sent a thrill

Why did you ever leave
this body was your home
a state you found sane
Our life did so weave
love that had to roam
seeking joy not so plain

Body and Soul had to part
Death broke this shared heart

Robert Lindley, 04-07-2015

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

He Wishes For The Cloths Of Heaven
by William Butler Yeats

Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.
-----------------------------------------------------------------


The Second Coming
by William Butler Yeats

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


September 1913
by William Butler Yeats

What need you, being come to sense,
But fumble in a greasy till
And add the halfpence to the pence
And prayer to shivering prayer, until
You have dried the marrow from the bone?
For men were born to pray and save:
Romantic Ireland's dead and gone,
It's with O'Leary in the grave.

Yet they were of a different kind,
The names that stilled your childish play,
They have gone about the world like wind,
But little time had they to pray
For whom the hangman's rope was spun,
And what, God help us, could they save?
Romantic Ireland's dead and gone,
It's with O'Leary in the grave.

Was it for this the wild geese spread
The grey wing upon every tide;
For this that all that blood was shed,
For this Edward Fitzgerald died,
And Robert Emmet and Wolfe Tone,
All that delirium of the brave?
Romantic Ireland's dead and gone,
It's with O'Leary in the grave.

Yet could we turn the years again,
And call those exiles as they were
In all their loneliness and pain,
You'd cry, 'Some woman's yellow hair
Has maddened every mother's son':
They weighed so lightly what they gave.
But let them be, they're dead and gone,
They're with O'Leary in the grave.

---------------------------------------------------------------------

Sonnet 10 - Yet, love, mere love, is beautiful indeed
by Elizabeth Barrett Browning


Yet, love, mere love, is beautiful indeed
And worthy of acceptation. Fire is bright,
Let temple burn, or flax; an equal light
Leaps in the flame from cedar-plank or weed:
And love is fire. And when I say at need
I love thee . . . mark! . . . I love thee—in thy sight
I stand transfigured, glorified aright,
With conscience of the new rays that proceed
Out of my face toward thine. There's nothing low
In love, when love the lowest: meanest creatures
Who love God, God accepts while loving so.
And what I feel, across the inferior features
Of what I am, doth flash itself, and show
How that great work of Love enhances Nature's.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Forget Maya Angelou, the grossly over rated choice by modern day liberal fools.
Read, study, enjoy truly great poets, she is not one of them IMHO..
If she were white she'd not have the undeserved fame that she has. A fact... ----TYR

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

On Lord Byron


Far away from thistle and thorn
a genius and great poet was born
Lord Byron was his great name
making love with words his game

The world had him not very long
his verses danced like a song
Women swoon at his written charms
those chosen loved in his arms

He was born to many a woman bed
excesses raced in his wild head
Often crazy and without any cares
he juggled many hot love affairs

Fate lusted to grab him too soon
as he shown like the August moon
Sadness invaded his hectic life
in dying, he left his poor wife

Far away from thistle and thorn
a genius and great poet was born
Lord Byron was his great name
making love with words his game

Robert J. Lindley
06, 22, 1970

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Naomi Shihab Nye, what you never heard of or read this poet?
Me neither until this morn but found this jewel she wrote.
Usually these modern writes do nothing or very little for me but this one, this one is special.
The concluding verse ties it all together nicely. A snapshot in time of a different place and peoples!

Even the title is genius IMHO. And this is in spite of the fact that I am not a big fan of writing poetry in couplets. -Tyr
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Next Time Ask More Questions

Before jumping, remember
the span of time is long and gracious.

No one perches dangerously on any cliff
till you reply. Is there a pouch of rain

desperately thirsty people wait to drink from
when you say yes or no? I don’t think so.

Hold that thought. Hold everything.
When they say “crucial”—well, maybe for them?

Hold your horses and your minutes and
your Hong Kong dollar coins in your pocket,

you are not a corner or a critical turning page.
Wait. I’ll think about it.

This pressure you share is a misplaced hinge, a fantasy.
I am exactly where I wanted to be.

Naomi Shihab Nye, 1952

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Next Time Ask More Questions

Before jumping, remember
the span of time is long and gracious.

No one perches dangerously on any cliff
till you reply. Is there a pouch of rain

desperately thirsty people wait to drink from
when you say yes or no? I don’t think so.

Hold that thought. Hold everything.
When they say “crucial”—well, maybe for them?

Hold your horses and your minutes and
your Hong Kong dollar coins in your pocket,

you are not a corner or a critical turning page.
Wait. I’ll think about it.

This pressure you share is a misplaced hinge, a fantasy.
I am exactly where I wanted to be.

Naomi Shihab Nye, 1952
-----------------------------------------------------------------

My tribute to this gem by Nye....
Written moments ago and with the same spirit and message in mind..



Grains Of Sand, Pretending To Be Boulders


After winning, do try to be a real winner
your moment may make or break another.

Nobody lives in the glory their mind conjures
except those that that think in fantasy.

Starving people want more food to eat
not words and praise of your feats.

Think again, consider life is a mystery
the importance of you, lives only a moment.

Cross another bridge and look at the water
did the long, sad look down hurt?

If not you are sailing a slow, doomed ship
truly a barge filled with massive waste.

No mortal man is an island of salvation
yet any could be a saving god to others.

Robert J. Lindley, 04-09-2015

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Unpacking a Globe


I gaze at the Pacific and don’t expect
to ever see the heads on Easter Island,

though I guess at sunlight rippling
the yellow grasses sloping to shore;

yesterday a doe ate grass in the orchard:
it lifted its ears and stopped eating

when it sensed us watching from
a glass hallway—in his sleep, a veteran

sweats, defusing a land mine.
On the globe, I mark the Battle of

the Coral Sea—no one frets at that now.
A poem can never be too dark,

I nod and, staring at the Kenai, hear
ice breaking up along an inlet;

yesterday a coyote trotted across
my headlights and turned his head

but didn’t break stride; that’s how
I want to live on this planet:

alive to a rabbit at a glass door—
and flower where there is no flower.

Arthur Sze, 1950
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Love this poem , especially this part--


"yesterday a coyote trotted across
my headlights and turned his head
but didn’t break stride; that’s how
I want to live on this planet:"

To me that represents living without letting fear rule your life. I fear no man but have and do fear forces unseen. Should I not? When such forces can harm those I love.. Those forces can not harm me because my life here all but spent and I value it not as highly as I once did..

Yet fear always finds a way. You see, my family--those I dearly love-- thats where fear gets me!
No man is an Island and no man can protect ALL that he holds dear...

This poem conveys a lot and is great for a number of reasons IMHO.
Not the least of which is it reminds us that we are always vulnerable to fear and its consequences.
For only way not to be is --not to care a damn whit about anything or anybody.. and who wants to be that miserable creature??? Certainly not I.. --Tyr

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Decided to bite the bullet and do a major rewrite of my Acheron poem...

Now that I've done this I can go on to do the Second part..




The Tumid River of Acheron -(The Journey, Part One) , -Revised (04-10-2015)




Father of evil waters from which sprang
the river Styx of which man's curses rang
Flowing stream holding back evil so foul
where agonizing spirits scream and howl
Acheron, seething lake of scorching heat
where demons slash into the souls they eat

Delivered shadows fall onto prayers cast
vanity briefly soothes, forever lasts
Prayers sinking quickly like river cast stones
dreams forming into ghastly skin and bones
Waters that wrap around Haides evil realm
with Daimon, evil dark Lord at the helm

Gushing forth from solid bowels of rock
rushing blackened waters rising to shock
Upon its moving mass of wretched stink
poison lethal no mortal man may drink
Kharon, the ferryman stands at the oars
delivering the lost upon dark shores

Far below the Mariandyni coast
Acheron ferries victims to its host
Loaded within spirits of cries and moans
Kharon laughs at all the misery groans
Set upon southern shore of the black sea
in sun's light never again will they be

Many dark tales of Acheron's fame
fallen victims weeping in sin and shame
Moans rising as dark waters deliver
the wretched lost to painfully quiver
In this dark abhorrent , torturing Hell
lost souls living in lustful sin had fell

Darkly, the tumid rushing waters flow
where any man most wisely fears to go
Liquid blackness singing in epic pain
torture, misery and cries of insane
Echoes of Eperius in the West
shadow realm wherein evil never rests

Black ship of Kharon eternally sail
into the sunless land of a dark hell
Land of those lost , family and dear friend
exists for all wicked women and men
Black abyss where Apollo never walks
lost souls ripped apart by screeching hawks

Forever filled and by rowboat conveyed
miserable, crying souls are relayed
Crossing the tarn of Acheron then
cursing future torments for all lost men
Seething waters that ever separate
those so damn lost to future tortured Fate

Robert J. Lindley, (revised) - 04-10-2015

Syllables Per Line: 10 10 10 10 10 10 0 10 10 10 10 10 10 0 10 10 10 10 10 10
10 10 10 10 10 10 0 10 10 10 10 10 10 0 10 10 10 10 10 10
10 10 10 10 10 10 0 10 10 10 10 10 10
Total # Syllables: 480
Total # Lines: 48
Words with (syllables) counted programmatically: N/A
Total # Words: 321
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Note: This is part One. The journey into HAIDES
by way of crossing the Styx. The river Styx is
actually an off shoot of Acheron that splits into
the Styx and the Cocytus.

Part Two now has two lines written. It will be titled ,
Haides and Tormented Souls (the Dwelling)..
I have no preset limit to the second part, may be
longer or shorter. I suspect it will be even longer.
I hope the readers enjoy this write. I wanted to do
something dark and move away from all my love, romance
and Nature writes. A bit of variety to stir my
imagination...
Due to recent major duties in my family( caring for very sick mother and etc.)
I've had to put on indefinite hold writing the second part.
As part Two is a bit more ambitious in scope and depth.. -Tyr

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Walking Streets Paved With Nameless Stones


I walk a street paved with nameless stones
shadows of racing strangers I often meet
are empty suits covering faceless bones
Dark spirits that never dare to greet
my hello with anything but angry tones

Perhaps upon seeing my face filled with grief
they remember harm they too have caused
and lives they ended agonizingly brief
Yet once one of them slowed and paused
then danced a jolly jig to my great relief

Who can fathom the mysteries so deep
or lost souls wandering endless streets
with the many dark secrets they keep
Was not I racing on with soulless beats
seeking reprieve while too scared to weep

Robert J. Lindley 04-06-2015

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Honey For The Rose Says A Wizened Sage

I fancy a moment of quietest delight
nothing great, just deep silent bliss
times like this, my mind takes flight

Day breaks with a softest little glow
crack of dawn I often so dearly miss
the lady that put on last night's show

Pausing next to reflect, life slaps me
why do you so often fail to see this
the kinder, softer man you should be

I reply, spare me the moral outrage
yes, I once stole many a sweet kiss
honey for the rose says a wizened sage

I fancy a moment of quietest delight
nothing great, just deep silent bliss
times like this, my mind takes flight

Robert J. Lindley. 04-12-2015

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Consider The Moment You Wake This Coming Morn


Once visiting angel spoke this to me as I slept
deep knowledge comes when, where and how it may
Life, be it long or short is only another earthly step
love's light is brighter upon death of the day!

A child's innocence can be so much more profound
than that of any sage's wisdom bequeathed to man
For just as death is so fertile to awaiting ground
victory is not he that merely wishes but he who can!

Consider the moment you wake up this coming morn
did not those gifted words stir deep in your soul
Life races to end the moment you are first born
should not the next life rewards be your first goal!

Bright yellow sun crept up on me that coming dawn
out my window I saw the prettiest white speckled fawn!

Robert J. Lindley, 04-12-2015

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Psalm CXXXVII The Babylonian Captivity

by Joel Barlow


ALONG the banks where Babel's current flows
Our captive bands in deep despondence stray'd,
While Zion's fall in sad remembrance rose,
Her friends, her children mingled with the dead.

The tuneless harp, that once with joy we strung,
When praise employ'd and mirth inspir'd the lay,
In mournful silence on the willows hung;
And growing grief prolong'd the tedious day.

The barbarous tyrants, to increase the woe,
With taunting smiles a song of Zion claim;
Bid sacred praise in strains melodious flow,
While they blaspheme the great Jehovah's name.

But how, in heathen chains and lands unknown,
Shall Israel's sons a song of Zion raise?
O hapless Salem, God's terrestrial throne,
Thou land of glory, sacred mount of praise.

If e'er my memory lose thy lovely name,
If my cold heart neglect my kindred race,
Let dire destruction seize this guilty frame;
My hand shall perish and my voice shall cease.

Yet shall the Lord, who hears when Zion calls,
O'ertake her foes with terror and dismay,
His arm avenge her desolated walls,
And raise her children to eternal day.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

To The Whore Who Took My Poems
by Charles Bukowski


some say we should keep personal remorse from the
poem,
stay abstract, and there is some reason in this,
but jezus;
twelve poems gone and I don't keep carbons and you have
my
paintings too, my best ones; its stifling:
are you trying to crush me out like the rest of them?
why didn't you take my money? they usually do
from the sleeping drunken pants sick in the corner.
next time take my left arm or a fifty
but not my poems:
I'm not Shakespeare
but sometime simply
there won't be any more, abstract or otherwise;
there'll always be mony and whores and drunkards
down to the last bomb,
but as God said,
crossing his legs,
I see where I have made plenty of poets
but not so very much
poetry.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Elegy: Walking the Line
by Edgar Bowers


Every month or so, Sundays, we walked the line,
The limit and the boundary. Past the sweet gum
Superb above the cabin, along the wall—
Stones gathered from the level field nearby
When first we cleared it. (Angry bumblebees
Stung the two mules. They kicked. Thirteen, I ran.)
And then the field: thread-leaf maple, deciduous
Magnolia, hybrid broom, and, further down,
In light shade, one Franklinia Alatamaha
In solstice bloom, all white, most graciously.
On the sunnier slope, the wild plums that my mother
Later would make preserves of, to give to friends
Or sell, in autumn, with the foxgrape, quince,
Elderberry, and muscadine. Around
The granite overhang, moist den of foxes;
Gradually up a long hill, high in pine,
Park-like, years of dry needles on the ground,
And dogwood, slopes the settlers terraced; pine
We cut at Christmas, berries, hollies, anise,
And cones for sale in Mister Haymore’s yard
In town, below the Courthouse Square. James Haymore,
One of the two good teachers at Boys’ High,
Ironic and demanding, chemistry;
Mary Lou Culver taught us English: essays,
Plot summaries, outlines, meters, kinds of clauses
(Noun, adjective, and adverb, five at a time),
Written each day and then revised, and she
Up half the night to read them once again
Through her pince-nez, under a single lamp.
Across the road, on a steeper hill, the settlers
Set a house, unpainted, the porch fallen in,
The road a red clay strip without a bridge,
A shallow stream that liked to overflow.
Oliver Brand’s mules pulled our station wagon
Out of the gluey mire, earth’s rust. Then, here
And there, back from the road, the specimen
Shrubs and small trees my father planted, some
Taller than we were, some in bloom, some berried,
And some we still brought water to. We always
Paused at the weed-filled hole beside the beech
That, one year, brought forth beech nuts by the thousands,
A hole still reminiscent of the man
Chewing tobacco in among his whiskers
My father happened on, who, discovered, told
Of dreaming he should dig there for the gold
And promised to give half of what he found.

During the wars with Germany and Japan,
Descendents of the settlers, of Oliver Brand
And of that man built Flying Fortresses
For Lockheed, in Atlanta; now they build
Brick mansions in the woods they left, with lawns
To paved and lighted streets, azaleas, camellias
Blooming among the pines and tulip trees—
Mercedes Benz and Cadillac Republicans.
There was another stream further along
Divided through a marsh, lined by the fence
We stretched to posts with Mister Garner’s help
The time he needed cash for his son’s bail
And offered all his place. A noble spring
Under the oak root cooled his milk and butter.
He called me “honey,” working with us there
(My father bought three acres as a gift),
His wife pale, hair a country orange, voice
Uncanny, like a ghost’s, through the open door
Behind her, chickens scratching on the floor.
Barred Rocks, our chickens; one, a rooster, splendid
Sliver and grey, red comb and long sharp spurs,
Once chased Aunt Jennie as far as the daphne bed
The two big king snakes were familiars of.
My father’s dog would challenge him sometimes
To laughter and applause. Once, in Stone Mountain,
Travelers, stopped for gas, drove off with Smokey;
Angrily, grievingly, leaving his work, my father
Traced the car and found them way far south,
Had them arrested and, bringing Smokey home,
Was proud as Sherlock Holmes, and happier.
Above the spring, my sister’s cats, black Amy,
Grey Junior, down to meet us. The rose trees,
Domestic, Asiatic, my father’s favorites.
The bridge, marauding dragonflies, the bullfrog,
Camellias cracked and blackened by the freeze,
Bay tree, mimosa, mountain laurel, apple,
Monkey pine twenty feet high, banana shrub,
The owls’ tall pine curved like a flattened S.
The pump house Mort and I built block by block,
Smooth concrete floor, roof pale aluminum
Half-covered by a clematis, the pump
Thirty feet down the mountain’s granite foot.

Mort was the hired man sent to us by Fortune,
Childlike enough to lead us. He brought home,
Although he could not even drive a tractor,
Cheated, a worthless car, which we returned.
When, at the trial to garnishee his wages,
Frank Guess, the judge, Grandmother’s longtime neighbor,
Whose children my mother taught in Cradle Roll,
Heard Mort’s examination, he broke in
As if in disbelief on the bank’s attorneys:
“Gentlemen, must we continue this charade?”
Finally, past the compost heap, the garden,
Tomatoes and sweet corn for succotash,
Okra for frying, Kentucky Wonders, limas,
Cucumbers, squashes, leeks heaped round with soil,
Lavender, dill, parsley, and rosemary,
Tithonia and zinnias between the rows;
The greenhouse by the rock wall, used for cuttings
In late spring, frames to grow them strong for planting
Through winter into summer. Early one morning
Mort called out, lying helpless by the bridge.
His ashes we let drift where the magnolia
We planted as a stem divides the path
The others lie, too young, at Silver Hill,
Except my mother. Ninety-five, she lives
Three thousand miles away, beside the bare
Pacific, in rooms that overlook the Mission,
The Riviera, and the silver range
La Cumbre east. Magnolia grandiflora
And one druidic live oak guard the view.
Proudly around the walls, she shows her paintings
Of twenty years ago: the great oak’s arm
Extended, Zeuslike, straight and strong, wisteria
Tangled among the branches, amaryllis
Around the base; her cat, UC, at ease
In marigolds; the weeping cherry, pink
And white arms like a blessing to the blue
Bird feeder Mort made; cabin, scarlet sweet gum
Superb when tribes migrated north and south.
Alert, still quick of speech, a little blind,
Active, ready for laughter, open to fear,
Pity, and wonder that such things may be,
Some Sundays, I think, she must walk the line,
Aunt Jennie, too, if she were still alive,
And Eleanor, whose story is untold,
Their presences like muses, prompting me
In my small study, all listening to the sea,
All of one mind, the true posterity.

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Hard Work And Sweat Turned We Boys Into Men.



Every summer we picked berries on the hill,
sweating to gather enough for mom to make a pie.
Wading among the insects and the dreaded snakes
we worked because hunger was a daily deal.

As farm children we were taught to pitch in,
to do as told and help out as was needed.
Any chore was to be done quickly and done right
hard work and sweat turned we boys into men.

Hunting game animals was not just a sport,
it was a means to keep our family well fed.
Taught how to gather more for much less(ammo)
father the judge ruling over our hunting court.

Living on the thin edge was not a great pleasure.
Looking back, I see Dad and we were his treasure!

Robert J. Lindley, 04-13-2015

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Was inspired today, so tossed out another one..--Tyr




Dancing In A Glen Far Away And Dark


I trekked into the big forest deep
far back into a darkened glen,
among the black trees standing tall;
a lone cluster of flowers grew,
like a small army of bright little men.


As pretty as the clouds far above
colorful petals blew in the sprightly wind,
a glow cast upon dark and lonely trees;
dancing in unison with leaves overhead
each sang a melody of Nature's love.


Old trees took on a far different hue
as afternoon rays the flowers reflect,
colors raced about in the scene;
even the birds watched with great awe
when each gust sent a wave overdue.


Many years later that scene reappeared
a movie that played when I was blue,
dancing in a glen far away and dark;
symphony of flowers decorating old trees
in my mind Mother Nature's art was seared.

Robert J. Lindley, 04-13-2015

Note-- Free verse in the form
my mind's eye finds pleasing.
Pay no attention to the unintended bit
of rhyme. lol

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Angel With A Red Rose Blowing In Her Hair


Memories of her glowing in the moonlight,
angel with a red rose blowing in her hair.
First saw her beauty on a hot August night
heaven sang out with her standing there!

Our lonely eyes met, music began to play
praying, praying for another sweet sign.
This beautiful angel would love me today
a treasure sent down to earth to be mine!

She walked over and gave me her soft hand,
she asked , would you like to dance?
Love was singing out ,isn't love grand
it hit me, fate crying this is your chance!

She hugged me close, stars were blasting
my mind cried out, do not mess this up.
Knew heaven answered me when she was asking
sweetest wine had just flowed into my cup!

Robert J. Lindley

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Archimedes

by Friedrich von Schiller


To Archimedes once a scholar came,
"Teach me," he said, "the art that won thy fame;--
The godlike art which gives such boons to toil,
And showers such fruit upon thy native soil;--
The godlike art that girt the town when all
Rome's vengeance burst in thunder on the wall!"
"Thou call'st art godlike--it is so, in truth,
And was," replied the master to the youth,
"Ere yet its secrets were applied to use--
Ere yet it served beleaguered Syracuse:--
Ask'st thou from art, but what the art is worth?
The fruit?--for fruit go cultivate the earth.--
He who the goddess would aspire unto,
Must not the goddess as the woman woo!"

-----------------------------------------------

I Have A Rendezvous With Death

by Alan Seeger


I have a rendezvous with Death
At some disputed barricade,
When Spring comes back with rustling shade
And apple-blossoms fill the air—
I have a rendezvous with Death
When Spring brings back blue days and fair.

It may be he shall take my hand
And lead me into his dark land
And close my eyes and quench my breath—
It may be I shall pass him still.
I have a rendezvous with Death
On some scarred slope of battered hill
When Spring comes round again this year
And the first meadow-flowers appear.

God knows 'twere better to be deep
Pillowed in silk and scented down,
Where Love throbs out in blissful sleep,
Pulse nigh to pulse, and breath to breath,
Where hushed awakenings are dear...
But I've a rendezvous with Death
At midnight in some flaming town,
When Spring trips north again this year,
And I to my pledged word am true,
I shall not fail that rendezvous.

----------------------------------------------

Love and Sleep
by Algernon Charles Swinburne


Lying asleep between the strokes of night
I saw my love lean over my sad bed,
Pale as the duskiest lily's leaf or head,
Smooth-skinned and dark, with bare throat made to bite,
Too wan for blushing and too warm for white,
But perfect-colored without white or red.
And her lips opened amorously, and said--
I wist not what, saving one word--Delight,
And all her face was honey to my mouth,
And all her body pasture to mine eyes;
The long lithe arms and hotter hands than fire,
The quivering flanks, hair smelling of the south,
The bright light feet, the splendid supple thighs
And glittering eyelids of my soul's desire.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Three poems that influenced me a lot as a younger man. You may notice that love and death are both presented as themes.
Yet so is LIFE!!!

Death, the finality
Love , the greatest pleasure
Life, the journey

Having had the other two, only the finality awaits.... --Tyr

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Consider, What Is It All Worth


Consider, what is it all worth,
pale treasures on earth.
Neither silver , jewels or gold,
will give time to grow old.

Yet there is it, the true love,
gifted from so far above.
Greed demands solid treasure,
that we so foolishly measure.

Imagine wealth of eternal life,
love, gentleness and no strife.
Palaces built in faith's fires,
happiness that never retires.

Consider, the vanity of man,
rebellion just because we can.
Death was the only bitter fruit,
of that dark and evil root.

Consider, what is it all worth,
pale treasures on earth.
Neither silver , jewels or gold,
will give time to grow old.

Robert J. Lindley , 04-15-2015

NOTE- Inspired by the poems-- Archimedes by Schiller...... Seeger's --Death Rendezvous, and Swinburne's-- Love and Sleep.

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Dawning Of Light Relieves My Shaken Heart


In my mind's eye, night dreams span the sky
Descending down, creatures in divine rhapsody
Far too magnificent to ever foolishly deny
the glory of their angelic song and melody

My senses surge in this spiritual trance
scenes of future score race into my head
All far too real to be by mere chance
spiritual world wraps around my old bed

Always a vain act for me to flee to wake
as foreboding events show my future life
Divine knowledge, true yet so hard to take
scenes of future death of my darling wife

Dawning of light relieves my shaken heart
sun's rays bring in a most welcomed relief
Each night a prayer for this to not start
blindness of future acts my soul's release

Robert J. Lindley

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Have not had the time or means to research this Lindley but my oldest brother did research.
He phoned me and stated that yes, this Lindley is in our blood line on the English side.

Here is a few of his poems.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


SCARECROW CRIMES
by John Lindley



In Hayfield I imagine
not just the nuts and bolts of split cockpits
but a Spitfire’s sunk fuselage

has smoked out its entirety unseen
from one century to the next.
At Edale Cross, Birch Vale or Kinder,

in rock, field or peat bog
more than machinery beds down and is lost,
it’s true

but here in this field
with all of the exposed corn,
yellow as scattered light

bubble-packing the soil,
the vanishings are less numerous
but no less strange -

a child here, a dog there,
a stoat whose teeth weren’t defence enough
have become a cache of quiet forgettings,

plucked without fuss
and gone without trace
and a frayed crucifix -

tweed coat, stoved in chest
and stitched neck ruff -
has shrugged his coat hanger shoulders

and pogo’d west from the rising sun.
In the first tatters of light
blameless crows rattle in the wind.

John Lindley
------------------------------------------------

CROW AND AUDEN
by John Lindley


A misprint in a newspaper reported: ‘Auden stepped from the train and was greeted by a small but enthusiastic crow.’

‘Hmm,’ Auden thought when first he saw
the bird, as train came to a stop,
‘I’ll make this image mine before
some Yorkshire upstart snaps it up.’

He drew a notebook from his mac’,
unclipped a biro from his tweed,
stared at the crow, the crow stared back
then recognising him indeed

began to stun the platform crowd,
began to flap, began to sing,
and the poet wrote about its loud
and flattering beak, applauding wings.

Reporters, fans all stood amazed.
It seemed as if all clocks had stopped.
Only Auden stood unfazed.
Only his chin hadn’t dropped.

He pulled a Woodbine from its pack,
pulled out a match and struck a light,
stared at the crow, the crow stared back.
The night mail train pulled into sight.

John Lindley
-------------------------------------------------

GRANDAD AND A PRAMLOAD OF CLOCKS
by John Lindley


Wheeling them in,
the yard gate at half-mast
with its ticking hinge,
the tin bucket with a hairnet of webs,
the privy door ajar,
the path gloved with moss
ploughed by metal
through a scalped tyre -
in the shadows of the hood,
in the ripped silk
of the rocking, buckled pram,
none of the dead clocks moving.

And carrying them in
to a kitchen table,
a near-lifetime’s Woodies
coating each cough,
he will tickle them awake;
will hold like primitive headphones
the tinkling shells to each ear,
select and apply unfailingly
the right tool to the right cog
and with movements
as unpredictable as the pram’s
will wind and counter-wind
the scrap to metronomic life.

And at the pub,
at the Grey Horse or Houldsworth,
furtive as unpaid tax,
Rolex and Timex
and brands beneath naming
will change hands for the price of a bevy,
a fish supper
or a down payment
on early retirement
on a horse called Clockwork
running in the three-thirty at Aintree.

John Lindley
-------------------------------------------------

Very obvious that our writing styles do not match but the urge to write seems to match.
Click this link for a picture of John and a short bio..


http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/poets/john_lindley

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Rudyard Kipling, (1865-1936) was born in Bombay, India, where his father, John Lockwood Kipling, was an arts and crafts teacher at the Jeejeebhoy School of Art. His mother, the former Alice Macdonald, was a sister-in-law of the painter Edward Burne-Jones. India was at that time ruled by the British. Ruddy, as Kipling was affectionally called, was brought up by an ayah, who taught him Hidustani as his first language.

Kipling's writings at the age of thirteen were influenced by the pre-Raphaelites - and he also had family connections to them: two of his mother's sisters were married into the pre-Raphaelite community. At the age of six he was taken to England by his parents and left for five years at a foster home at Southsea. Kipling, who was not accustomed to traditional English beatings, expressed later his feeling of the treatment in the short story 'Baa Baa, Black Sheep', in the novel THE LIGHT THAT FAILED (1890), and in his autobiography (1937).

In 1878 Kipling entered United Services College, a boarding school in North Devon. It was an expensive institution that specialized in training for entry into military academies. His poor eyesight and mediocre results as a student ended hopes about military career. However, these years Kipling recalled in lighter tone in one of his most popular books, STALKY & CO (1899). Kipling's bookishness separated him from the other students; he had to wear glasses and was nicknamed "Gigger", for gig (carriage) for lamps. However, Kipling wrote about the non-conformist Headmaster, Cormell Price: "Many of us loved the Head for what he had done for us, but I owed him more than all of them put together and I think I loved him even more than they did."

Kipling returned to India in 1882, where he worked as a journalist in Lahore for Civil and Military Gazette (1882-87) and an assistant editor and overseas correspondent in Allahabad for Pioneer (1887-89). The stories written during his last two years in India were collected in THE PHANTOM RICKSHAW. It that included the famous story 'The Man Who Would Be a King.' In the story a white trader, Daniel Dravot sets himself up as a god and king in Kafristan, but a woman discovers that he is a human and betrays him. His companion, Peachey Carnehan, manages to escape to tell the tale, but Dravot is killed.

Kilping's short stories and verses gained success in the late 1880s in England, to which he returned in 1889, and was hailed as a literary heir to Charles Dickens. When he toured Japan he criticized the Japanese middle-class for its eagerness to adopt western fashions and values. "... I was a barbarian, and no true Sahib," he wrote. Between the years 1889 and 1892, Kipling lived in London and published LIFE'S HANDICAP (1891), a collection of Indian stories that included 'The Man Who Was,' and BARRACK-ROOM BALLADS, a collection of poems that included 'Gunga Din,' a praise of a Hindu water carrier for a British Indian regiment. Wellington had viewed the private soldier as "the very scum of the earth", but Kipling portrayed him as the embodiment of British virtue

In 1892 Kipling married Caroline Starr Balestier, the sister of an American publisher and writer, with whom he collaborated a novel, THE NAULAHKA (1892). The young couple moved to the United States. Kipling was dissatisfied with the life in Vermont, and after the death of his daughter, Josephine, Kipling took his family back to England and settled in Burwash, Sussex. According to the author's sister, Kipling became a "harder man" - but also his political beliefs started to stiffen. Kipling's marriage was not in all respects happy. The author was dominated by his wife who had troubles to accept all aspects of her husband's character. During these restless years Kipling produced MANY INVENTIONS (1893), JUNGLE BOOK (1894), a collection of animal stories for children, THE SECOND JUNGLE BOOK (1895), and THE SEVEN SEAS (1896).

Widely regarded as unofficial poet laureate, Kipling refused this and many honors, among them the Order of Merit. During the Boer War in 1899 Kipling spent several months in South Africa. In 1902 he moved to Sussex, also spending time in South Africa, where he was given a house by Cecil Rhodes, the influential British colonial statesman. In 1901 appeared KIM, widely considered Kipling's best novel. The story, set in India, depicted adventures of an orphaned son of a sergeant in an Irish regiment. His own children appeared in the stories as Dan and Una - the death of "Dan" (John) in the WW I darkened author's later life. John Kipling was a brave young officer, unspoilt by his father's fame.

Soon after Kipling had received the Nobel Prize, his output of fiction and poems began to decline. In 1923 Kipling published THE IRISH GUARDS IN THE GREAT WAR, a history of his son's regiment. Between the years 1922 and 1925 he was a rector at the University of St. Andrews. Kipling died on January 18, 1936 in London, and was buried in Poet's Corner at Westminster Abbey. Kipling's autobiography, SOMETHING OF MYSELF, appeared posthumously in 1937. Kipling did his best to obtain and destroy letters he had sent - to protect his private life. His widow continued the practice but a number of his letters survived and have been published. In 1884 he wrote to Edith Macdonald about his visit to an Afghan Khan, Kizil Bas, who had to stay in Lahore as a prisoner - the Afghan Sirdars had fought against the British. The Khan asks Kipling to write to his "Khubber-Ke-Kargus" (newspaper) and help him to gain again his freedom. He throws a bundle of money to Kipling who refuses to take them. Then the Khan offers a Cashmiri girl, and Kipling loses his temper. Finally he promises three beautiful horse. Kipling resists the temptation, they smoke, drink coffee, and Kipling rides of the city. "I haven't told anyone here of the bribery business because, if I did, some unscrupulous beggar might tell the Khan that he would help him and so lay hold of the money, the lady or, worse still, the horses. Besides I may able to help the old boy respectably and without any considerations."

Kipling's glorification of the "Empire and extension" gained its peak in the poem 'The White Man's Burden' (1899): "Take up the White Man's burden - / Send forth the best ye breed - / Go bind your sons to exile / To serve your captives' need; / To wait in heavy harness / On fluttered folk and wild - / Your new-caught, sullen peoples, / Half devil and half child." George Orwell, who also spent his early childhood in India, rejected in an essay in New English Weekly (1936) Kipling's view of the world, which he associated with the ignorant and sentimental side of imperialism, but admired the author as a storyteller. However, readers loved Kipling's romantic tales about the adventures of Englishmen in strange and distant parts of the world. Characteristic for Kipling is sympathy for the world of children, satirical attitude toward pompous patriotism, and belief in the blessings and superiority of the British rule, without questioning its basic nature.

http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/poets/rudyard_kipling/biography
-----------------------------------------------

A Ballad of Burial
by Rudyard Kipling

("Saint Proxed's ever was the Church for peace")
If down here I chance to die,
Solemnly I beg you take
All that is left of "I"
To the Hills for old sake's sake,
Pack me very thoroughly
In the ice that used to slake
Pegs I drank when I was dry --
This observe for old sake's sake.

To the railway station hie,
There a single ticket take
For Umballa -- goods-train -- I
Shall not mind delay or shake.
I shall rest contentedly
Spite of clamor coolies make;
Thus in state and dignity
Send me up for old sake's sake.

Next the sleepy Babu wake,
Book a Kalka van "for four."
Few, I think, will care to make
Journeys with me any more
As they used to do of yore.
I shall need a "special" break --
Thing I never took before --
Get me one for old sake's sake.

After that -- arrangements make.
No hotel will take me in,
And a bullock's back would break
'Neath the teak and leaden skin
Tonga ropes are frail and thin,
Or, did I a back-seat take,
In a tonga I might spin, --
Do your best for old sake's sake.

After that -- your work is done.
Recollect a Padre must
Mourn the dear departed one --
Throw the ashes and the dust.
Don't go down at once. I trust
You will find excuse to "snake
Three days' casual on the bust."
Get your fun for old sake's sake.

I could never stand the Plains.
Think of blazing June and May
Think of those September rains
Yearly till the Judgment Day!
I should never rest in peace,
I should sweat and lie awake.
Rail me then, on my decease,
To the Hills for old sake's sake

To me Kipling was a genius , a magnificent write and a great Poet.
The fact that the hobknobs and elitists frown upon his poetry just represents the arrogance and bias of such people that pompously look down upon we peons and think themselves demigods.
I was taught to judge a man on his character and deeds not on his wealth, fame or cultural standing in the community.

Wanted to present this as a tribute to Kipling before I write my morning poem, which I'l post when finished in a few minutes. -Tyr

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

As promised, hot off the keyboard this morn.. :laugh:

Ode To A Former Wild Life


Drank too hard, rode my horses too fast
didn't give a damn if my body did not last
Midnight was a bell for me to pour it on
get wasted until my head felt like a stone

Pretty gals, O' how they spun my wheels
woo'ed them as I pleased, made no deals
Passionate nights spent dancing in the bed
plenty of time for sleep after I am dead

Life was just a big box to rip'er open
bigger thrills , prettier gals I was hoping
Once a spirited mustang, wild as all hell
wildest things I did I dare not to tell

Memories good or bad often can not decide
yet one thing is sure, had a helluva ride
Memories good or bad , often know not which
yet having none at all would be a real bitch!

Robert J. Lindley , 04-18- 2015

Note--Man I once was, I no longer be
I changed as soon as I could see
Life is more than cheap pleasure
It is love of family, God and
knowing that is the true treasure!

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Today is my day to visit the works of Kipling. I have a policy of reading some of his works every couple months. A big task as he wrote over 300 works in Poetry and Prose , plus his short stories(that number unknown to me).

Here is three that I found today and thought great.... bear in mind Kipling was British and lived accordingly with great respect for his culture and time..-Tyr

The Veterans
by Rudyard Kipling

To-day, across our fathers' graves,
The astonished years reveal
The remnant of that desperate host
Which cleansed our East with steel.

Hail and farewell! We greet you here,
With tears that none will scorn--
O Keepers of the House of old,
Or ever we were born!

One service more we dare to ask--
Pray for us, heroes, pray,
That when Fate lays on us our task
We do not shame the Day!
------------------------------------------------

The Virginity
by Rudyard Kipling

Try as he will, no man breaks wholly loose
From his first love, no matter who she be.
Oh, was there ever sailor free to choose,
That didn't settle somewhere near the sea?

Myself, it don't excite me nor amuse
To watch a pack o' shipping on the sea;
But I can understand my neighbour's views
From certain things which have occured to me.

Men must keep touch with things they used to use
To earn their living, even when they are free;
And so come back upon the least excuse --
Same as the sailor settled near the sea.

He knows he's never going on no cruise --
He knows he's done and finished with the sea;
And yet he likes to feel she's there to use --
If he should ask her -- as she used to be.

Even though she cost him all he had to lose,
Even though she made him sick to hear or see,
Still, what she left of him will mostly choose
Her skirts to sit by. How comes such to be?

Parsons in pulpits, tax-payers in pews,
Kings on your thrones, you know as well as me,
We've only one virginity to lose,
And where we lost it there our hearts will be!
-------------------------------------------------

Things and the Man
by Rudyard Kipling

Oh ye who hold the written clue
To all save all unwritten things,
And, half a league behind, pursue
The accomplished Fact with flouts and flings,
Look! To your knee your baby brings
The oldest tale since Earth began --
The answer to your worryings:
"Once on a time there was a Man."

He, single-handed, met and slew
Magicians, Armies, Ogres, Kings.
He lonely 'mid his doubting crew --
"In all the loneliness of wings " --
He fed the flame, he filled the springs,
He locked the ranks, he launched the van
Straight at the grinning Teeth of Things.
"Once on a time there was a Man."

The peace of shocked Foundations flew
Before his ribald questionings.
He broke the Oracles in two,
And bared the paltry wires and strings.
He headed desert wanderings;
He led his soul, his cause, his clan
A little from the ruck of Things.
"Once on a time there was a Man."

Thrones, Powers, Dominions block the view
With episodes and underlings --
The meek historian deems them true
Nor heeds the song that Clio sings --
The simple central truth that stings
The mob to boo, the priest to ban;
Things never yet created things --
"Once on a time there was a Man."

A bolt is fallen from the blue.
A wakened realm full circle swings
Where Dothan's dreamer dreams anew
Of vast and farborne harvestings;
And unto him an Empire clings
That grips the purpose of his plan.
My Lords, how think you of these things?
Once -- in our time -- is there a Man?

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Wrote this today.
Was inspired by reading a poem on the death of his friend written by a very good poet friend of mine.
Thought about my passing and decided that cremation is the way I want to go... I hope you may
enjoy it.... -Tyr



Among The Trees Lay My Ashes All About

Among the trees lay my ashes all about
once I was free, so let my spirit shout
All life works out in its own sweet time
even its mysteries are puzzles sublime

Say nice words as my ashes hit the breeze
careful not to inhale or me you'll sneeze
As my remains meet the fertile ground
There I be in spirit looking all around

Wind and rain Nature's elements play
part of me will sprout some Spring day
Yes, ashes to ashes , dust to dust
I lived a good life, that you can trust

As pretty flowers grow under the trees
I'll be in another realm sailing calm seas
Or aboard a starship galaxies far away
Anything is possible or so people say

Among the trees lay my ashes all about
once I was free, so let my spirit shout
All life works out in its own sweet time
even its mysteries are puzzles sublime

Robert J. Lindley, 04-18-2015

Note --I've been busy today. My muse forced me
to write five poems.
I favor this one and the last one of the five.
Flipped a coin to decide which to post first,
this one won...
-------------------------------------------------------

edit, update---- just found this result from a contest at my poetry site. Entered a sonnet in that one and to place this high is indeed a very great feat as sonnets do not allow for much revision, lengthening and no shortening as they must be 14 lines. -Tyr


Contest Winner Medal 3 "Revised"- As The Midnight Moon Shines Upon Her Eyes - Robert Lindley

"Revised"- As The Midnight Moon Shines Upon Her Eyes 3 The Makeover 4/7/2015 12:00:00 AM Yes 4/12/2015 12:00:00

[LongTermGuy]

Wrote this today.
Was inspired by reading a poem on the death of his friend written by a very good poet friend of mine.
Thought about my passing and decided that cremation is the way I want to go... I hope you may
enjoy it.... -Tyr



Among The Trees Lay My Ashes All About

Among the trees lay my ashes all about
once I was free, so let my spirit shout
All life works out in its own sweet time
even its mysteries are puzzles sublime

Say nice words as my ashes hit the breeze
careful not to inhale or me you'll sneeze
As my remains meet the fertile ground
There I be in spirit looking all around

Wind and rain Nature's elements play
part of me will sprout some Spring day
Yes, ashes to ashes , dust to dust
I lived a good life, that you can trust

As pretty flowers grow under the trees
I'll be in another realm sailing calm seas
Or aboard a starship galaxies far away
Anything is possible or so people say

Among the trees lay my ashes all about
once I was free, so let my spirit shout
All life works out in its own sweet time
even its mysteries are puzzles sublime

Robert J. Lindley, 04-18-2015

Note --I've been busy today. My muse forced me
to write five poems.
I favor this one and the last one of the five.
Flipped a coin to decide which to post first,
this one won...
-------------------------------------------------------

edit, update---- just found this result from a contest at my poetry site. Entered a sonnet in that one and to place this high is indeed a very great feat as sonnets do not allow for much revision, lengthening and no shortening as they must be 14 lines. -Tyr


Contest Winner Medal 3 "Revised"- As The Midnight Moon Shines Upon Her Eyes - Robert Lindley

"Revised"- As The Midnight Moon Shines Upon Her Eyes 3 The Makeover 4/7/2015 12:00:00 AM Yes 4/12/2015 12:00:00





`​I like to catch those special little bits and pieces....Nice!`



"As pretty flowers grow under the trees
I'll be in another realm sailing calm seas
Or aboard a starship galaxies far away
Anything is possible or so people say..."

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Found a contest that interested me this morn. Wrote this one to enter..--Tyr




My Lucky Dog Surely Has No Fleas

My lucky dog surely has no fleas
they all jumped from him onto me
His luck could be quite fetching
were I not furiously scratching

When he sneezes the cold I get
my lucky dog could win any bet
Good night sleep he is a winner
Gas wakes me, damn chili dinner

Chasing the ladies he is tops
my pick-up lines are all flops
Lucky dog always gets his gal
I waste time drinking with a pal

He has fun chasing the fast cars
if I did that I would have scars
Yes sir, my lucky dog has it made
while I get to write this tirade

Robert J. Lindley, 04-19-2015
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


Sponsor Thomas Martin
Contest Name Humorous Poetry
Enter Poetry Contest
Deadline 5/18/2015 12:00:00 AM
Note From Sponsor No updates yet...
Contest Description
What to Submit?

1 original, poem on the theme of .humor.............
Any form is acceptable, but no more than 20 lines.
May rhyme or not rhyme. I am not much of a stickler for onprecise forms
or meter as long as the theme of the poem is not affected.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Note-- I had no intent to get big belly laughs with this bit of humor.
I did write this about a dog I once had and very dearly loved....
If you have ever lost a beloved pet you know what I mean... -Tyr

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Hollow Thrones

Hollow Thrones

Death and destruction reigning in filth over dry bones
kings ruling over weaker souls with little hope,
drowned deep, cast overboard loaded with misery stones
unmercifully hung with no justice and short rope

So proudly the kings rule over subjects so very poor
no concept of the natural rights of mortal man,
having power , treasure and selfish desires by the score
completely unconcerned with life's ever so brief span

Shallow pleasures lusted without thought of coming reward
stolen time and freedoms from more deserving souls,
unmindful of the many stolen lives so desperately scarred
judgment awaiting in deeply unforgiving , darkened holes

Reigns of tyranny reaped as bushels of rotten fruits
while spirit raping of better women, children, and men,
falsely rewarded homage paid from wickedly evil roots
soon to be given eternity in their evil Master's den

Robert L. 05-25-2014

-------------------------------------------------

Read more of obama's nation destroying agenda this morn ,
immediately remembered this poem from a year ago!
Strange how easily my mind made that connection, huh?
We see exactly that today as were are now being ruled as
enslaved subjects instead of free citizens..
Not only sad but a very dangerous situation IMHO..

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Warning, do not try this at home folks...
Drop your shield and lay open your bare chest for any stab...

A poet friend bet me that I would not write a true account of my philosophy, my wild young life and many mistakes.
Here it is in narrative form , the first of two parts.. --Tyr
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Blinded, by the Light(Part One)


If you can truly find yourself you can be truly happy
if not, well the world will eat you and beat you until you cry no more...
I see most people crying. Me, I ran out of tears and found myself the hard way.

I survived long enough to hear the Nightbird sing, a drunk rooster crow and
the coyote catch that damn roadrunner-in my dreams..
After that a light blinded me and within that blindness came a realization,
that three things are important , God, love and family.
All the rest is window dressing and leftover refried beans with no damn chili's... I hate that!

Every morn that rising sun tells me , get up and be worthy of the air you breathe,
Stand as tall as you can and never look down on a man unless extending a helping hand to him.
To do less is not only lazy but selfish and rude. Find a gift to give somebody, anybody at
least every week if not every day. Does not have to be great , could be as easy as giving kind words
when they are needed.

This all was told to me as a 10 year old by my grandfather. Some of it I picked up on my own after
living a damn wild young life! With too many shallow relationships, broken hearts(including mine often)
and more than a few real scars, all of which I came by honestly.

Now looking at the sunset I see rainbows just beyond the horizon. Each one has a pot of gold..
Methinks I will give that gold away and plant flowers in the pots to give to my wife.
And that folks is the wisdom sent in each ray of that blinding light I was blessed to have found!

Robert. J. Lindley , 04-19-2015

p.s.

Stay tuned in folks. I plan on another shameful confession coming soon..
Starting with my first bout of stealing a kiss from a pretty gal that I loved..
"Ain't life great"?

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Hiding Place
by Major Henry Livingston, Jr.


Hail sov'reign love that first began,
The scheme to rescue fallen man;
Hail matchless, free, eternal grace,
That gave my soul a Hiding-Place.

Against the God that rules the sky,
I fought with hands uplifted high;
Despis'd the mentions of his grace,
Too proud to seek a Hiding-Place.

Enwrapt in thick Egyptian night,
And fond of darkness more than light,
Madly I ran the sinful race,
Secure without a Hiding-Place.

But thus the eternal counsel ran,
Almighty Love arrest that man;
I felt the arrows of distress,
And saw that I'd no Hiding-Place.

Indignant Justice stood in view,
To Sina's fiery mount I flew;
But Justice cry'd with frowning face,
This mountain is no Hiding-Place.

Ere long a Heav'nly voice I heard,
And Mercy's angel form appear'd,
She led me on with placid pace,
To Jesus as my Hiding-Place.

Should storms of sevenfold thunder roll,
And shake the globe from pole to pole,
No flaming bolt should daunt my face,
For Jesus is my Hiding-Place.

On him almighty vengeance fell,
That must have sunk the world to hell:
He bore it for the chosen race,
And thus became their Hiding-Place.

A few more rolling suns at most,
Shall land us on fair Canaan's coast,
Where we shall sing the song of grace,
And see our glorious Hiding-Place.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Even should one not want to factor in the religious
aspect of this poem, the fact a person needs to hide from all to
rethink life --from time to time-- is there.
Problem is we often fail to leave that secure place and thus
fall in with the corrupt world thinking that we are ok..
When truth is, we are as far from being ok as one can get..
I know, I found myself there once..

I am up before sunrise today. Gonna watch the big ball of fire break the day and thank God that I have my life and my family.. -Tyr

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Sonnet: At Dover Cliffs, July 20th 1787
by William Lisle Bowles


On these white cliffs, that calm above the flood
Uplift their shadowing heads, and, at their feet,
Scarce hear the surge that has for ages beat,
Sure many a lonely wanderer has stood;

And whilst the lifted murmur met his ear,
And o'er the distant billows the still eve
Sailed slow, has thought of all his heart must leave
Tomorrow; of the friends he loved most dear;

Of social scenes, from which he wept to part;
But if, like me, he knew how fruitless all
The thoughts that would full fain the past recall,
Soon would he quell the risings of his heart,

And brave the wild winds and unhearing tide,
The world his country, and his God his guide.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


"Of social scenes, from which he wept to part;
But if, like me, he knew how fruitless all
The thoughts that would full fain the past recall,
Soon would he quell the risings of his heart, "

^^^^^^ Could not agree with more!!
Here the poet points to a higher calling than selfish desires, and considerations of popularity and social advancement..... --Tyr

Soundly advances the advancement of the nation and that of its prosperity with the closing verses...


"And brave the wild winds and unhearing tide,
The world his country, and his God his guide."

^^^^^ The reality of certain deeds trumps the vanity of man..--Tyr

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

I Have Been Living It Up Ever Since

Race on, and find the life you lust for!
Me you leave broken up and in shock.
Living in my sad dreams and closed door,
As our memory you so heartlessly mock!

If your dreams crash you into despair!
Look not for my faithful sympathy then,
I will have gone on and not be there.
Pray you to other less faithful men!

I saw that sunset you once promised me!
It came as my last teardrop had fallen.
Your betrayal forced me to finally see,
The truth that had been there callin'!

Race on, to all that you selfishly seek!
A fairytale life with a golden prince.
Broken up, fallen from the highest peak,
I have been living it up ever since!

Robert J. Lindley, 04-21-2015

Note: Written for a contest, just finished with no review, further reflections and/or revisions.
Will come back in a few days to give a fresh look and decide if any need changes are called for.

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

I had to bang out another poem today to enter into a contest a friend requested that I enter.
My poet friend asked that this one not be a sonnet! :laugh:
So I blasted this one out today, will likely enter it after due time to proof it...
Looks good to go now... but we'll see by tomorrow.. --Tyr
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


Old Campfire Memories Still Endure

Come sit with me around the crackling fire
every night camp needs its burning glow
Of Nature's forest exploring I never tire
often with my old faithful dog in tow

Fair weather is the prayer always prayed
when granted comforts this old brain
Fire soothes when bad weather is delayed
we campers dearly hate the pouring rain

Rain and wind kill all peace of mind
soft, easy night with fire to thrill
Talk, laughter and joy we always find
fire comforts when the night is still

Overhead sparkles a smooth clear sky
glittering stars dance with our flames
We accept the beauty asking not the why
talk of old friends, honoring their names

Tales of the whale sized fish we caught
hunts where we bagged so much wild game
Such memories can never ever be bought
if they could would never be the same

Come sit with me around the crackling fire
every night camp needs its burning glow
Of Nature's forest exploring I never tire
often with my old faithful dog in tow

Robert J. Lindley , 04-21-2015

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Warning, do not try this at home folks...
Drop your shield and lay open your bare chest for any stab...

A poet friend bet me that I would not write a true account of my philosophy, my wild young life and many mistakes.
Here it is in narrative form , the first of two parts.. --Tyr
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Blinded, by the Light(Part One)


If you can truly find yourself you can be truly happy
if not, well the world will eat you and beat you until you cry no more...
I see most people crying. Me, I ran out of tears and found myself the hard way.

I survived long enough to hear the Nightbird sing, a drunk rooster crow and
the coyote catch that damn roadrunner-in my dreams..
After that a light blinded me and within that blindness came a realization,
that three things are important , God, love and family.
All the rest is window dressing and leftover refried beans with no damn chili's... I hate that!

Every morn that rising sun tells me , get up and be worthy of the air you breathe,
Stand as tall as you can and never look down on a man unless extending a helping hand to him.
To do less is not only lazy but selfish and rude. Find a gift to give somebody, anybody at
least every week if not every day. Does not have to be great , could be as easy as giving kind words
when they are needed.

This all was told to me as a 10 year old by my grandfather. Some of it I picked up on my own after
living a damn wild young life! With too many shallow relationships, broken hearts(including mine often)
and more than a few real scars, all of which I came by honestly.

Now looking at the sunset I see rainbows just beyond the horizon. Each one has a pot of gold..
Methinks I will give that gold away and plant flowers in the pots to give to my wife.
And that folks is the wisdom sent in each ray of that blinding light I was blessed to have found!

Robert. J. Lindley , 04-19-2015

p.s.

Stay tuned in folks. I plan on another shameful confession coming soon..
Starting with my first bout of stealing a kiss from a pretty gal that I loved..
"Ain't life great"?


She had just turned 17 and I had loved her since she was fifteen!
She had long, long dark brown hair, prettier than newborn pups and a smile that melted my heart!
Softest voice in the world and a genuine love for caring for others!
I was a year younger and very shy but we had over that two year time talked often .
I could tell she liked me but I was too afraid to mess it up by going to far too fast.
And there it is folks, the 'ole fear that holds so many back--fear of rejection and/or of messing up
a good thing. When one thinks the treasure is or could be theirs one day they are careful not
to blow things. And often being too damn careful is the culprit that blows it all to hell.

As things progressed(ever so slowly) I noticed this gorgeous girl had no boyfriend and had turned down
cold those that had boldly asked her out ! That had to be a sign , she had somebody else on her mind!
To play it safe I began a long range plan . To get the curious cat I told her I had two big secrets I could
never tell anyone in the world! I brought this up every time we talked and finally she started asking me to tell her!

That was exactly what I wanted yet I played it out a few weeks more. Until finally I knew she was bursting to find out.
My Pandora plan had worked like a charm.She was in a tizzy to find out those secrets!
Then the time came.. We were alone in her backyard, no soul about other than we two. I mentioned my secrets again. She
begged me to please confide in her.

Thats when I did it , tripped the trigger so to speak. I boldly declared it will cost you for me to tell.
Without missing a beat she asked , cost me what?
Eureka! I knew the bait had been taken ! I then very shyly said it is embarrassing for me to say what. She persisted .
I then said , ok, will cost you a kiss! She was surprised but took it in stride. She then said ok, if thats all I'll do it!
But only if you tell me the big secrets. I agreed to that and suddenly she planted a big one right on my lips,
putting a lot into it as she hugged me !
Like finding a pot of gold, I was suddenly a billionaire in love..
Then it came-- what are those secrets?
I smiled and said this, first one is -"I have been desperately wanting to kiss you for two long years"!
She laughed and then asked, and the second secret is?
I came back with this, "and I was wondering if it would as great as I imagined it would be"!
Well, was it she shot back? I could only nod like a red-face young fool.

She was floored methinks. She blushed and then came the sweetest gift of all. She grabbed me and kissed me long and hard!
She then laughed and said, " I have been waiting for you to make the first move for a long, long time. What took you so long"?

Thats when it hit me, fear of losing, fear of rejection sho' makes a lot of people lose out on a lot of time! Time that could have
been put to much better use!

Later that day I apologized for my tricking her into the kissing deal.
She then shocked me by her reply.
"I was sure it was something about you and me, most likely that you wanted for us to be a couple, go steady or yes even kiss.
I played along(--get this folks--) because I did not dare act too fast with you because I did not want to lose a good thing"!
Thats when I found out, when it comes to love , the gals are light-years ahead of we guys yet even they succumb to fear!

Fear can be a good thing but far too often it holds us back. Facing that fear and conquering it should be a well practiced policy
in life. Lucky for me that I later put that all to good use. As I had a great longing to date "almost" every beautiful and sexy gal I met ..
But that story is for another day.

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

I just found this result at my Poetry forum. Not too shabby out of 35+ entries...
Even more so since I very rarely ever write any form of humorous poetry.............--Tyr


Humorous Poetry
Contest Judged: 4/21/2015 12:00:00 AM Information About the Contest
Sponsored by: Thomas Martin
Place Poem Title Poet
Contest Winner Medal 1 The Tooth Fairy's Confession craig cornish
Contest Winner Medal 1 Sunday not Gumday Seren Roberts
Contest Winner Medal 2 My Lucky Dog Surely Has No Fleas Robert Lindley
Contest Winner Medal 2 Mary, Mary Eve Roper
Contest Winner Medal 3 Abundance Debbie Guzzi
Contest Winner Medal 3 SALE CRAZY nette onclaud
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


My Lucky Dog Surely Has No Fleas

My lucky dog surely has no fleas
they all jumped from him onto me
His luck could be quite fetching
were I not so furiously scratching

When he sneezes the cold I get
my lucky dog could win any bet
Good night sleep he is a winner
Gas wakes me, damn chili dinner

Chasing the ladies he is tops
my pick-up lines are all flops
Lucky dog always gets his gal
I waste time drinking with a pal

He has fun chasing the fast cars
if I did that I would have scars
Yes sir, my lucky dog has it made
while I get to write this tirade

Robert J. Lindley, 04-19-2015



Sponsor Thomas Martin
Contest Name Humorous Poetry
Enter Poetry Contest
Deadline 5/18/2015 12:00:00 AM
Note From Sponsor No updates yet...
Contest Description
What to Submit?

1 original, poem on the theme of .humor.............
Any form is acceptable, but no more than 20 lines.
May rhyme or not rhyme. I am not much of a stickler for onprecise forms
or meter as long as the theme of the poem is not affected.

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Just blasted this one out this morn. A new contest sponsor offered a contest on anything romantic , must rhyme , must be new and be 40 verses or less.
I thought, hmmmm, lets see if I can blast one this morn.. I came up with this. The play is between moon, moon goddess and a real woman. As everybody knows the moon equals Love..
You may notice that I did not go all sappy on this. And thats because there will be at least 30/40 of that kind in the contest. I tried to hit a higher mark , plus I am not really into that unless I am writing a real love poem to my wife.-Tyr




The Moon Goddess


There you are, among the bold stars shining,
this bouquet of love for you I am holding.
That is me reaching up to touch your face,
this sweet moment my love-heart does so race.

I see your sexy, tan legs streaming on down,
the gold in your hair and the purple gown.
Beautiful vision, a feast for any lonely man,
chasing your heart, will win it if I can.

As you arrive upon earth to dance tonight,
I will adore you and treat you to any delight.
Your beautiful grace is such a heavenly sight,
our love grows everything becomes just right.

I love the shine of your long golden hair,
excuse me darling, I can not help but stare.
Fantastic image of your body so hotly divine,
my greatest prayer is that you will be mine.

So sad that our time tonight is now ending,
I promise, every night we will be spending!
Each dance as you move with that bright light,
your love my joy wedding each and every night.

There you are, among the bold stars shining,
this bouquet of love for you I am holding.
That is me reaching up to touch your face,
this sweet moment my love-heart does so race.

Robert J. Lindley, 04-23-2015

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Began my study of this poet.. He was a rebel and an adventurer........-Tyr




http://famouspoetsandpoems.com

When he was not yet 17, Arthur Rimbaud (1854-91) electrified Paris's literary society with the incendiary poems that later made him the guiding saint of 20th-century rebels, from Pablo Picasso to Jim Morrison. "A Season in Hell," "The Drunken Boat," and the prose poems of Illuminations were epochal works that changed the nature of an art form--and yet their author abandoned poetry at age 21 and spent the rest of his short life as a colonial adventurer in Arabia and Africa. "He was writing in a void," explains British scholar Graham Robb. "In 1876, most of Rimbaud's admirers either were still in the nursery or had yet to be conceived." Hardly surprising, since the poet was a difficult and frequently unpleasant person to actually know. The Parisian poets who took him under their wing soon discovered that Rimbaud was ungrateful, crude, and as scornful of their precious verse as he was of the Catholic Church, bourgeois proprieties, and everything else his disapproving mother held dear. Rimbaud's stormy affair with Paul Verlaine estranged the older poet from his wife and, eventually, from most of his artistic friends as well. In Robb's depiction, the poet possessed from his earliest youth a restless, searching intellect that permitted no compromise with convention nor tenderness for others' weaknesses. The author doesn't soften Rimbaud's "savage cynicism" or gloss over his frequently obnoxious behavior, yet Robb arouses our admiration for "one of the great Romantic imaginations, festering in damp, provincial rooms like an intelligent disease." Like Robb's excellent biographies of Hugo and Balzac, this sharp, subtle, unsentimental portrait is both erudite and beautifully written. - Wendy Smith


Dance of the Hanged Men


On the black gallows, one-armed friend,
The paladins are dancing, dancing
The lean, the devil's paladins
The skeletons of Saladins.

Sir Beelzebub pulls by the scruff
His little black puppets who grin at the sky,
And with a backhander in the head like a kick,
Makes them dance, dance, to an old Carol-tune!

And the puppets, shaken about, entwine their thin arms:
Their breasts pierced with light, like black organ-pipes
Which once gentle ladies pressed to their own,
Jostle together protractedly in hideous love-making.

Hurray! the gay dancers, you whose bellies are gone!
You can cut capers on such a long stage!
Hop! never mind whether it's fighting or dancing!
- Beelzebub, maddened, saws on his fiddles!

Oh the hard heels, no one's pumps are wearing out!
And nearly all have taken of their shirts of skin;
The rest is not embarrassing and can be seen without shame.
On each skull the snow places a white hat:

The crow acts as a plume for these cracked brains,
A scrap of flesh clings to each lean chin:
You would say, to see them turning in their dark combats,
They were stiff knights clashing pasteboard armours.

Hurrah! the wind whistles at the skeletons' grand ball!
The black gallows moans like an organ of iron !
The wolves howl back from the violet forests:
And on the horizon the sky is hell-red...

Ho there, shake up those funereal braggarts,
Craftily telling with their great broken fingers
The beads of their loves on their pale vertebrae:
Hey the departed, this is no monastery here!

Oh! but see how from the middle of this Dance of Death
Springs into the red sky a great skeleton, mad,
Carried away by his own impetus, like a rearing horse:
And, feeling the rope tight again round his neck,

Clenches his knuckles on his thighbone with a crack
Uttering cries like mocking laughter,
And then like a mountebank into his booth,
Skips back into the dance to the music of the bones!

On the black gallows, one-armed friend,
The paladins are dancing, dancing
The lean, the devil's paladins
The skeletons of Saladins.

- As translated by Oliver Bernard: Arthur Rimbaud, Collected Poems (1962)
-----------------------------------

Au gibet noir, manchot aimable,
Dansent, dansent les paladins,
Les maigres paladins du diable,
Les squelettes de Saladins.

Messire Belzébuth tire par la cravate
Ses petits pantins noirs grimaçant sur le ciel,
Et, leur claquant au front un revers de savate,
Les fait danser, danser aux sons d'un vieux Noël !

Et les pantins choqués enlacent leurs bras grêles :
Comme des orgues noirs, les poitrines à jour
Que serraient autrefois les gentes damoiselles,
Se heurtent longuement dans un hideux amour.

Hurrah ! les gais danseurs qui n'avez plus de panse !
On peut cabrioler, les tréteaux sont si longs !
Hop ! qu'on ne cache plus si c'est bataille ou danse !
Belzébuth enragé racle ses violons !

O durs talons, jamais on n'use sa sandale !
Presque tous ont quitté la chemise de peau ;
Le reste est peu gênant et se voit sans scandale.
Sur les crânes, la neige applique un blanc chapeau :

Le corbeau fait panache à ces têtes fêlées,
Un morceau de chair tremble à leur maigre menton :
On dirait, tournoyant dans les sombres mêlées,
Des preux, raides, heurtant armures de carton.

Hurrah ! la bise siffle au grand bal des squelettes !
Le gibet noir mugit comme un orgue de fer !
Les loups vont répondant des forêts violettes :
À l'horizon, le ciel est d'un rouge d'enfer...

Holà, secouez-moi ces capitans funèbres
Qui défilent, sournois, de leurs gros doigts cassés
Un chapelet d'amour sur leurs pâles vertèbres :
Ce n'est pas un moustier ici, les trépassés !

Oh ! voilà qu'au milieu de la danse macabre
Bondit dans le ciel rouge un grand squelette fou
Emporté par l'élan, comme un cheval se cabre :
Et, se sentant encor la corde raide au cou,

Crispe ses petits doigts sur son fémur qui craque
Avec des cris pareils à des ricanements,
Et, comme un baladin rentre dans la baraque,
Rebondit dans le bal au chant des ossements.

Au gibet noir, manchot aimable,
Dansent, dansent les paladins,
Les maigres paladins du diable,
Les squelettes de Saladins.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


http://www.mag4.net/Rimbaud/poesies/Dance.html


The Cheated Heart

My poor heart dribbles at the stern
My heart covered with caporal
They squirt upon it jets of soup
My poor heart dribbles at the stern
Under the gibes of the whole crew
Which burst out in a single laugh,
My poor heart dribbles at the stern
My heart covered with caporal.

Ithypallic, erkish, lewd,
Their gibes have corrupted it.
In the wheelhouse you can see graffiti*
Ithypallic, erkish, lewd.
O abracadantic waves
Take my heart that it may be cleansed!
Ithypallic, erkish, lewd,
Their gibes have corrupted it.

When they have finished chewing their quids
What shall we do, o cheated heart?
It will be bacchic hiccups then
When they have finished chewing their quids
I shall have stomach heavings then
I can swallow down my heart:
When they have finished chewing their quids
What shall we do, o cheated heart?

May 1871.
-------------------------------------------------

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Dreams, Battles and Waking To Rejoice


Times that my mind wakes to take flight
flying away in spheres of magical dreams
So often are near hour of black midnight
when dark powers dance with their schemes

A journey into the devil's unholy realm
to battle the hordes of his evil beasts
Flying blind with no master at the helm
slaying engorging demons at their feasts

Girded with truth's invincible shield
long sword of bravery in my right hand
Solemn vow to die before I ever yield
cutting out the heart of Lucifer's band

Every battle goes on in a nip and tuck
slaying the filthy beasts left and right
Always my feet seem to get me stuck
as daylight rises to defeat dark of night

Times that my spirit chooses to wake
victory is rewarded for valorous deeds
I rejoice deeply for goodness sake
as God's truth met my fighting needs

Robert J. Lindley

04-21-2015

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Keith Douglas (January 24, 1920 - June 9, 1944), was an English poet of World War II.

He was born in Tunbridge Wells, Kent, and educated at Christ's Hospital and at the University of Oxford. He had a difficult childhood, his father deserting the family when Douglas was at preparatory school and his mother unwell for long periods. In one of his letters written in 1940 he looks back on his childhood: 'I lived alone during the most fluid and formative years of my life, and during that time I lived on my imagination, which was so powerful as to persuade me that the things I imagined would come true'. Within days of the declaration of war he had reported to an army office with the intention of joining a cavalry regiment. Like many others keen to serve he had to wait and it was not until July 1940 that he started his training. On the 1st February 1941 he passed out from Sandhurst, the officer training school, and was posted to the Second Derbyshire Yeomanry at Ripon. He fought in North Africa in 1941. In 1944, he took part in the D-Day invasion of Normandy, in the course of which he was killed.


How To Kill
by Keith Douglas

Under the parabola of a ball,
a child turning into a man,
I looked into the air too long.
The ball fell in my hand, it sang
in the closed fist: Open Open
Behold a gift designed to kill.

Now in my dial of glass appears
the soldier who is going to die.
He smiles, and moves about in ways
his mother knows, habits of his.
The wires touch his face: I cry
NOW. Death, like a familiar, hears


And look, has made a man of dust
of a man of flesh. This sorcery
I do. Being damned, I am amused
to see the centre of love diffused
and the wave of love travel into vacancy.
How easy it is to make a ghost.


The weightless mosquito touches
her tiny shadow on the stone,
and with how like, how infinite
a lightness, man and shadow meet.
They fuse. A shadow is a man
when the mosquito death approaches
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


Such depth to this write and speaks volumes about the inner workings of the human mind while engaged
in war and facing death to do ones duty!
People reject the answer thus war exists !
Yet the answer can only solve all when its accepted by ALL...--Tyr

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Inspired by the poem , How To Kill , by Keith Douglas....
This is my tribute to that man, that poet, that soldier , that fallen hero, that thinker....--Tyr




Once Touched All Time Stands Still


Death again, the glorious symphony
mortal man has found his destiny
Once touched all time stands still
darkest hand exists only to kill


Spring, the time of earth's seeds
man rots helplessly in his needs
A few souls live in blessed relief
resting within their holy belief

Summer, life races into high gear
Sun shines, man has very little fear
His life is like a smoothed stone
Harshness seen only after he is gone

Fall, seeds planted for fair or ill
man still imposing his evil will
The stone moans with its new cracks
coldness coming with its attacks

Winter, the season so damn unfair
darkness coming fast from everywhere
Death trumpets its arrival with cold
man meets Fate, be he young or old

Death again, the glorious symphony
mortal man has found his destiny
Once touched all time stands still
darkest hand exists only to kill

Robert J. Lindley, 04-25-2015

Note: The Hand of Fate and the dark Hand of Death both
travel with man as giver of fruits from his bitter harvest.

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

New poem , written this morn for a contest. Based very loosely upon my poem titled , A Golden Steed Gallops.
Hope you may enjoy this one....-Tyr


The White Stallion Arrives


The White horse came in so very fast
with purpose and great deeds to last
Arriving in a spirited tour de force
evil alerted, took notice of course

Sitting upon its huge, stalwart back
knight ready for any vicious attack
Dark forces were quickly sent to meet
the fighters to engage and deadly greet

Stallion knew the lay of the land
also the power of the warrior's hand
Racing to meet dark and deadly foes
with courage only the brave knows

Warrior with sword of truth in hand
slew hundreds in the dark demon band
The charging stallion knew his job
slay those whose aim was to soul rob

As the enemy lay in forced disarray
the white stallion reared up to bray
A signal he was in tune with his knight
that he knew victory was soon in sight

When the last dark beast met its fate
sun was about to rise and not to late
The knight planted the victory flag
as he slew the last flying demonic hag

As sun and its glow lit the waiting sky
White stallion flew into the bye and bye
Echoes blasted back a victorious sound
promising Hope would always be around

Robert J. Lindley, 04-25-2015

[LongTermGuy]

Dreams, Battles and Waking To Rejoice


Times that my mind wakes to take flight
flying away in spheres of magical dreams
So often are near hour of black midnight
when dark powers dance with their schemes

A journey into the devil's unholy realm
to battle the hordes of his evil beasts
Flying blind with no master at the helm
slaying engorging demons at their feasts

Girded with truth's invincible shield
long sword of bravery in my right hand
Solemn vow to die before I ever yield
cutting out the heart of Lucifer's band

Every battle goes on in a nip and tuck
slaying the filthy beasts left and right
Always my feet seem to get me stuck
as daylight rises to defeat dark of night

Times that my spirit chooses to wake
victory is rewarded for valorous deeds
I rejoice deeply for goodness sake
as God's truth met my fighting needs

Robert J. Lindley

04-21-2015



`....I like this one Tyr...very good....

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Just finished another contest poem. This contest has some unusual requirements but the sponsor is a great poetess and a honorable judge so I decided to bite. I had to edit my poem to fit said restrictions.. still it came out well methinks.. -Tyr


Father's Advice On Being A Man
("For Adult Contest")

Father said to son never be ashamed to be a man,
should you get married, live your life with a plan.
Not too harsh or rigid, else failure you will see,
be a good decent man, the one you admire in me.

Life can be so very cruel, the world can be too,
live deeply as you love, loving family as we do.
You see, it is the responsibility to be as good
as your life will permit and you know you should.

Never be ashamed for the world to see you cry,
cry for joy, as life does go on even after you die.
Write your core principles deep into solid stone,
for there are no overs after we are passed on.

Know that love is truly the great tie that binds,
watch whom you embrace, the world has all kinds.
Mothers are to be held in a very special embrace,
with love in your heart and a smile on your face.

If life ever gives you far more than you can bear
ask family to help, just you remember to share.
Remember the love coming from Mother and I,
walk a good path in this world and know the why.

Robert J. Lindley April 25, 2015

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Had to crank out a sonnet today. Sometimes I miss doing them.
This one was written from a pleasant memory of a day spent with Nature just to recharge my batteries...--Tyr




Gentle Wind Sonnet


East wind blew this far south today
gusts that soothed my weary soul
There at my sweet spot on the bay
sitting there in tree filled knoll

Songbirds singing to Spring's step
a melody of sun's splashing light
Beauty so fantastic I openly wept
dreading days ending into the night

Blossoms giving that fragrant smell
jostling branches right in tune
As if the earth rejoices to tell
fair weather right on into mid-June

Wind gusts that eased my old pains
gentle ones bringing no hard rains!

Robert J. Lindley, 04-25-2015

Note: syllable count is totally ignored with this sonnet and I plan on no editing to meet such a requirement.
Not for any poetry contest, so why mess it up as it came out great IMHO.
Most poets say sonnets are very hard to write but to me they are by far the easiest form ..
Most of my first place wins in contests have been with sonnets. -Tyr

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Another sonnet. This one is for a contest and will post it here first as I have been doing the majority of my contest entries.
Have yet to proof it ..

Fairest Summer Weather, O' What A Boon

After the dawn of the summer light
emerges rise of a sweet summer day
Early birds take food hunting flight
enjoying this weather in a cool May

Sunny rays warm up my tired bones
trekking into the morning delights
Soft breeze, sets pleasant tones
as I look down from lofty heights

Earth and Sun,team by grand design
to supply the wants of this man
Natures wonders awe me, I do opine
while magically enjoying all I can

Fairest summer weather, O' what a boon!
Grab all you can, it ends far too soon!

Robert J. Lindley, 04-26-2015

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Lament Of A Former Dark Soul

I was: once darken shadow of a real man
Those I met soon found me so very bad
Like false gold in a rusty, shallow pan
Time eventually revealed me an evil cad

I was: the partaker of my own laments
A demon hellbent on satisfying my lust
Broken down, scarred covered in dents
Charming for sure but not one to trust

I was: a mist that wraps and engages
Smooth talker, master of the love arts
A dark, evil force when in my rages
Ripping many kind, loving hearts apart

I am: now an angel that found the Light
A prayer offered, the blessing found me
Seeking truth and mercy, all thats right
Away from darkness my soul did then flee

I am: a voice that cries to be so kind
Once wretched spirit giving out pain
Light brought truth invading my mind
That darkness, never shall return again

I was: once darken shadow of a real man
Those I met soon found me so very bad
Like false gold in a rusty, shallow pan
Time eventually revealed me an evil cad

Robert J. Lindley, 04-27-2015

Note : A sinner was I. Not as bad as my write portrays(poetic leeway) but
bad enough to see my former self in true light.
Don't blame me, my muse forced this one out of me!
I hope I did not shatter any images of my kind, and generous
self... :laugh:

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Weep For Your Sweet Hand


I weep for your sweet hand to be mine
if only your enticing lips gave a sign
Sun rise, I wake only to think of you
yet you baby, never give me that cue

I weep for your sweet hand to be mine
your curves and my motor do so fine
Each night, my dreams wrap me in you
yet you my darling, have not a clue

I weep for your sweet hand to be mine
to just touch you my heart does pine
You give, my soul a reason to believe
yet you baby, my love can not conceive

I weep for your sweet hand to be mine
my prayer, cries love you in every line

04-27-2015
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Contest:

Catie Lindsey
Contest Name Not Your Average Ballade , may be any subject but romance and dark seem best to use in this form.
Date only-- no names, other details are on the contest page.

Note: Form- Ballade, my change was to repeat the first rather than the last line.
And third verse each stanza the combined first four words forms this verse
Sun rise I wake,(and) each night my dreams, you give my soul , my prayer cries love

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Up late, had to do a major rewrite. First poem was good but too short. Looked like a converted sonnet.
Poet friend pointed out the other entries were all much longer, a ballade are not that short..
I used the entirety of the first draft just added more verses. Came out very good methinks.

Quite a striking difference it seems.. -Tyr




Weeping For Your Sweet Hand

I weep for your sweet hand to be mine
if only your enticing lips gave a sign
Sun rise, I wake only to think of you
yet you baby, never give me that cue
I weep for your sweet hand to be mine
your curves and my motor do so fine
Each night, my dreams wrap me in you
yet you my darling, have not a clue

I weep for your sweet hand to be mine
to just touch you my heart does pine
You give, my soul a reason to believe
yet you baby, my love can not conceive
Shall I plead my case on bended knees
Buy a huge mansion give you the keys
Spend millions on even more treasure
steal the night stars to gift you pleasure

I weep for your sweet hand to be mine
my prayer, cries love you in every line
Hear me cry, a desperate would be lover
my hot desires, beauty you may discover
Baby, let me stroke your every desire
burn this world down, lighting that fire
Burn the flames hotter than any candle
I have so much, more than you can handle

I weep for your sweet hand to be mine
a night of dancing, roses and red wine
This big world, yours just for the asking
In your light, my love shall be basking

04-27-2015

Contest:

Catie Lindsey
Contest Name Not Your Average Ballade

Note: Form- Ballade, my change was to repeat the first rather than the last line.

************************************************** ************************************************** ************************************************** ************************************************** ************************************************** ************************************************** ************************************************** ************************************************** ************************************************** ******




First draft....


Weep For Your Sweet Hand


I weep for your sweet hand to be mine
if only your enticing lips gave a sign
Sun rise, I wake only to think of you
yet you baby, never give me that cue

I weep for your sweet hand to be mine
your curves and my motor do so fine
Each night, my dreams wrap me in you
yet you my darling, have not a clue

I weep for your sweet hand to be mine
to just touch you my heart does pine
You give, my soul a reason to believe
yet you baby, my love can not conceive

I weep for your sweet hand to be mine
my prayer, cries love you in every line

04-27-2015
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Contest:

Catie Lindsey
Contest Name Not Your Average Ballade , may be any subject but romance and dark seem best to use in this form.
Date only-- no names, other details are on the contest page.

Note: Form- Ballade, my change was to repeat the first rather than the last line.
And third verse each stanza the combined first four words forms this verse
Sun rise I wake,(and) each night my dreams, you give my soul , my prayer cries love

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Lonesome Moan, Breaks The Night


Anguished cry, of a broken heart
doesn't beat, simply can not eat
Useless cry, of a broken lost soul
hopes no more, sees death's door

Desperate moan, voiced in despair
cuts so deep, bleeds as it weeps
Lonesome moan, breaks the night
covered in hurt, nasty as dirt

Broken promise, drowned in pain
burns so hot, heart has been shot
Hateful curse, holds no damn hope
eating up the soul, black as coal

Robert J. Lindley, 04-28-2015

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

This Blessing, Angel That Was Sent

Past bridges he burned to the sky
past trails he wanted no more
She, the angel was the reason why
he wanted to close every past door

Never intending to get this deep
found he the sweetest little thing
Pray he, her heart to always keep
no more with any one night fling

She that put a spring in his step
visions of her in his every dream
Her love so great he openly wept
together they were the perfect team

Sun, moon and stars all were pale
as her glow found his loving eyes
Past sins, he never dared to tell
pray he that he never have to lie

This blessing, angel that was sent
his redemption found in her grace
Her true love for him was meant
to heal him of his past disgrace

Heaven, he never thought to gain
now that promise seared his mind
Gone were days of the darkest stain
saw her, never again was he blind

Angels sang with joy as they eloped
she shining with her fantastic smile
This treasure all he had ever hoped
beauty, grace and dressed in style

Past bridges he burned to the sky
of past trails he wanted no more
She, the angel was the reason why
he wanted to close every past door

Robert J. Lindley , 04-28-2015

Note: This poem was written long ago, in my private journal. Dated for today as that is its first public posting.. (original date May 25th, 2004)
Decided to share it here since I am likely to enter it in a new contest being offered at my poetry site.
Only the second poem from those I keep private that I've ever offered publicly. Hope you may enjoy it..... -Tyr

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Giorgio A. V. Poems


The Ship - long version


When the foretelling dusk arose immense,
magnanimous the skylines sent the ship,
its ebon sight to boss the thoughts and sense
of sailors that imagined its long trip.

The Northern wind was cutting like a knife,
and hurtful were the messages it howled,
equilibrating on the brink of life
of the begone to seas, the thinking prowled.

The ship's black smoke ascended to the skies
from supercilious tall funnels, smog,
bestowing sacrificial offing size
to sovereign Gods that lived inside the fog.

The tidal and enshrouding ocean spills,
advanced the dusk, advanced the bawling horn's
unworldly calling up and splashing rills,
resembling the acuteness of thorns.

In front of us, the ship's displacement thrilled
approaching hence, magnificent the moors;
Her Soul, the Sea, and eulogy that killed,
relentlessly enticed through dark allures.

Pristine the sea, baptized the scene
in depths where souls abide in sunken rusted keels;
deceptive was the reasoning our septs
instilled where our catastrophe conceals.

The night descended when the ship's steel gaze
examined curious and measured me,
proposing wedlock and a fate of blaze,
my competence, demanding, in the sea.

Across the Straits, young Lady Sadness kissed
with ripping cold my twenty years and eyes,
resembling Her Soul, the Sea, amidst
the Northern winds that howled and life's demise.

© 10-15-2013, G. Venetopoulos, All Rights Reserved
(Iambic Pentameter)
--------------------------------------------------

Smoke (Charades)

Abaft the weather bent the time
around the ship, transmitting yore
its smoke that rose on airy climb,
to ebonize the air and shore.

The fume was rising from the two
tall funnels covering its shape
with darkened soot, while dead its crew
was calling us behind its drape.

The smoke was dancing back and forth
persuading us to move and sway;
Ironic shined the star of North
reluctant breeze slid down the brae.

We thought it was the ship's horn or
three sailor ghosts that danced charades,
behind the smoke, our nightly chore
performed the mimes, outside of Hades.

As smoke was covering the land,
some scattered lights that blink'd and cried,
diffused away at its demand
until forgotten, sank and died.

We followed thence, the engines' chug
to dance around two skyward lines
where hung the ship's torn island flag
and our charades that drowned in brines.

© 10-14-2013, G. Venetopoulos, All Rights Reserved
(Iambic Tetrameter)
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Great examples of current poetry written in (Iambic Pentameter) and (Iambic Tetrameter)...........
My good friend and fellow poet Giorgi Venetopoulos kindly gave his permission for me to post both poems here.

First poem floored me when first I read it this morn. Ending stanza pure brilliance IMHO..
Giorgi kindly offered the second one to use as an example of (Iambic Tetrameter)...--Tyr

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

I had great fun writing this one..... hope you may enjoy it..-Tyr



The Old Prospector, The Crazy Old Fool

Folks said that nasty fool is a damn old bat
times the bastard knows not where he is at
Rumor is he lives in shame for murdering a man
eats lizards and snakes, drinks from rusty can

He eats snails, claiming it slows his pain
wore a sombrero, his umbrella for the rain
Chewed on his grubby food lightning fast
swore hell was his garden if it only last

Claimed he slept on a pleasant cactus bed
had genius ideas always running in his head
Knew the earth was only alien hunting ground
had hid every strange thing he ever found

On cold nights slept naked as he could be
swore it put better leaves on his tree
Always used a large rock for his pillow
ate boiled bark from his weeping willow

When asked how he knew this earth was flat
said, if were round I not be where I am at
Kept a rattle snake for his waking alarm
declared it to be a friend doing him no harm

Yet when he passed on they soon did find
not all was crazy as all hell in his mind
For hidden under his massive cactus bed
buried deep were 700 bars not of lead

Gold this old timer had been finding there
his crazy act was to keep all thieves unaware
Gold mine hidden underneath his shabby shack
tunnel underground to rocky hill outback

Lawyers found that he had a grandson at Yale
claimed to be an orphan was his tale tale
He had paid that boy's way into a great life
making sure the kid experienced no strife

His hoard tallied out to be five million bucks
mine still producing hauled out by trucks
Town-folks all were shocked and so damn amazed
this old man they had thought to be so crazed

In his will he left a note for his tombstone,
Hell with you fools, my old tired ass is gone!
I had fun seeing what dumbasses you all were
my trick playing you ALL caused a big stir

Grandson put the biggest tombstone on his grave
wrote a best selling book on how gramps gave
Exposed the bias of the arrogant fools in town
folks laughed so hard they couldn't put it down!

Robert J. Lindley


Note: Poem is loosely written on the life of an old man about my home-town, called "Crazy Jim".
One day, I talked to crazy Jim, he stopped acting crazy walked about town with me a teenager explaining all about the
places and people for the last 40 years there. Not a single crazy word did the man utter.
As we arrived back where our walk started he shook my hand and said, son I knew your dad well, he was an honest man, a good man.
Then he walked off jabbering, back into his act...
Later when I told people about it all -none of them believed me...
I learned that people will absolutely refuse to accept when they've been played for fools. Will prefer to keep believing the lie.. -Tyr

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/poets/ralph_waldo_emerson/biography

RALPH WALDO EMERSON, the most original of American philosophers and essayists, was born in Boston, Massachusetts, May 25, 1803, and he died at Concord, in his native State, April 27, 1882.

His father was a Unitarian minister, and the boy was trained for the same profession. Emerson entered Harvard University at the age of fourteen and graduated at eighteen. He was ordained minister of a Boston Unitarian congregation in 1829, but changes in his religious views led to his resignation of his charge in 1832.

In 1833 he visited England, where he spent a year, then returned and lived a quiet, retired life at Concord, Massachusetts.

His pen first attracted attention in 1837, through two orations entitled `Nature and Man Thinking," delivered before the Phi Beta Kappa Society at Cambridge. In 1838 appeared his "Address to the Senior Class in Divinity College, Cambridge," also "Literary Ethics," an oration. In 1841 he brought out "The Method of Nature," "Man the Reformer," the first series of his `Essays," and several lectures; 1844, "Young America," and the second series of "Essays."



For four years, from 1840 to 1844, Mr. Emerson was associated with Margaret Fuller, Countess d'Ossoli, in conducting a literary journal, entitled `The Dial;" and on the death of the Countess, he joined with Mr. W. H. Canning in writing a memoir of that learned and remarkable woman, which was published in 1852. In 1846 he brought out a volume of poetry. In 1848 he revisited England and delivered a course of lectures in Exeter Hall, London. "The logicians have an incessant triumph over him," said Harriet Martineau, "but their triumph is of no avail; he conquers minds as well as hearts." In the succeeding year he delivered another course of lectures upon "Representative Men." These lectures are considered among the greatest of his works. In 1856 appeared "English Traits;" 1860, "The Conduct of Life;" 1865, an "Oration on the Death of President Lincoln;" 1870, "Society and Solitude," twelve essays; 1875, "Parnassus," "Selected Poems," and a volume of "Essays." In 1866 Harvard College conferred upon Mr. Emerson the degree of LL.D.

For profound and original thought he has but few equals and perhaps To superiors. He is known as the American Carlyle. No man has made greater or more lasting impression upon the literature of the age than has he great American essayist and poet.

It is impossible not to be refreshed and gratified by Emerson's prose; but perhaps his poetry more completely carries the reader with it, as being a higher and purer production of genius. The best passages of it are indeed is unmitigated poetry as ever was written; they are poetry down to the last syllable; they are verses which, as he himself expresses it, seem to be found not made. Their meaning is as intimately connected with their form as sound with speech. The mystic obscurity of some of the poems, however, and he unfamiliar subjects treated, have discouraged or repelled many from the study of any of them. In reading poetry the mood and the point of view of the poet must be caught, otherwise all is in vain. Emerson's point of view is so far from being conventional or obvious, and is, besides, so lofty and abstract, that the careless and hasty glance of the general reader cannot be expected to apprehend it. Yet such lines as those which compose the poem called "Forerunners," (to select an instance) cannot be paralleled by any contemporary poet; they even recall, in elevation of motive and sustained beauty of symbolic expression, Shakespeare's matchless sonnet which begins, "Let me not to the marriage of true minds," etc. Every word tells, and there is a grand space and breathing room around every word. The movement of the verse is pliant and varied; the choice of words is felicitous and naive, and there are kindlings of imagination worthy of the greatest masters.

Emerson was a fearless critic, and such men as Longfellow, Lowell, Holmes and Whittier, were never offended at his apparent severity in reviewing their writings. He was rarely assailed for his criticisms. Speaking of the magical suggestiveness of Shakespeare's expression, he said: "The recitation begins; one golden word leaps out immortal from all this painted pedantry, and sweetly torments us with invitations to its own inaccessible homes." The scholarly critic and essayist, E. P. Whipple, thus writes of Emerson: "After his return from his second visit to England, in 1847, I had a natural wish to learn his impressions of the distinguished men he had met. His judgment of Tennyson was this, that he was the most `satisfying' of the men of letters he had seen. He witnessed one of Macaulay's brilliant feats in conversation at a dinner where Hallam was one of the guests. The talk was on the question whether the `additional letters' of Oliver Cromwell, lately published by Carlyle, were spurious or genuine. `For my part,' said Emerson, `the suspicious fact about them was this, that they all seemed written to sustain Mr. Carlyle's view of Cromwell's character. But the discussion turned on the external evidences of their being forgeries. Macaulay overcame everybody at the table, including Hallam, by pouring out with victorious volubility instances of the use of words in a different meaning from that they bore in Cromwell's time, or by citing words which were not in use at all until half a century later. A question which might have been settled in a few minutes by the consent of a few men of insight opened a tiresome controversy which lasted during the whole dinner. Macaulay seemed to have the best of it; still I did not like the arrogance with which he paraded his minute information; but then there was a fire, a speed, fury, talent, and effrontery in the fellow which were very taking.'"

When Emerson, on his return, made in his "English Traits" his short, contemptuous criticism on Macaulay as a writer, representing the material rather than the spiritual interests of England, it is evident that the verbal bullet hit the object at which it was aimed in the white. "The brilliant Macaulay, who expresses the tone of the English governing classes of the day, explicitly teaches that good means good to eat, good to wear, material commodity; that the glory of modern philosophy is its direction or `fruit,' to yield economical inventions, and that its merit is to avoid ideas and to avoid morals. He thinks it the distinctive merit of the Baconian philosophy, in its triumph over the old Platonic, its disentangling the intellect from theories of the all-Fair, and the all-Good, and pinning it down to the making a better sick-chair and a better wine-whey for an invalid; this not ironically, but in good faith; that `solid advantage,' as he calls it--meaning always sensual benefit--is the only good." This criticism, though keen, is undoubtedly one-sided. Macaulay felt it. In the height of his fame, in January, 1850, he writes in his diary: "Many readers give credit for profundity to whatever is obscure, and call all that is perspicuous shallow. But coragio! and think of A. D. 2850. Where will your Emersons be then?" Well, it may be confidently predicted, they will at least march abreast of the Macaulays.

His works are translated into all the languages of Europe, and are read by thinkers and scholars all over the world. The thinking portion of society will always treasure up the memory and the works of "the sage of Concord."

Two Rivers by Ralph Waldo Emerson
Thy summer voice, Musketaquit,
Repeats the music of the rain;
But sweeter rivers pulsing flit
Through thee, as thou through the Concord Plain.
Thou in thy narrow banks art pent:
The stream I love unbounded goes
Through flood and sea and firmament;
Through light, through life, it forward flows.

I see the inundation sweet,
I hear the spending of the steam
Through years, through men, through Nature fleet,
Through love and thought, through power and dream.

Musketaquit, a goblin strong,
Of shard and flint makes jewels gay;
They lose their grief who hear his song,
And where he winds is the day of day.

So forth and brighter fares my stream,--
Who drink it shall not thirst again;
No darkness taints its equal gleam,
And ages drop in it like rain.
------------------------------------------------
Emerson criticized those poets slavish to form, that worshipped manners over matters!
I too, hold to this philosophy. As the message and inspiration in any poem should always trump the
slavish homage paid to perfection of form!
My rebellion in this matter has cost me several wins in poetry contests.
Yet, I yield not , to those that are so damn desperately in the wrong!
A principle that I refuse to tarnish by temporary convenience and sought after victory.
A man must stand for principle over that of ego every damn time... -Tyr

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Poem written for a contest. Loosely based upon a past experience back when I was 22 years old.
No bad physical pain can hurt more that a heart totally broken over the loss of a deep love IMHO.
And I have had several of each in my long life and wild days.. -Tyr



Broken Trust, Dying Of Love


Baby, nobody came when I cried out for you
if I were a lawyer maybe I would just sue
if a doctor, would heal my sad heart too
Nobody came baby, when my hot tears fell
this 'ole world has completely gone to hell
they say the sun is shining but I can not tell

Baby, nobody came, what the hell do I do
Oh my sweet darlin', what shall I ever do
Crying in my cereal, tears falling in my tea
baby, this damn hurtin', is all over me

I miss your lovin', that was so damn good
I'd crawl back to you, if only I ever could
prayin' you will come back, if only you would
Watched you leave, be damned if I know why
this damn hurtin' makes my soul want to die
tears are fallin' like raindrops from the sky

Taking my medicine, out back on the patio
drinking my whiskey, with Petty on the radio
my livin' without you, so damn sad you know
saddest sight I ever saw, was watching you go

I remember your touch, each and every kiss
Baby, thats the pain in what I so dearly miss

Darlin', I forgive you every lie you ever told
if only you'd return here for me just to hold
we can forgive each other, never again scold
Hurtin' all over me, has me in such despair
got me starving to death, whiting in my hair
return to my love and end this eternal scare

Baby, you broke my heart, shattered my mind
got me drinkin' whiskey, the strongest kind
Darlin', you got me crying all the damn time
writing all of this pain out in sad poetic rhyme

Still nobody comes, as I scream out your name
come on back, on me place all the damn blame
Without your sweet love, nothing is the same
baby move back in, my wild ways you did so tame

O' Baby, baby, I simply have to tell you this
Every damn good thing about you is what I miss!

Robert J. Lindley

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

I am going to post this one at my Poetry site later today. Talk about a damn sh!tstorm, just wait until that 90% liberal gaggle of geese read this! I will lose about two-thirds of the poets that call me a friend there. I do not care, I am sick of this crap, this government and the damn lying media.
Besides a dose of TRUTH, will do them good to have to swallow methinks.- :laugh:
As my old Marine buddy used to say, "ffkk 'em, feed 'em fishheads"!! -- :laugh:--Tyr



Taxed Too Damn Much Already


Go ahead, shoot the sh!t, "shooooot tha breeze"
so long as your dumbass isn't shooting at me
I know your damn kind, stupid and lazy as hell
try to hide it, but anybody truly looking can tell

You cry the world sucks, you can't make alivin'
while you live it up on others that are agivin'
I know, been aslavin' to pay it for forty years
my workin' family taxed so bad, almost in tears

Don't look at me working as an easy nine to five
I work twelve hour days to keep my family alive
I know, you worms want it now, just can not wait
working the hell out of us just to pay your freight

You moan and cry how you got it so damn rough
try working sixty hours every week, thats truly tough
Makes me sick to read how much you bellow and moan
be a bitch we when we workers are all dead and gone

Media lies and so damn foolishly toots your horn
lying about your worries since the day you were born
When so many haven't worked a day in their life
yet cry and moan about all their worries and strife

Go ahead, shoot the sh!t, "shooooot tha breeze"
so long as your dumbass isn't shooting at me
I know your damn kind, stupid and lazy as hell
try to hide it, but anybody looking can tell
Know this, this man knows how to shoot back too
harm my family, that is just what I will do!

Robert J. Lindley, 05-02-2015

Note: Taxed too damn much already!
I've worked for over forty years and will likely die while getting
far less back than some of these lazy bums draw from the government freebie
programs in a year.
Some of these damn vote buying freebie programs have got stop !

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Here are my current stats at my Poetry site.
Posting here to show how they will be affected by this latest poem speaking the cold hard TRUTH will get me castigated and punished by the so-called tolerant liberals there. -Tyr
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Total Community Points: 61615
# Poems Posted 528
# Unique Comments Made * 3322
# Blog Comments Made 186
# Member Contests Entered 105
# Top 10 Finishes 79
# Contests finalized 101
# Times you are a favorite poet 27

^^^^ I took a big hit back in September for speaking my mind about the bias and little group there that rub each others backs to stay at as
the top poets, top wins and their little drone accounts to use against newer better poets. Typical ego laden crap..
Typical corruption some people just gravitate to like a fly to a damn turd. ..-Tyr

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

O' How I Hated That Damn Ground


I stood there raining my tears
utterly broken at fifteen years
Thinking of all that dad gave
now newly laid in a lonely grave

O' how I hated that damn ground
screaming but with no sound
My family broken up as can be
yet none as destroyed as was me

Now in lonesome grave he lies
severed from all loving ties
I cry there standing so alone
bright world crashed, he is gone

Misery came summer of sixty-nine
too young to get drunk on wine
I stayed out all that dark night
waging my own long futile fight

I did my battle with dark spirits
coming softly but I could hear it
They placed deep hate in my heart
punish somebody, myself to start

My youth suddenly away had flown
my hate forced me to be grown
Some body will pay coming years
no more sobs, no more hot tears

Bark has now so wrapped my tree
my hate ate out the best of me
Ran alone in this blackened world
hate, my blazing banner unfurled

Bitter ash came from my burnt stone
compassion leeched from every bone
Years raced onward into my old age
time finally healed my bitter rage

Yesterday, talked to father again
told him I wash my leaves in rain
This tree bears no more bitter fruit
clear water finally found gnarly root!

Robert J. Lindley, 05-02-2015

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Evil That Always Takes Its Toll

Remember where hot lightning bolts flash down,
Its sun-fire heat burning in a tragic strike!
There perished mother and her little tyke;
Tragedy there, where the angels cry and frown,
And sing their saddest songs upon the waves:
Doom and gloom a sad fruit to be born
Taken long before Gabriel blows his horn.
Judged by Fate no power in Universe ever saves,
Yet no man lives that can ever be so sure,
That misery will forget to take its toll
Upon the peace that stirs the blessed soul!
There was peace: yet no peace can insure,
Paradise will be waiting for its fair guests,
The great promise, its most fantastic lure!
Security of life and limb of angels so pure:
Or protection from Evil that eternally infests.

Robert J. Lindley, August , 1973

Note: A poem from my private journal, from back when I wrote a bit more in the old style.
Sometimes I dearly miss writing like this..... and that muse that raced so far away!

p.s. My first wife(future ex) thought this my best poem ever.
At that time I had several hundred written. -Tyr

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

I Walked A Long Summer Lane


I walked a long summer lane
immune from the usual pain
A spirit was inside of me
so dark but good as could be!

Awaiting that call to fight
embraced by courage of light
As I strolled grace emerged
all my fear soundly purged

No rhyme or reason of the why
just no damn fear to ever die
I had a purpose to sacrifice
fight it dirty hell with nice

Was it the future, was it now
be damn if it mattered anyhow
What mattered was win the fight
battled as day turned into night

Only remember felt good to kill
evil and its dark was a thrill
Never wrong when defending good
would have died if I ever could

Woke to the alarm clock ring
I remembered almost everything
Slay the evil darkened forces
call upon the guardian forces

Was it real or just more dreams
so very real each time it seems
Why me, I certainly am no saint
not evil but very good I ain't

I walked a long summer lane
immune from the usual pain
A spirit was inside of me
so dark but good as could be!

Robert J. Lindley, 05-03-2015


Note : A recurring dream that baffles me all to hell.
Imagination or a real trip into hell. I know there are
other dimensions, alien worlds and spiritual realms.
I wonder, what if?

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

In Due Season
by John McCrae


If night should come and find me at my toil,
When all Life's day I had, tho' faintly, wrought,
And shallow furrows, cleft in stony soil
Were all my labour: Shall I count it naught

If only one poor gleaner, weak of hand,
Shall pick a scanty sheaf where I have sown?
"Nay, for of thee the Master doth demand
Thy work: the harvest rests with Him alone."
------------------------------------------------

Eventide
by John McCrae


The day is past and the toilers cease;
The land grows dim 'mid the shadows grey,
And hearts are glad, for the dark brings peace
At the close of day.

Each weary toiler, with lingering pace,
As he homeward turns, with the long day done,
Looks out to the west, with the light on his face
Of the setting sun.

Yet some see not (with their sin-dimmed eyes)
The promise of rest in the fading light;
But the clouds loom dark in the angry skies
At the fall of night.

And some see only a golden sky
Where the elms their welcoming arms stretch wide
To the calling rooks, as they homeward fly
At the eventide.

It speaks of peace that comes after strife,
Of the rest He sends to the hearts He tried,
Of the calm that follows the stormiest life --
God's eventide.
------------------------------------------------

Anarchy
by John McCrae


I saw a city filled with lust and shame,
Where men, like wolves, slunk through the grim half-light;
And sudden, in the midst of it, there came
One who spoke boldly for the cause of Right.

And speaking, fell before that brutish race
Like some poor wren that shrieking eagles tear,
While brute Dishonour, with her bloodless face
Stood by and smote his lips that moved in prayer.

"Speak not of God! In centuries that word
Hath not been uttered! Our own king are we."
And God stretched forth his finger as He heard
And o'er it cast a thousand leagues of sea.

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Pity, The Bread Where Sorrow Rests


The night is long, hours drag on by
can not forgive, even though I try
All is dark with bold shadows black
telling me of the compassion I lack

We see with eyes filled with sin
this world our heart rests within
Never seeing the sun in every sky
Or the promised life after we die

The night is long, I beat on stones
with burning ache deep in my bones
The crying rocks scream for more
from behind that blue misery door

I that knows why the eagle flies
cloak myself in dark little lies

Pity, the bread where sorrow rests
a poor fare for any wayward guests
I ponder thoughts best hidden away
unforgiving this night, thus I pay

The night is long, hours drag on by
can not forgive, even though I try
All is dark with bold shadows black
telling me of the compassion I lack

Robert J. Lindley, 05-04-2015

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

To Althea, From Prison
by Richard Lovelace

When love with unconfined wings
Hovers within my gates,
And my divine Althea brings
To whisper at the grates;
When I lie tangled in her hair,
And fettered to her eye,
The birds that wanton in the air
Know no such liberty.

When flowing cups run swiftly round
With no allaying Thames,
Our careless heads with roses bound,
Our hearts with loyal flames;
When thirsty grief in wine we steep,
When healths and draughts go free,
Fishes that tipple in the deep
Know no such liberty.

When, like committed linnets, I
With shriller throat shall sing
The sweetness, mercy, majesty,
And glories of my King;
When I shall voice aloud how good

He is, how great should be,
Enlarged winds that curl the flood
Know no such liberty.

Stone walls do not a prison make,
Nor iron bars a cage;
Minds innocent and quiet take
That for an hermitage;
If I have freedom in my love,
And in my soul am free,
Angels alone, that soar above,
Enjoy such liberty
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


To Lucasta, Going To The Wars
by Richard Lovelace

Tell me not, Sweet, I am unkind,
That from the nunnery
Of thy chaste breasts, and quiet mind,
To war and arms I fly.

True, a new mistress now I chase,
The first foe in the field;
And with a stronger faith embrace
A sword, a horse, a shield.

Yet this inconstancy is such,
As you too shall adore;
I could not love thee, Dear, so much,
Loved I not honour more

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Woke up and wrote this about 3 am this morning. Had refused to write it when earlier inspired that day.
I tell you, my muse is one very forceful and stubborn ruler!--Tyr



Off With Their Filthy Heads


Should one dare oppose the arrogant kings
cry out with pride so it soundly rings
Stand with sweet honor, our hat in hand
fight corruption in this freedom's land

Those that say nay are simply afraid
going against the massive power laid
What power, have any over the Soul
death is always the unavoidable toll

A man walks his very own selfish path
bringing on misery and darkened wrath
Why not step off that selfish trail
avoid the sending one deep into Hell

Every king served a spiritual master
bad deed brought judgment ever faster
Yet having power over life and death
was a stone choking their every breath

Shall you be stalwart and honor true
let your gentle heart judge only you
Leave others to see your honoring him
or walk blindly with their light so dim

Should one dare oppose the arrogant kings
cry out with pride so it soundly rings
Stand with sweet honor, our hat in hand
fight corruption in this freedom's land

Yes, we dare to oppose those tyrant Kings
Slay them , give that filthy crown a fling
Off their heads with true justice abated
justice the goal never with vengeance hated!

Robert J. Lindley, 05-06-2015

Note: The term King is used to denote great power and not necessarily royalty
in its usual interpretation.

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Just wrote this for a contest.
Hope you may enjoy and be it known that "free verse poetry" is not my usual fare...,. Tyr

A Tomb Built For A Fool



Where shall I rest my head,
Upon a lofty mountaintop with snow
In a green valley far, far below
Or buried deep within the evergreen pines
Nestled in with sleeping cones
Racing about with morbid afterthoughts.
With dark fire of delightful vengeance
The manna of desperation and glee
A fury of dead tortured spirits,
Eating upon a plain of loneliness;
Nay, the bitter is not in the brine,
A basket of rotten fruits still serves,
The appetite of the flies,
And the sickness that it deserves
vomits out the sins of the tiresome day,
A relentless thirst never satisfied,
Ever leaps into darkness,
Of despair and greedy lusts built on it
Where shall I rest my head,
Within a dark corner behind that stone
A shelter that eats my decaying heart,
This darkness of my Soul being all alone
A tomb built for a fool,
sour grapes smashed into wine
A CHILD born out of time,
With a needle in its right eye-
seeing, seeing but only halfway blind...

Robert J. Lindley, 05-06-2015

Note: Free verse, my muse warned me not to wade into such waters....
I being a stubborn mule , shot back-- "so what my feet are dirty, need
cleaning and water is so damn often so very , very coooooooooool"..
A fool an his folly may embrace same as a great lover and his lady...

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Where The Owls Roost, The Moon Shines Brightest


Where the owls roost, the moon shines bright
The old withered oak stands beaten and proud
Scars, proud medals of its strength and might
night owls hooting , often not so very loud

Where the moonlight streams onto life below
Seas move with that mighty Titan's commands
In wonder, the earth watches the light show
Racing, racing onward across all the lands

Where the sky dances with glowing splendor
The night paints shadows with joyous glee
In awe, man watches stars as they surrender
Moonbeams shining upon owls in ancient tree

As dawn approaches the Titan slips on away
Gracefully as King retreating to another view
Generous to the Sun's birth of each new day
And brighter light that sustains me and you!

Robert J. Lindley-- 05-06-2015

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Where The Owls Roost, The Moon Shines Brightest


Where the owls roost, the moon shines bright
The old withered oak stands beaten and proud
Scars, proud medals of its strength and might
night owls hooting , often not so very loud

Where the moonlight streams onto life below
Seas move with that mighty Titan's commands
In wonder, the earth watches the light show
Racing, racing onward across all the lands

Where the sky dances with glowing splendor
The night paints shadows with joyous glee
In awe, man watches stars as they surrender
Moonbeams shining upon owls in ancient tree

As dawn approaches the Titan slips on away
Gracefully as King retreating to another view
Generous to the Sun's birth of each new day
And brighter light that sustains me and you!

Robert J. Lindley-- 05-06-2015

Edited version, changed the closing verse.... ------------------------------------------


Where The Owls Roost, The Moon Shines Brightest

Where the owls roost, the moon shines bright
The old withered oak stands beaten and proud
Scars, proud medals of its strength and might
night owls hooting , often not so very loud

Where the moonlight streams onto life below
Seas move with that mighty Titan's commands
In wonder, the earth watches the light show
Racing, racing onward across all the lands

Where the sky dances with glowing splendor
The night paints shadows with joyous glee
In awe, man watches stars as they surrender
Moonbeams shining upon owls in ancient tree

As dawn approaches the Titan slips on away
Gracefully as King retreating to another view
Generous to the Sun's birth of each new day
Upon green grass thirsty for its morning dew!

Robert J. Lindley-- 05-06-2015

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

The Lonely Hill

Wild grow the poppies in Tunisian vale
Gracing the green of a fertile land
And here comes "Peace" to lay her veil
On the hill of the foes last stand. .

Out of the Plain reared the lonely hill
Like a breast bared to the sky
Its slopes clasped the fallen ever still
And its bosom echoed the swallow's cry. .

Small sanctuary of a fallen dream
Last bastion to Enfidaville
Your crumbled fort is a desolate scene
Where all but the winds are still. .

The winds will rise and the tall grass bend
To ripple like waves of the sea
And time will take the scars to mend
On the lonely hill of the free.

- RA Harris

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

In That Red Haze, Brave Men Weep And Moan

Blast your trumpets, on blood soaked ground!
In that red haze, brave men weep and moan,
Yet, brutal war echoes pain in every sound.
Down lay spirits of mortal men forever gone
Days of youthful hopes turned to patches of dust,
dirt covered , forever residing all alone
fool's gold now turned to blackened rust.

Look ye, for a reason for fools to fight and die
sing out to duty , duty of warriors bold
remain aloft, blind to widows left to cry.
Price matters not, heroes destined to never grow old
War, testament to courage and man's great folly
sacrifice, death feeding tales retold
life goes on, this world is quite jolly.

War, the engine driving men straight into hell
For breakfast and eggs, must first break the shell!

Robert J. Lindley, 05-07-2015

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

http://www.cprw.com/stalking-the-typical-poem

Stalking the Typical Poem

Posted on 15 May 2014
When I tell people I teach and – God help me – even write poetry, they often say, “I wish you could explain modern poetry to me. I just don’t understand most of it.” My response is usually to talk to them about the kinds of modern poem you can understand, among which I include my own, and to give reassurances that with sufficient patience and care they’ll find it’s not such a jungle out there after all.
But that’s a cop-out, in a way, because when you look at the scene squarely, you have to recognize that many modern poems are enigmatic in the extreme, and this quality is – let’s be generous – not the result of incompetence but a deliberate choice stemming from a particular aesthetic. What does that aesthetic consist of? Let’s step back for a moment and consider the qualities of language that poets and readers pay particular attention to. I would isolate three dimensions: diction, rhetoric, and form. Diction can range from colloquial to elevated, rhetoric from plain to figurative or ornate, and form from relatively unstructured to tightly structured.

Let’s talk about diction first. American poetry of the twentieth century (and the twenty-first so far) operates in a very narrow range of diction: virtually all poets publishing in journals write the standard English of educated speakers. This diction contrasts markedly with that of, say, country-and-western songs, which imitate a semi-literate rural dialect, or certain types of rap, which are based on an inner-city patois. But within the precincts of this standard form of the language, great variation is still possible and often in evidence. The diction may be more or less formal (the less formal style permitting casual usages and eschewing inversions), more or less latinate; it may use longer or shorter sentences, academic precision or a studied approximation of workaday prose. The contrary tendencies can be illustrated in a quotation from Louise Bogan showing the use of the offhand colloquial style –
And like as not when they take life over their door-sills
They should let it go by.
(“Women”)
– and in a passage from a poem by Gwendolyn Brooks in which she explains why white soldiers during the Second World War put up less resistance than expected to black soldiers in their midst:
… Besides, it taxed
Time and the temper to remember those
Congenital iniquities that cause
Disfavor of the darkness.
(“The white troops had their orders
but the Negroes looked like men”)
A few stylists deliberately distort syntax, invent words, scatter puns, and in other ways make linguistic contrivance an expressive tool, as does John Berryman in “The Poet’s Final Instructions”:
Dog-tired, suisired, will now my body down
near Cedar Avenue in Minneap,
when my crime comes. I am blazing with hope.
Do me glory, come the whole way across town.

Similarly, the poems of Seamus Heaney abound in old words, regionalisms, and onomatopoeia: “Old cobwebbed reins and hames and eye-patched winkers” (“The Harrow-Pin”); “a wiper’s strong absolving slumps and flits” (“In Iowa”). But such exuberant invention is exceptional. The banishment of rhyme from much poetry of the twentieth century severely curtailed the possibilities for such frivolities as Frost’s “The first tool I step on / Turned into a weapon.” The recent restoration of meter as a principle governing the verse line has encouraged poets to rediscover the range of effects possible when phrases are stretched across line endings (though parallel effects are also possible in free verse). In this passage from Derek Walcott’s “The Arkansas Testament”) the meaning of the question is transformed by the phrase at the start of the fifth line:
Can I bring a palm to my heart
and sing, with eyes on the pole
whose manuscript banner boasts
of the Union with thirteen stars
crossed out … ?
… a wily description of the Confederate flag.

As to rhetoric, it is possible, both in metered and in free verse, to write a language unadorned by rhetorical tropes, a language that nevertheless, in its very simplicity and its judicious choice of words, carries considerable emotional force. Such a style is often called, for lack of a better term, the plain style. Louise Glück, in her book Vita Nova, provides a striking example:
We are all human—
we protect ourselves
as well as we can
even to the point of denying
clarity, the point
of self-deception
And yet, within this deception,
true happiness occurred.
So that I believe I would
repeat these errors exactly.
Nor does it seem to me
crucial to know
whether or not such happiness
is built on illusion:
it has its own reality.
And in either case, it will end.
Contrast this with the final three stanzas of Robert Lowell’s “Water” :
The sea drenched the rock
at our feet all day,
and kept tearing away
flake after flake.
One night you dreamed
you were a mermaid clinging to a wharf pile,
and trying to pull
off the barnacles with your hands.
We wished our two souls
might return like gulls
to the rock. In the end
the water was too cold for us.
The subject is closely related to Glück’s theme: the near-impossibility of sustaining intimacy (though Glück more explicitly contrasts the ethic of traditional marriage with the more fluid mode of the contemporary “relationship”). But Lowell’s verse deals with the difficulty metaphorically – with references to the sea, to gulls, a mermaid, barnacles, rocks, and a wharf. The point of juxtaposing the two rhetorical styles is not to express a preference for one over another – each can be handled well or badly – but to illustrate the range of options open to poets in our time, together with the challenges these options pose to readers.
But form is where the real battles begin. Traditionally form has been considered a defining characteristic of poetry, in that poems were compositions in metered lines. However, in the twentieth century a concerted effort was made to alter the definition, removing meter as a criterion. The effort was so successful, in fact, that in many quarters traditional metered verse came to be considered a kind of anti-poetry – the very model of unacceptable writing.
Nevertheless, a few extremely dexterous practitioners of the craft were born and flourished in the twentieth century, keeping the tradition alive against heavy contrary pressures. Richard Wilbur’s “Hamlen Brook” may be profitably compared with the Louise Glück poem quoted above, as an example of writing within the confines of rhyme and meter that remains as comfortably idiomatic as Glück’s writing outside those confines. In this poem Wilbur is describing the action of looking into a brook that reflects the world above it –

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Poetry is Art and Art is for fools.
All that matters is the sharpness of the blade, the steel in the heart,
ALL else is blather for useless tools........ my quote from back in 1969, age 15........
Some of us actually grow a bit wiser as we age...

Vanity

I once worshiped speed and strength as twin Gods,
now I see vanity in the storm
Arrogance was my holding onto lightning rods,
believing my hating life was the norm
Life teaches vanity is the fuel for the fight
yet we dare struggle, struggle against the odds!

Robert J. Lindley, 05-08-2015

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

My Last Sonnet

Friends of yesteryears, so long ago
Faded spirits often dance in disrepute,
Sadly, the best of people that I know,-
Tossed away honor in favor of the loot!

Friends of yesteryears, now a dream
Lingering ghosts racing deep in my head,
Truly, walking dead or so it did seem,-
Rambling where even angels fear to tread!

My friends of yesteryears, know so well
Courage I clung to from my great fears,
Shame, the elixir of my darkest hell-
Adding bitter salts to my dreaded tears!

Ghosts of moments, set in hardened stone.
Ghosts of moments, will I die all alone!

Robert J. Lindley , 05-08-2015

Note: This is my last sonnet.. Written on
the relationship I had with some very bad friends,
over 40 years ago. All four of them have passed on
now and trust me that is a blessing for this world.

[LongTermGuy]

My Last Sonnet

Friends of yesteryears, so long ago
Faded spirits often dance in disrepute,
Sadly, the best of people that I know,-
Tossed away honor in favor of the loot!

Friends of yesteryears, now a dream
Lingering ghosts racing deep in my head,
Truly, walking dead or so it did seem,-
Rambling where even angels fear to tread!

My friends of yesteryears, know so well
Courage I clung to from my great fears,
Shame, the elixir of my darkest hell-
Adding bitter salts to my dreaded tears!

Ghosts of moments, set in hardened stone.
Ghosts of moments, will I die all alone!

Robert J. Lindley , 05-08-2015Yes the Ghost pof

Note: This is my last sonnet.. Written on
the relationship I had with some very bad friends,
over 40 years ago. All four of them have passed on
now and trust me that is a blessing for this world.


***********
`...Ahhhh...enjoying `my` cup of Friday evening Coffee Tyr....and decided I would pay your page a visit...

...Yes..."The ghosts of moments, set in hard stone...Ghosts of moments....will die in hard stone" ..."Friends of yesteryear's now a dream"....what a delightful poem brought to my mind of days gone past....well done!:cool:http://whatdidyoubringme.homestead.com/files/tshirts/plant/images_troll/DeadmansReach.jpg

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

A sonnet, why not?
I write them with such ease and even a bit of joy..-Tyr



This Old House Comforts Me

This old house, box where I rest my weary head,
my soul sleeps here, with uneasy comfort -
these four walls, they hold my precious sanity,
a SMALL service that matters not when I am dead.
Glorious roof, keeps the rain from waking me,
blocks the beautiful night sky, a small price-
to pay for a secure and very dry retreat,
yet sacrifice, sacrifice always seems the key.
Solid floors, still they creak when I pace,
familiar noise like the bark of a friendly dog-
so unlike a cat's meow that says, you serve me,
this is my sweet abode, you are easy to replace.
This old house, box where I rest my weary head,
family lives here, dog lays at foot of the bed.

Robert J. Lindley

[LongTermGuy]

A sonnet, why not?
I write them with such ease and even a bit of joy..-Tyr



This Old House Comforts Me

This old house, box where I rest my weary head,
my soul sleeps here, with uneasy comfort -
these four walls, they hold my precious sanity,
a SMALL service that matters not when I am dead.
Glorious roof, keeps the rain from waking me,
blocks the beautiful night sky, a small price-
to pay for a secure and very dry retreat,
yet sacrifice, sacrifice always seems the key.
Solid floors, still they creak when I pace,
familiar noise like the bark of a friendly dog-
so unlike a cat's meow that says, you serve me,
this is my sweet abode, you are easy to replace.
This old house, box where I rest my weary head,
family lives here, dog lays at foot of the bed.

Robert J. Lindley

Good morning Tyr!

`....Get out of bed....Get your Coffee and head to the range!:laugh:

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Good morning Tyr!

`....Get out of bed....Get your Coffee and head to the range!:laugh:

Good morning...

Can not shoot today--its raining cats and dogs here !!!
Me not ever mistreat my weapons that way my friend.. ;)

When I shoot I rarely ever go to a range. I go to one of several friend's farms, set up targets at specified distances and fire away.
Or long ago went to certain snake infested places and shot poisonous snakes , with points for clean head shots...
Trust me, a snake head at those distances ,out in that swampy water is a mighty fine and small target to hit.
Record kills on a single day, back in early 70's was 21 snakes killed-- 17 clean head shots!!
Younger eyes , make all the difference in tha world my friend......--Tyr

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

The Search

Searching heaven
birds flying south

Trees are singing
ants toil free

Mysteries galore
ships over the horizon

Shout, shout freedom
pay a toll

Ink so stains
words cut deep

Darkness spits
people abstain

Intensity, no purpose
God loves rain

Ships sailing
clouds in my eyes

Searching heaven
birds flying south

R.J. Lindley

Note: No date, likely written in early(late?) 80's,
found this in back of an old photo alblum.
Edited a small portion this morn.
Form is free verse methinks...

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

The Farmer's Lament

Rooster be crowin' go till your fine soil
Just no damn use for us to be ahidin'
Time now for bloody sweatin' and toil
Laziness, a farmer will never be abidin'
Crops planted,tis sweet rain we need
Hot sun about to start beamin' down
Soil is a cryin', awaitin' its new seed
We get to farmin', sunrise to sundown!

Work! Work! Work!

More food for people we are amakin'
Eating well,kids growin' so strong
Be time later for silly hand shakin'
Work needs the doin' our day is long
Dirt on faces, sweatin' in our hair
Farming calls for pain and workin'
Nobody ever said life would be fair
Hard chores we will never be shirkin'!

Work! Work! Work!

Harvest time,tis our Lord we thank
Split ground, growin' one sure thing
Money be acomin' taken to the bank
We be aworkin',later we shall sing
Bad storms come, bad storms may go
No time for any foolish idle talkin'
Hold ur mouth,good crops will grow
Our backs for breakin',legs for walkin'!

Work! Work! Work!

By Robert J. Lindley, 05-09-2015

Note: Written in my old style.
I decided to crank one out today.
Last night was thinking back to my being raised on a farm..
And how very hard it was on everybody I knew back then!
Old times, written in old style, by an old man....

My tribute to the great poet, Frank L. Stanton, that so influenced me and
wrote in a similiar form but on a much, much higher level!

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Rudyard Kipling


We and They

"A Friend of the Family"
From "Debits and Credits"(1919-1923)


Father and Mother, and Me,
Sister and Auntie say
All the people like us are We,
And every one else is They.
And They live over the sea,
While We live over the way,
But-would you believe it? --They look upon We
As only a sort of They!

We eat pork and beef
With cow-horn-handled knives.
They who gobble Their rice off a leaf,
Are horrified out of Their lives;
While they who live up a tree,
And feast on grubs and clay,
(Isn't it scandalous? ) look upon We
As a simply disgusting They!

We shoot birds with a gun.
They stick lions with spears.
Their full-dress is un-.
We dress up to Our ears.
They like Their friends for tea.
We like Our friends to stay;
And, after all that, They look upon We
As an utterly ignorant They!

We eat kitcheny food.
We have doors that latch.
They drink milk or blood,
Under an open thatch.
We have Doctors to fee.
They have Wizards to pay.
And (impudent heathen!) They look upon We
As a quite impossible They!

All good people agree,
And all good people say,
All nice people, like Us, are We
And every one else is They:
But if you cross over the sea,
Instead of over the way,
You may end by (think of it!) looking on We
As only a sort of They

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


Kipling's genius was simply off the charts IMHO!!!--Tyr

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Ode
by Philip Freneau


GOD save the Rights of Man!
Give us a heart to scan
Blessings so dear:
Let them be spread around
Wherever man is found,
And with the welcome sound
Ravish his ear.

Let us with France agree,
And bid the world be free,
While tyrants fall!
Let the rude savage host
Of their vast numbers boast--
Freedom's almight trust
Laughs at them all!

Though hosts of slaves conspire
To quench fair Gallia's fire,
Still shall they fail:
Though traitors round her rise,
Leagu'd with her enemies,
To war each patriot flies,
And will prevail.

No more is valor's flame
Devoted to a name,
Taught to adore--
Soldiers of Liberty
Disdain to bow the knee,
But ateach Equality
To every shore.

The world at last will join
To aid thy grand design,
Dear Liberty!
To Russia's frozen lands
The generous flame expands:
On Afric's burning sands
Shall man be free!

In this our western world
Be Freedom's flag unfurl'd
Through all its shores!
May no destructive blast
Our heaven of joy o'ercast,
May Freedom's fabric last
While time endures.

If e'er her cause require!--
Should tyrants e'er aspire
To aim their stroke,
May no proud despot daunt--
Should he his standard plant,
Freedom will never want
Her hearts of oak!
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Great poem and it applies so greatly to the times we find ourselves in yet again in this great nation...
Philip Freneau is so massively underrated as a great poet in favor of the European poets that were so favored in his time...
Historic contempt and bias that exists to this very day IMHO..-Tyr

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/poets/philip_freneau/biography


Philip Freneau was born in New York of Huguenot ancestry in 1752, and died near Freehold, New Jersey, in 1832.

Well versed in the classics in Monmouth County under the tutelage of William Tennent, Philip entered Princeton as a sophomore in 1768, but the joy of the occasion was marred by his father's financial losses and death the year before. In spite of financial hardships, Philip's Scottish mother believed that her oldest of five children would graduate and join the clergy. Though he was a serious student of theology and a stern moralist all his life, Freneau found his true calling in literature. As his roommate and close friend James Madison recognized early, Freneau's wit and verbal skills would make him a powerful wielder of the pen and a formidable adversary on the battlefields of print. Freneau soon became the unrivaled "poet of the Revolution" and is still widely regarded as the "Father of American Literature". Although Freneau had produced several accomplished private poems before college, it was the intense experience of pre-Revolutionary-War Princeton that turned the poet's interest to public writing. Political concerns led Madison, Freneau, and their friends Hugh Henry Brackenridge and William Bradford, Jr., to revive the defunct Plain Dealing Club as the American Whig Society. Their verbal skirmishes with the conservative Cliosophic Society provided ample opportunities for sharpening Freneau's skills in prose and poetic satire. Charged with literary and political enthusiasm, Freneau and Brackenridge collaborated on a rollicking, picaresque narrative, Father Bombo's Pilgrimage to Mecca in Arabia, which presents comic glimpses of life in eighteenth-century America. This piece, recently acquired by Princeton and published by the University Library (1975), may well be the first work of prose fiction written in America.

During their senior year Freneau and Brackenridge labored long on another joint project to which Freneau contributed the greater share. Their composition was a patriotic poem of epic design, The Rising Glory of America, a prophecy of a time when a united nation should rule the vast continent from the Atlantic to the Pacific. At the commencement exercises of September 1771, Brackenridge read this poem to a "vast concourse of the politest company," gathered at Nassau Hall. The poem articulated the vision and fervor of a young revolutionary generation.

After he graduated from Princeton in 1771, he was author, editor, government official, trader, and farmer. He tried teaching and soon found that he hated it. As regards the genesis of his poems, two facts in his life are especially important. His newspaper work encouraged a fatal production of the satirical and humorous verse that gave him reputation; and his trading voyages inspired poems descriptive of the scenery of the southern islands, and made possible what is perhaps his most original work, his naval ballads.

He felt a deep obligation to perform public service, and his satires against the British in 1775 were written out of fervent patriotism. At the same time he distrusted politics and had a personal yearning to escape social turmoil and war. The romantic private poet within him struggled against his public role. Thus, paradoxically, in 1776 the "poet of the revolution" set sail for the West Indies where he spent two years writing of the beauties of nature and learning navigation. Suddenly in 1778, he returned to New Jersey and joined the militia and sailed the Atlantic as a ship captain. After suffering for six weeks on a British prison ship, he poured his bitterness into his political writing and into much of his voluminous poetry of the early 1780s.

By 1790, at the age of thirty-eight, with two collections of poetry in print and a reputation as a fiery propagandist and skillful sea captain, Freneau decided to settle down. He married Eleanor Forman and tried to withdraw to a quiet job as an assistant editor in New York. But politics called again. His friends Madison and Jefferson persuaded him to set up his own newspaper in Philadelphia to counter the powerful Hamiltonian paper of John Fenno. Freneau's National Gazette upheld Jefferson's "Republican" principles and even condemned Washington's foreign policy.

After another decade of feverish public action, Freneau withdrew again in 1801, when Jefferson was elected president. He retired to his farm and returned occasionally to the sea. During his last thirty years, he worked on his poems, wrote essays attacking the greed and selfishness of corrupt politicians, and sold pieces of his lands to produce a small income. He discovered that he had given his best years of literary productivity to his country, for it had been in the few stolen moments of the hectic 1780s that he found the inspiration for his best poems, such as The Indian Burying Ground and The Wild Honeysuckle.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


The Wild Honey-Suckle
by Philip Freneau


Fair flower, that dost so comely grow,
Hid in this silent, dull retreat,
Untouched thy honied blossoms blow,
Unseen thy little branches greet;
...No roving foot shall crush thee here,
...No busy hand provoke a tear.

By Nature's self in white arrayed,
She bade thee shun the vulgar eye,
And planted here the gaurdian shade,
And sent soft waters murmuring by;
...Thus quietly thy summer goes,
...Thy days declinging to repose.

Smit with those charms, that must decay,
I grieve to see your future doom;
They died--nor were those flowers more gay,
The flowers that did in Eden bloom;
...Unpitying frosts, and Autumn's power
...Shall leave no vestige of this flower.

From morning suns and evenign dews
At first thy little being came:
If nothing once, you nothing lose,
For when you die you are the same;
...The space between, is but an hour,
...The frail duration of a flower.

[LongTermGuy]

Ode
by Philip Freneau


GOD save the Rights of Man!
Give us a heart to scan
Blessings so dear:
Let them be spread around
Wherever man is found,
And with the welcome sound
Ravish his ear.

Let us with France agree,
And bid the world be free,
While tyrants fall!
Let the rude savage host
Of their vast numbers boast--
Freedom's almight trust
Laughs at them all!

Though hosts of slaves conspire
To quench fair Gallia's fire,
Still shall they fail:
Though traitors round her rise,
Leagu'd with her enemies,
To war each patriot flies,
And will prevail.

No more is valor's flame
Devoted to a name,
Taught to adore--
Soldiers of Liberty
Disdain to bow the knee,
But ateach Equality
To every shore.

The world at last will join
To aid thy grand design,
Dear Liberty!
To Russia's frozen lands
The generous flame expands:
On Afric's burning sands
Shall man be free!

In this our western world
Be Freedom's flag unfurl'd
Through all its shores!
May no destructive blast
Our heaven of joy o'ercast,
May Freedom's fabric last
While time endures.

If e'er her cause require!--
Should tyrants e'er aspire
To aim their stroke,
May no proud despot daunt--
Should he his standard plant,
Freedom will never want
Her hearts of oak!
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Great poem and it applies so greatly to the times we find ourselves in yet again in this great nation...
Philip Freneau is so massively underrated as a great poet in favor of the European poets that were so favored in his time...
Historic contempt and bias that exists to this very day IMHO..-Tyr

...Yes it is!:clap:

~ "And bid the world be free,
While tyrants fall!
Let the rude savage host
Of their vast numbers boast--
Freedom's almight trust
Laughs at them all!" ~

~ "In this our western world"
Be Freedom's flag unfurl'd
Through all its shores!
May no destructive blast
Our heaven of joy o'ercast,
May Freedom's fabric last
While time endures." ~

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

I consider this my best poem written in many a year..
Just finished moments ago...
Here it is, hope you may not only enjoy this write but consider as well whatever TRUTH you may be able to glean from it..-Tyr
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------



O Truth, Where Is Thy Needed Sting


O Truth, where is thy dear lead?
Sad day that thy heart be cut
Can racing Sun slow its speed,
the mighty buck ignore the rut?
Nay, the world must still face,
the power of earthly reality.
The ending of even longest race
principles that hold off insanity!

O Truth, can man ever learn?
life sings for the sweet sanity
Dark and evil we must spurn
for the sake of all humanity!
Yes, knowledge begs to be known
candles exist to be burned
Light cries out to be shown
Truth must again be learned!

O Truth, can pure heart win out?
integrity make its best play
Spirit, sends its greatest scout
to show courage the best way
Will man rise up from the dirt?
stand foot upon solid rock
Can honor withstand massive hurt?
to return saved ship to dock!

O Truth, will bravery soothe?
pains of deep wounds folly birth
Pray we for seas soft and smooth
love of Life for all its worth!
As the Sun breaks upon each dawn
children wake to learn and play
Can we ignore each speckled fawn?
to pursue our own selfish way!

O Truth, where is thy needed sting?
pain which wisdom so often makes
With spirit of love in everything,
stay the course for goodness sakes!

Robert J. Lindley, 05-10-2015

NOTE: This poem, written for a very special contest
reflects the depth of my heart and poetic soul.
I make no claim to fame but so very proud to present
this under my name!

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Monkey Eating Figs

There was a monkey on my back eating figs,
Screaming, cursing as sunlight hit its beady eyes,
Slowly this thought came to my sleepy head,
Be calm, let the beast finish its meal
For even imaginary beasts have to feed in peace
Perhaps he is a god in another form. A spirit
seeking to play a game. He must have a purpose.

Go on you apparition, take my bedroom,
Try on my clothes, use my comb and live. Sally forth
into a kitchen filled with good food.
Let familiarity become your stock and trade,
while I seek to please your vanity. Call out
for the gold hidden in my books, the treasures
resting in my over crammed brain,
Search for my key to Pandora's box.

A calm resolve eased over my soul,
could this be my chance to step back,
Look inward to find another opened door
Laughter burst forth like series of cannon shots
Yes,there came a marching band on street parade
Hold on now, the ride is about to get good!
Suddenly darkness exploded everywhere.

There was a monkey dreaming of a man on his back,
silly dream the monkey thought as it laughed heartily
Men are such nasty beasts, with such savagery
Why ever carry one around so?

Robert J. Lindley Oct 20th 1991

Note : Free verse written in 1991.
From my private journal. Care to guess what it meant??
I remember, remember it so very well.

[LongTermGuy]

I Like This......
***
"Desiderata" is a 1927 prose poem by American writer Max Ehrmann. Largely unknown in the author's lifetime"

`Go placidly amid the noise and haste, and remember what peace there may be in silence.
As far as possible without surrender be on good terms with all persons.
Speak your truth quietly and clearly; and listen to others, even the dull and ignorant; they too have their story.
Avoid loud and aggressive persons, they are vexations to the spirit.
If you compare yourself with others, you may become vain and bitter;
for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.
Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.

Keep interested in your <nobr>career (http://www.cs.columbia.edu/~gongsu/desiderata_textonly.html#)</nobr>, however humble; it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.
Exercise caution in your <nobr>business affairs (http://www.cs.columbia.edu/~gongsu/desiderata_textonly.html#)</nobr>; for the world is full of trickery.
But let this not blind you to what virtue there is; many persons strive for high ideals;
and everywhere life is full of <nobr>heroism (http://www.cs.columbia.edu/~gongsu/desiderata_textonly.html#)</nobr>.
Be yourself.
Especially, do not feign affection.
Neither be critical about love; for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment it is as perennial as the grass.
Take kindly the counsel of the years, gracefully surrendering the things of youth.
<nobr>Nurture (http://www.cs.columbia.edu/~gongsu/desiderata_textonly.html#)</nobr> strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune. But do not distress yourself with imaginings.
Many fears are born of fatigue and <nobr>loneliness (http://www.cs.columbia.edu/~gongsu/desiderata_textonly.html#)</nobr>. Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself.
You are a child of the universe, no less than the trees and the stars;
you have a right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.
Therefore be at peace with God, whatever you conceive Him to be,
and whatever your <nobr>labors (http://www.cs.columbia.edu/~gongsu/desiderata_textonly.html#)</nobr> and aspirations, in the noisy confusion of life keep peace with your soul.
With all its sham, drudgery and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world. Be careful. Strive to be happy....`

*****************
Max Ehrmann 1927

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

I Like This......
***
"Desiderata" is a 1927 prose poem by American writer Max Ehrmann. Largely unknown in the author's lifetime"

`Go placidly amid the noise and haste, and remember what peace there may be in silence.
As far as possible without surrender be on good terms with all persons.
Speak your truth quietly and clearly; and listen to others, even the dull and ignorant; they too have their story.
Avoid loud and aggressive persons, they are vexations to the spirit.
If you compare yourself with others, you may become vain and bitter;
for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.
Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.

Keep interested in your <nobr>career (http://www.cs.columbia.edu/~gongsu/desiderata_textonly.html#)</nobr>, however humble; it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.
Exercise caution in your <nobr>business affairs (http://www.cs.columbia.edu/~gongsu/desiderata_textonly.html#)</nobr>; for the world is full of trickery.
But let this not blind you to what virtue there is; many persons strive for high ideals;
and everywhere life is full of <nobr>heroism (http://www.cs.columbia.edu/~gongsu/desiderata_textonly.html#)</nobr>.
Be yourself.
Especially, do not feign affection.
Neither be critical about love; for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment it is as perennial as the grass.
Take kindly the counsel of the years, gracefully surrendering the things of youth.
<nobr>Nurture (http://www.cs.columbia.edu/~gongsu/desiderata_textonly.html#)</nobr> strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune. But do not distress yourself with imaginings.
Many fears are born of fatigue and <nobr>loneliness (http://www.cs.columbia.edu/~gongsu/desiderata_textonly.html#)</nobr>. Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself.
You are a child of the universe, no less than the trees and the stars;
you have a right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.
Therefore be at peace with God, whatever you conceive Him to be,
and whatever your <nobr>labors (http://www.cs.columbia.edu/~gongsu/desiderata_textonly.html#)</nobr> and aspirations, in the noisy confusion of life keep peace with your soul.
With all its sham, drudgery and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world. Be careful. Strive to be happy....`

*****************
Max Ehrmann 1927




http://allpoetry.com/poem/8574001-Dark-Days-by-Max-Ehrmann

By Max Ehrmann

Dark Days
What fool shall say, "My days are fair,
God's in his world and all is well,"
When half mankind shrieks in despair
Worse than in Dante's flaming hell!

I cannot sing in happy mood
While hostile armies take their toll.
On these dark days I toil and brood
With starless midnight in my soul.

And yet, O World, O Life, O God!
I find myself, jest as the fool,
Believing in thy chastening rod,
Believing still that love must rule.

----------------------------------------------------------------

I knew that name and poem title was familiar to me so went looking to jog my memory.
Sure enough, I had that poem and the one posted above in my bookmarks from over 2 years ago.
Thats the thing about Poetry--great talent often goes pretty much not well known.
As opposed to that of great book authors such as Hemingway, Faulkner, Twain, Conrad , etc

By the way my friend, great choice in presentation. I had bookmarked both poems to present here
but never got back to them..-Tyr

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Invictus: The Unconquerable

Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud,
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find me, unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.


Written by William Ernest Henley,

William Ernest Henley [1849-1902] was an English schoolmaster who became a successful poet, critic and editor. He is probably best known for his poem 'Invictus' and for the fact his daughter first coined the name Wendy to describe J. M. Barrie who used it in Peter Pan.

[LongTermGuy]

Invictus: The Unconquerable

Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud,
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find me, unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.


Written by William Ernest Henley,

William Ernest Henley [1849-1902] was an English schoolmaster who became a successful poet, critic and editor. He is probably best known for his poem 'Invictus' and for the fact his daughter first coined the name Wendy to describe J. M. Barrie who used it in Peter Pan.

Nice!

http://media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/36/32/c5/3632c5b501bd349500098fc170f4be92.jpg
http://media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/71/5c/1f/715c1f9f7ba06f150676d323aed34a90.jpg

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

I Prefer Those Daring To Just Write


I prefer my poetry very raw and real
giving life and emotion to be seen
A prize, a parade - the real deal
not words delivered merely to preen
Stand back and give true strokes
reactions,good or bad are alright
Do that,touching the right folks
deep pleasure for we that write!

I prefer my poetry easy and deep
a young sparrow about to fly
Sad that will make your heart weep
so damn tragic makes you ask why
Or Love in any of its many forms
dead,lost or in sweet display
Forget the cry for all the norms
be daring, do it your own damn way!

I prefer rejection over false yays
a poet must say,look into my soul
There could well be millions of ways
to arrive at the true and right goal
Give poetic words that sing a dance
swimming in our big hearts and ears
Matters not if its all about romance
or dark tales of our greatest fears!

I prefer those daring to just write
or ask the reader to think very deep
Shoot words strong and out of sight
sing out, laugh , dance or even weep
A poet often cries,eat into my Soul
see what happens when we write pain
Tear our hearts out and stomp the hole
no heart,no sacrifice we reap no gain!

Robert J. Lindley, 05-11-2015

[KitchenKitten99]

Haikus are easy.
But sometimes they don't make sense.
Refrigerator.

[darin]

Tyr -

I think you're a fiction but you don't know it.

Your poetry seems to want to tell stories and perhaps it's just easier to go with poetry vs a real story with character development and whatnot. It seems to me you have a point to make with each writing - pre-determined point you craft the words around. Because of that feeling I have, i struggle to read the poetry always wondering when I'm going to get to the point. The bottom-line.

You may want to consider taking some of those and building upon them - really fleshing out the details of the story. The lesson you're teaching and all that.

Does that make sense?

Truth-in-Lending - I didn't read but a handfull. Futher, I tend to hate poetry for the same reason I hate photography. People who construct images or words tend to self-credential. I'm NOT saying you do this - I'm saying I'm jaded from the start!

:)

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Tyr -

I think you're a fiction but you don't know it.

Your poetry seems to want to tell stories and perhaps it's just easier to go with poetry vs a real story with character development and whatnot. It seems to me you have a point to make with each writing - pre-determined point you craft the words around. Because of that feeling I have, i struggle to read the poetry always wondering when I'm going to get to the point. The bottom-line.

You may want to consider taking some of those and building upon them - really fleshing out the details of the story. The lesson you're teaching and all that.

Does that make sense?

Truth-in-Lending - I didn't read but a handfull. Futher, I tend to hate poetry for the same reason I hate photography. People who construct images or words tend to self-credential. I'm NOT saying you do this - I'm saying I'm jaded from the start!

:)

Poetry is actually another form of story telling. Truth is , its the telling of ones private thoughts, hopes, pains, loves and imaginations , etc.
It is left deliberately "vague" precisely because its so individualistic and presented not geared to please or entertain "masses" but rather express a thing and leave it open to the reader's various interpretations.
Believe it or not I once hated poetry--and trust me , I know how to hate. At age 10 my fourth grade teacher had us(made us) write poetry. I hated it dearly. Later, I started reading the great poets and saw much, much deeper.

The poet writes in a personal way without regard to appealing to others as would a writer of fiction writing for a book.
Tis why the two never compare well my friend.. A poem does not always tell a story, sometimes(most often) it merely conveys an emotion, a pain, a love or an imaginative thought, etc..

Appreciate your reply and honest criticism. :beer:

Has been asked often--"Why don't poets just write "books"?
Answer is -- then they would not be poets, they'd be "book authors".....



I think you're a fiction but you don't know it.

^^^^ Think that myself very often.... ;)--Tyr

[darin]

Good stuff - but I think your forte might be in the whole story vs the poem. If it's not YOUR forte, it's A Forte of yours I bet. :)

Maybe we start a "Creative Writing" subforum - People can submit for review/critique or for whatever. Hrm....Maybe you Moderate it?

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Good stuff - but I think your forte might be in the whole story vs the poem. If it's not YOUR forte, it's A Forte of yours I bet. :)

Maybe we start a "Creative Writing" subforum - People can submit for review/critique or for whatever. Hrm....Maybe you Moderate it?

Subforum? "Creative writing"?
I could go with that but seems we have very few writers here.

By the way, Ive written short stories ,long ago....I am just lousy at editing and proper grammar. :laugh:-Tyr

[darin]

Subforum? "Creative writing"?
I could go with that but seems we have very few writers here.

By the way, Ive written short stories ,long ago....I am just lousy at editing and proper grammar. :laugh

:-Tyr

yes, A subform for Creative writing.

You wouldn't have to edit or anything - just step in when feelings get hurt and shit starts flying.

:)

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

yes, A subform for Creative writing.

You wouldn't have to edit or anything - just step in when feelings get hurt and shit starts flying.

:)

I see, one can learn a lot if they engage the other person long enough. -Tyr

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Haikus are easy.
But sometimes they don't make sense.
Refrigerator.

Haikus are a form of poetry used by the Japanese--no rhyme and no action.
Just vague comparisons primarily, usually between three or more objects or ideas.

I rarely ever write in that form but did for a few contests.



Probabilities


fallen fruit exists
earthen harvest and ground meet
jars in the pantry

07-24-2014
-----------------------------------------------
Summer

World glimmers boldly

Summer sets sails to full mast

Eagles soar on high

-----------------------------------------------

Life Reflects

bird sat on a perch
ocean reflects upon clouds
rain fills a great void

Haiku, contest entry
-----------------------------------------------

All placed in top ten but first Haiku took first place in that contest.--Tyr

[darin]

Bro - she was just being a little shit - in a good way. :-)

[jimnyc]

yes, A subform for Creative writing.

You wouldn't have to edit or anything - just step in when feelings get hurt and shit starts flying.

:)

Awesome idea!

Tyr, so long as you like the idea, we're gonna create a 'creative writing' forum just beneath the lounge, solely for writers. I know I'll see if I can chime in a bit here and there, maybe it'll give me a little incentive. We'll make you mod of that forum, meaning it's your forum to run. I never did this before so it'll be a game in progress!! You'll be able to control all aspects, within reason of course. Hopefully no moderation really necessary, but if it is, you can handle. Sound like something of interest to you?

I wouldn't want to do this a ton of times, but I think it's a good idea. Members get what they want and have input for their forum and run it as they choose for the most part, and less work for staff. :) :laugh2:

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Bro - she was just being a little shit - in a good way. :-)

Yes, already knew that but no reason why I have to return the favor.
I love how people so greatly underestimate me. Must be my Southern charm and gentle nature..--Tyr

[darin]

I dont understand anymore. :)

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

http://www.warpoetry.co.uk


War in Europe long anticipated
Posted on 8 May 2014 by David Roberts




UK Parliament often discussed war in Europe before 1914

Both Winston Churchill and his father, Lord Randolph Churchill, warned of the dangers of a war in Europe. This was clearly a common topic for discussion amongst politicians, the media and the general public in the decades before the First World War. Here is a statement made in a letter by Lord Randolph Churchill and another by Winston Churchill in the UK parliament.

Premonitions of war with Germany evident in the media and popular literature are discussed in Minds at War.

Randolph Churchill on avoiding war in Europe, (1866)

On the 22nd of December, 1886, the Chancellor of the Exchequer,Lord Randoph Churchill, wrote to Lord Salisbury, who had pointed out the desperate state of Europe and the possibilities of immediate war:

“A wise foreign policy will extricate England from Continental struggles and keep her outside of German, Russian, French, or Austrian disputes. I have for some time observed a tendency in the Government attitude to pursue a different line of action, which I have not been able to modify or check.

This tendency is certain to be accentuated if large Estimates [for Government spending] are presented to and voted by Parliament. The possession of a very sharp sword offers a temptation which becomes irresistible to demonstrate the efficiency of the weapon in a practical manner. I remember the vulnerable and scattered character of the Empire, the universality of our commerce, the peaceful tendencies of our democratic electorate, the hard times, the pressure of competition, and the high taxation now imposed: and with these facts vividly before me I decline to be a party to encouraging the military and militant circle of the War Office and Admiralty to join in the high and desperate stakes which other nations seem to be forced to risk.”

Winston Churchill, speaking in Parliament on a European War, 13 May 1901

The enormous and varied frontiers of the Empire, and our many points of contact with barbarous peoples, will surely in the future, as in the past, draw us into frequent little wars. Our military system must therefore be adapted for dealing with these minor emergencies smoothly and conveniently. But we must not expect to meet the great civilized Powers in this easy fashion. We must not regard war with a modern Power as a kind of game in which we may take a hand, and with good luck and good management may play adroitly for an evening and come safe home with our winnings. It is not that, and I rejoice that it cannot be that. A European war cannot be anything but a cruel, heartrending struggle, which, if we are ever to enjoy the bitter fruits of victory, must demand, perhaps for several years, the whole manhood of the nation, the entire suspension of peaceful industries, and the concentrating to one end of every vital energy in the community.

I have frequently been astonished since I have been in this House to hear with what composure and how glibly Members, and even Ministers, talk of a European war. I will not expatiate on the horrors of war, but there has been a great change which the House should not omit to notice. In former days, when wars arose from individual causes, from the policy of a Minister or the passion of a King, when they were fought by small regular armies of professional soldiers, and when their course was retarded by the difficulties of communication and supply, and often suspended by the winter season, it was possible to limit the liabilities of the combatants. But now, when mighty populations are impelled on each other, each individual severally embittered and inflamed—when the resources of science and civilization sweep away everything that might mitigate their fury—a European war can only end in the ruin of the vanquished and the scarcely less fatal commercial dislocation and exhaustion of the conquerors.

-------------------------------------------------------------



http://www.warpoetry.co.uk/Owena.html


Dulce et Decorum Est page link
(poem, notes on the poem and videos of readings of Dulce et Decorum Est)

Wilfred Owen is one of the principal poets featured in the anthologies of First World War poetry, Minds at War and Out in the Dark.

Introduction to Wilfred Owen
Few would challenge the claim that Wilfred Owen is the greatest writer of war poetry in the English language. He wrote out of his intense personal experience as a soldier and wrote with unrivalled power of the physical, moral and psychological trauma of the First World War. All of his great war poems on which his reputation rests were written in a mere fifteen months.

From the age of nineteen Wilfred Owen wanted to become a poet and immersed himself in poetry, being especially impressed by Keats and Shelley.

He was working in France, close to the Pyrenees, as a private tutor when the First World War broke out. At this time he was remote from the war and felt completely disconnected from it too. Even when he visited the local hospital with a doctor friend and examined, at close quarters, the nature of the wounds of soldiers who were arriving from the Western Front, the war still appeared to him as someone else's story.

Eventually he began to feel guilty of his inactivity as he read copies of The Daily Mail which his mother sent him from England. He returned to England, and volunteered to fight on 21 October 1915. He trained in England for over a year and enjoyed the impression he made on people as he walked about in public wearing his soldier's uniform.

He was sent to France on the last day of 1916, and within days was enduring the horrors of the front line.

SHORT BIOGRAPHY OF WILFRED OWEN

Wilfred Edward Salter Owen, 1893 - 1918
Born Oswestry, Shropshire. Educated at Birkenhead Institute and Shrewsbury Technical College.

From the age of nineteen Owen wanted to be a poet and immersed himself in poetry, being especially impressed by Keats and Shelley. He wrote almost no poetry of importance until he saw action in France in 1917.

He was deeply attached to his mother to whom most of his 664 letters are addressed. (She saved every one.) He was a committed Christian and became lay assistant to the vicar of Dunsden near Reading 1911-1913 – teaching Bible classes and leading prayer meetings – as well as visiting parishioners and helping in other ways.

From 1913 to 1915 he worked as a language tutor in France.

He felt pressured by the propaganda to become a soldier and volunteered on 21st October 1915. He spent the last day of 1916 in a tent in France joining the Second Manchesters. He was full of boyish high spirits at being a soldier.

Within a week he had been transported to the front line in a cattle wagon and was "sleeping" 70 or 80 yards from a heavy gun which fired every minute or so. He was soon wading miles along trenches two feet deep in water. Within a few days he was experiencing gas attacks and was horrified by the stench of the rotting dead; his sentry was blinded, his company then slept out in deep snow and intense frost till the end of January. That month was a profound shock for him: he now understood the meaning of war. "The people of England needn't hope. They must agitate," he wrote home. (See his poems The Sentry and Exposure.)

He escaped bullets until the last week of the war, but he saw a good deal of front-line action: he was blown up, concussed and suffered shell-shock. At Craiglockhart, the psychiatric hospital in Edinburgh, he met Siegfried Sassoon who inspired him to develop his war poetry.

He was sent back to the trenches in September, 1918 and in October won the Military Cross by seizing a German machine-gun and using it to kill a number of Germans.

On 4th November he was shot and killed near the village of Ors.
The news of his death reached his parents home as the Armistice bells were ringing on 11 November 1918.
----------------------------------------------------------------



http://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/dulce-et-decorum-est

Wilfred Owen, 1893 - 1918

Dulce et Decorum Est



Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.

Gas! Gas! Quick, boys!—An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And flound’ring like a man in fire or lime...
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil’s sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,—
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.



This poem is in the public domain.

[KitchenKitten99]

Yes, already knew that but no reason why I have to return the favor.
I love how people so greatly underestimate me. Must be my Southern charm and gentle nature..--Tyr

I much prefer sarcasm and smart-assery.

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Michael Brett


Boston Bombing


What haunts you after an explosion

Is the eggshell nature of things,

The art forms and the dreams of madness:


The red pools, the Jackson Pollock zigzags

On grey paving slabs;


The houses sliced like cake; paper doorways;


The darkness, shock and night snapped shut

Like a pocket watch whose machinery

May be glimpsed like anemones

Waving –phosphorescent- on the darkened floors

Of barroom confessionals and consulting rooms


Whose bulbs overwinter in silent places:

Basements, lock-up garages, rucksacks and holdalls;


Or sometimes in those man-made wild places

Where no-one goes

Save the homeless and detectives, pathologists,

Under motorway ramps and railway arches.


These and subleased apartments, paid for in cash

Are sometimes states in waiting,

Like Lenin’s in Percy Street

With a policeman hiding in the grandfather clock

Who does not speak Russian;


These are the invisible other cities

Plotting against our kingdoms of the necessary nonsense,

The fables agreed upon

That stop all Romes collapsing beneath the weight

Of Sistine ceilings and marble angels, oil;


The Dr Dee levitation of shared assumptions and paper money

For –in truth-bombs show us everything we need to know:

That everything is just a house of cards

Save our need to eat and who we love.


Michael Brett 2013

[KitchenKitten99]

There once was a Senator from Mass
who was searchin around for a young Lass;
He lucked out and found it;
He fucked up and drowned it.
And that was the end of that fine young ass.

[jimnyc]

Moved thread to appropriate forum. :)

[KitchenKitten99]

Moved thread to appropriate forum. :)

But what if I don't want to be appropriate???

[jimnyc]

But what if I don't want to be appropriate???

Only the thread needed to be appropriate, YOU are free to now be inappropriate within. :beer:

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Narrative...

The View

At the end of Mulberry street
stood a massive old and weathered oak.
With an owl rested there every night , just waiting
for the right meal to wander by,
then silent wings swooped effortlessly down
the massacre hardly made a sound at all.
I watched from my bedroom window each night to
see this act of natural savagery and the feast
Even saw a black kitten become the monster's meal
Yet never did I think of it as barbaric savagery
because man eats whatever he wants with arrogant glee
As master over all creatures and with contempt
for the weak and lame,
Throat cut and bloodied the cow so peaceful
becomes next day's burgers and we bat not an eye.
Unholy indifference reasoned to be a normal act
by we lords of the earth, we takers of all weaker
things.
Great to find the old Mulberry still a launching pad
after these past decades.
And man changes not except his clothes and his
ideas on his superiority over known and unknown Universe.

Robert J. Lindley
April 7th. 1992

note: Rarely ever do Narrative poetry as it is unrhymed but can be informative and very plainly stated.
Depends on the message one wants to convey..

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Written by: Wystan Hugh (W H) Auden


The Fall of Rome


The piers are pummelled by the waves;
In a lonely field the rain
Lashes an abandoned train;
Outlaws fill the mountain caves.
Fantastic grow the evening gowns;
Agents of the Fisc pursue
Absconding tax-defaulters through
The sewers of provincial towns.
Private rites of magic send
The temple prostitutes to sleep;
All the literati keep
An imaginary friend.
Cerebrotonic Cato may
Extol the Ancient Disciplines,
But the muscle-bound Marines
Mutiny for food and pay.
Caesar's double-bed is warm
As an unimportant clerk
Writes I DO NOT LIKE MY WORK
On a pink official form.
Unendowed with wealth or pity,
Little birds with scarlet legs,
Sitting on their speckled eggs,
Eye each flu-infected city.
Altogether elsewhere, vast
Herds of reindeer move across
Miles and miles of golden moss,
Silently and very fast.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sure seems to describe USA today, with the want to be King in charge........--Tyr

[LongTermGuy]

~ Destroyer-in-Chief ~
***********************
`Destroy America, his rule number one,
Obama is not an American son.
Killing jobs with Obamacare,
Full time and part time so be aware.
He has lied to us from day one,
And even trying to get our guns.

The Constitution means nothing to him,
Along with Reid, Pelosi and Dick Dur-bin.
The democrat party has ceased to exist,
Full of Communists and social-ists.

Take from the makers all they can,
To give it to the losers of this once great land.
Weaken America in numerous ways,
Cutting the military day by day.
Muslim by birth and still today,
“The Messiah” Obama needs to go away.

Obama’s corrupt as one can be,
From the IRS, Benghazi and AP.
Fast and Furious was number one,
And lives were lost under this Muslim.

Spying on us any way he can,
The NSA is leading the way.
The FBI are flying their drones,
Over America and all of our homes.
MOLON LABE is the battle cry,
Gun from my hand you will have to pry.
The oath I took on another day,
Is still in force this very day !!`

John D USN RVN 71, 72, 73, evac 75
9/29/2013

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

~ Destroyer-in-Chief ~
***********************
`Destroy America, his rule number one,
Obama is not an American son.
Killing jobs with Obamacare,
Full time and part time so be aware.
He has lied to us from day one,
And even trying to get our guns.

The Constitution means nothing to him,
Along with Reid, Pelosi and Dick Dur-bin.
The democrat party has ceased to exist,
Full of Communists and social-ists.

Take from the makers all they can,
To give it to the losers of this once great land.
Weaken America in numerous ways,
Cutting the military day by day.
Muslim by birth and still today,
“The Messiah” Obama needs to go away.

Obama’s corrupt as one can be,
From the IRS, Benghazi and AP.
Fast and Furious was number one,
And lives were lost under this Muslim.

Spying on us any way he can,
The NSA is leading the way.
The FBI are flying their drones,
Over America and all of our homes.
MOLON LABE is the battle cry,
Gun from my hand you will have to pry.
The oath I took on another day,
Is still in force this very day !!`

John D USN RVN 71, 72, 73, evac 75
9/29/2013


I salute the author of that fine write as a poet, a patriot and an honorable man that served this nation..--:salute:-- :beer:-Tyr

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

My Girlfriend's Legs

A woman, so lovely my mind waltzed in a haze,
as the sun rose she glowed in rainbow hues;
As she stepped from bed my heartbeat would raise
into a crescendo of blasts two by two!
An image that sent waves of sweetest delight,
romance misting in the air she trailed
Save me, save me forever that glorious sight
(With her in my world I never failed.)

She that touched my inner spirit with her grace,
soft spoken words that had a sexy ring;
Memories my mind could never dare erase,
dreams so fantastic that nighttime would sing.
First time I saw those tanned sexy legs so long
I knew paradise was showing its wide open hand
Then I begged her to grab and bring me along
as she danced her way across this great land.

Those eyes that twinkled at my stumbling fall,
shine with starlight spreading unselfish cheer
Yes, sweet memories my heart captured it all
melted down every time I heard my love say, my dear!

Robert J. Lindley, 05-13-2015

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

A Servant When He Reigneth


Three things make earth unquiet
And four she cannot brook
The godly Agur counted them
And put them in a book —
Those Four Tremendous Curses
With which mankind is cursed;
But a Servant when He Reigneth
Old Agur entered first.
An Handmaid that is Mistress
We need not call upon.
A Fool when he is full of Meat
Will fall asleep anon.
An Odious Woman Married
May bear a babe and mend;
But a Servant when He Reigneth
Is Confusion to the end.

His feet are swift to tumult,
His hands are slow to toil,
His ears are deaf to reason,
His lips are loud in broil.
He knows no use for power
Except to show his might.
He gives no heed to judgment
Unless it prove him right.

Because he served a master
Before his Kingship came,
And hid in all disaster
Behind his master's name,
So, when his Folly opens
The unnecessary hells,
A Servant when He Reigneth
Throws the blame on some one else.

His vows are lightly spoken,
His faith is hard to bind,
His trust is easy broken,
He fears his fellow-kind.
The nearest mob will move him
To break the pledge he gave —
Oh, a Servant when he Reigneth
Is more than ever slave!



© by owner. Added by volunteers for educational purposes and provided at no charge. Dmca
For three things the earth is disquieted, and for four which it cannot bear. For a servant when he reigneth, and a fool when he is filled with meat; for an odious woman when she is married, and an handmaid that is heir to her mistress. -- Prov. XXX. 21-22-23.

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Bad Blood

From my ancestors the Gauls I have pale blue eyes, a narrow brain, and awkwardness in competition. I think my clothes are as barbaric as theirs. But I don't butter my hair.

The Gauls were the most stupid hide-flayers and hay-burners of their time.

From them, I inherit: idolatry, and love of sacrelige; - oh! all sorts of vice, anger, lechery, - terrific stuff, lechery; - lying, above all, and laziness.

I have a horror of all trades and crafts. Bosses and workers, all of them peasants, and common. The hand that holds the pen is as good as the one that holds the plow. - What a century for hands! - I'll never learn to use my hands. And then, domesticity goes too far. The propriety of beggary shames me. Criminals are as disgusting as men without balls: I'm intact, and I don't care.

But! who has made my tongue so treacherous, that until now it has counseled and kept me in idleness? I have not used even my body to get along. Out-idling the sleepy toad, I have lived everywhere. There's not one family in Europe that I don't know. - Families, I mean, like mine, who owe their existence to the Declaration of the Rights of Man. - I have known each family's eldest son!

¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯

If only I had a link to some point in the history of France!

But instead, nothing.

I am well aware that I have always been of an inferior race. I cannot understand revolt. My race has never risen, except to plunder: to devour like wolves a beast they did not kill.

I remember the history of France, the Eldest Daughter of the Church. I would have gone, a village serf, crusading to the Holy Land; my head is full of roads in the Swabian plains, of the sight of Byzantium, of the ramparts of Jerusalem; the cult of Mary, the pitiful thought of Christ crucified, turns in my head with a thousand profane enchantments. - I sit like a leper among broken pots and nettles, at the foot of a wall eaten away by the sun. - And later, a wandering mercenary, I would have bivouacked under German nighttimes.

Ah! one thing more: I dance the Sabbath in a scarlet clearing, with old women and children.

I don't remember much beyond this land, and Christianity. I will see myself forever in its past. But always alone; without a family; what language, in fact, did I used to speak? I never see myself in the councils of Christ; nor in the councils of the Lords, - Christ's representatives.

What was I in the century past: I only find myself today. The vagabonds, the hazy wars are gone. The inferior race has swept over all - the People, as they put it, Reason; Nation and Science.

Ah, Science! Everything is taken from the past. For the body and the soul, - the last sacrament, - we have Medicine and Philosophy, household remedies and folk songs rearrainged. And royal entertainments, and games that kings forbid! Geography, Cosmography, Mechanics, Chemistry!...

Science, the new nobility! Progress. The world moves!... And why shouldn't it?

We have visions of numbers. We are moving toward the Spirit. What I say is oracular and absolutely right. I understand, and since I cannot express myself except in pagan terms, I would rather keep quiet.

Pagan blood returns! The Spirit is at hand, why does Christ not help me, and grant my soul nobility and freedom. Ah! but the Gospel belongs to the past! The Gospel! The Gospel.

I wait gluttinously for God. I have been of an inferior race for ever and ever.

And now I am on the beaches of Brittany. Let cities light their lamps in the evening. My daytime is done; I am leaving Europe. The air of the sea will burn my lungs; lost climates will turn my skin to leather. To swim, to pulverize grass, to hunt, above all to smoke; to drink strong drinks, as strong as molten ore, - as did those dear ancestors around their fires.

I will come back with limbs of iron, with dark skin, and angry eyes: in this mask, they will think I belong to a strong race. I will have gold: I will be brutal and indolent. Women nurse these ferocious invalids come back from the tropics. I will become involved in politics. Saved.

Now I am accursed, I detest my native land. The best thing is a drunken sleep, stretched out on some strip of shore.

¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯

But no one leaves. - Let us set out once more on our native roads, burdened with my vice, that vice that since the age of reason has driven roots of suffering into my side - that towers to heaven, beats me, hurls me down, drags me on.

Ultimate innocence, final timidity. All's said. Carry no more my loathing and treacheries before the world.

Come on! Marching, burdens, the desert, boredom and anger.

Hire myself to whom? What beasts adore? What sacred images destroy? What hearts shall I break? What lie maintain? - Through what blood wade?

Better to keep away from justice. - A hard life, outright stupor, - with a dried-out fist to lift the coffin lid, lie down, and suffocate. No old age this way, no danger: terror is very un-French.

- Ah! I am so forsaken I will offer at any shrine impulses toward perfection.

Oh my self-denial, my marvelous Charity! my Selfless love! And still here below!

De Profundis Domine, what an ass I am!

¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯

When I was still a little child, I admired the hardened convict on whom the prison door will always close; I used to visit the bars and the rented rooms his presence had consecrated; I saw with his eyes the blue sky and the flower-filled work of the fields; I followed his fatal scent through city streets. He had more strength than the saints, more sense than any explorer - and he, he alone! was witness to his glory and his rightness.

Along the open road on winter nights, homeless, cold, and hungry, one voice gripped my frozen heart: "Weakness or strength: you exist, that is strength. You don't know where you are going or why you are going, go in everywhere, answer everyone. No one will kill you, any more than if you were a corpse." In the morning my eyes were so vacant and my face so dead, that the people I met may not even have seen me.

In cities, mud went suddenly red and black, like a mirror when a lamp in the next room moves, like treasure in the forest! Good luck, I cried, and I saw a sea of flames and smoke rise to heaven; and left and right, all wealth exploded like a billion thunderbolts.

But orgies and the companionship of women were impossible for me. Not even a friend. I saw myself before an angry mob, facing a firing squad, weeping out sorrows they could not understand, and pardoning! - like Joan of Arc! - "Priests, professors and doctors, you are mistaken in delivering me into the hands of the law. I have never been one of you; I have never been a Christian; I belong to the race that sang on the scaffold; I do not understand your laws; I have no moral sense; I am a brute; you are making a mistake..."

Yes, my eyes are closed to your light. I am an animal, a nigger. But I can be saved. You are fake niggers; maniacs, savages, misers, all of you. Businessman, you're a nigger; judge, you're a nigger; general, you're a nigger; emperor, old scratch-head, you're a nigger: you've drunk a liquor no one taxes, from Satan's still. - This nation is inspired by fever and cancer. Invalids and old men are so respectable that they ask to be boiled. - The best thing is to quit this continent where madness prowls, out to supply hostages for these wretches. I will enter the true kingdom of the sons of Cham.

Do I understand nature? Do I understand myself? No more words. I shroud dead men in my stomach.... Shouts, drums, dance, dance, dance! I can't even imagine the hour when the white men land, and I will fall into nothingness.

Thirst and hunger, shouts, dance, dance, dance!

¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯

The white men are landing. Cannons! Now we must be baptized, get dressed, and go to work.

My heart has been stabbed by grace. Ah! I hadn't thought this would happen!

But I haven't done anything wrong. My days will be easy, and I will be spared repentance. I will not have had the torments of the soul half-dead to the Good, where austure light rises again like funeral candles. The fate of a first-born son, a premature coffin covered with shining tears. No doubt, perversion is stupid, vice is stupid; rottenness must always be cast away. But the clock must learn to strike more than hours of pure pain! Am I to be carried away like a child, to play in paradise, forgetting all this misery!

Quick! Are there any other lives? - Sleep for the rich is impossible. Wealth has always lived openly. divine love alone confers the keys of knowledge. I see that nature is only a show of kindness. Farewell chimeras, ideals and errors.

The reasonable song of angels rises from the rescue ship: it is divine love. - Two loves! I may die of earthly love, die of devotion. I have left behind creatures whose grief will grow at my going! You choose me from among the castaways, aren't those who remain my friends?

Save them!

I am reborn in reason. The world is good. I will bless life. I will love my brothers. There are no longer childhood promises. Nor the hope of escaping old age and death. God is my strength, and I praise God.

¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯

Boredom is no longer my love. Rage, perversion, madness, whose every impulse and disaster I know, - my burden is set down entire. Let us appraise with clear heads the extent of my innocence.

I am no longer able to ask for the consolation of a beating. I don't imagine I'm off on a honeymoon with Jesus Christ as my father-in-law.

I am no prisoner of my own reason. I have said: God. I want freedom within salvation: how shall I go about it? A taste for frivolity has left me. No further need for divine love or for devotion to duty. I do not regret the age of emotion and feeling. To each his own reason, contempt, Charity: I keep my place at the top of the angelic ladder of good sense.

As for settled happiness, domestic or not... no, I can't. I am too dissipated, too weak. Work makes life blossom, an old idea, not mine; my life doesn't weigh enough, it drifts off and floats far beyond action, that third pole of the world.

What an old maid I'm turning into, to lack the courage to love death!

If only God would grant me that celestial calm, etherial calm, and prayer, - like the saints of old. - The Saints! They were strong! Anchorites, artists of a kind we no longer need!

Does this farce have no end? My innocence is enough to make me cry. Life is the farce we all must play.

¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯

Stop it! this is your punishment. - Forward march!

Ah! my lungs burn, my temples roar! Night rolls in my eyes, beneath this sun! My heart... my arms and legs...

Where are we going? To battle? I am weak! the others go on ahead. Tools, weapons... give me time!...

Fire! Fire at me! Here! or I'll give myself up. - Cowards! - I'll kill myself! I'll throw myself beneath the horses' hooves!

Ah!...

- I'll get used to it.

That would be the French way, the path of honor!


Arthur Rimbaud



- As translated by Paul Schmidt, and published in 1976 by Harper Colophon Books, Harper & Row.

His version of living hell, trust me on this if nothing else, I have been in a worse place once long ago and survived it....
As my dearly departed uncle often declared, "If I were not so damn crazy, I'd go insane"!- ;)--Tyr

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

http://www.poetryexplorer.net/poem.php?id=10059980


Poetry Explorer
HOME ABOUT CONTEMPORARY POETS SUBJECT DISCOVERY TOP POETS CONTACT
Classic and Contemporary Poetry

TO MY INGENIOUS FRIEND MR. WILLIAN FAITHORNE, ON HIS BOOK OF DRAWING, by THOMAS FLATMAN Poem Source Poet's Biography
First Line: Should I attempt an elogy, or frame
Last Line: From dull oblivion, and a gaping grave.
Subject(s): Engraving & Engravers; Faithorne, William (1616-1691)


SHOULD I attempt an elogy, or frame
A paper-structure to secure thy name,
The lightning of one censure, one stern frown
Might quickly hazard that, and thy renown.
But this thy book prevents that fruitless pain.
One line speaks purelier thee, than my best strain.
Those mysteries (once like the spiteful mould,
Which bars the greedy Spaniard from his gold)
Thou dost unfold in every friendly page,
Kind to the present, and succeeding age.
That hand, whose curious art prolongs the date
Of frail mortality, and baffles Fate
With brass and steel, can surely potent be,
To rear a lasting monument for thee:
For my part I prefer (to guard the dead)
A copper-plate beyond a sheet of lead.
So long as brass, so long as books endure,
So long as neat-wrought pieces, thou'rt secure.
A [Faithorne sculpsit] is a charm can save
From dull oblivion, and a gaping grave.


--------------------------------------------------------------
Another one---Tyr

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

A THOUGHT OF DEATH, by THOMAS FLATMAN Poem Source Poet's Biography
First Line: When on my sick bed I languish
Last Line: That lies on th' other side death's rubicon.
Subject(s): Death; Dead, The


WHEN on my sick bed I languish,
Full of sorrow, full of anguish,
Fainting, gasping, trembling, crying,
Panting, groaning, speechless, dying,
My soul just now about to take her flight
Into the regions of eternal night;
Oh tell me you,
That have been long below,
What shall I do!
What shall I think, when cruel Death appears,
That may extenuate my fears!
Methinks I hear some gentle Spirit say,
Be not fearful, come away!
Think with thyself that now thou shalt be free,
And find thy long-expected liberty;
Better thou mayst, but worse thou canst not be
Than in this vale of tears and misery.
Like Caesar, with assurance then come on,
And unamaz'd attempt the laurel crown,
That lies on th' other side Death's Rubicon.

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

The Darkness Comes, Revelation Part One



The sky opened to a new cascade
a revolution in discord came down
Crystals shattered then remade
all cried, even the jolly clown

A great sword cut all the land
spirits rush forth in dark display
Only the strong took a stand
so easily were they swept away

What difference was death and life
earth had no meaningful replies
Each cut with twist of the knife
sent more pain before victim dies

Revelation,time had now brought on
this blackness seeped in sin
Pain lay under every unturned stone
cursed , were the souls of men

Angel of vengeance then rode forth
fire blazing from his dark eyes
This the prophesy of the far North
of plagues falling from the skies

Dying swiftly became a new relief
disease came forth in each wave
Useless were these pagan beliefs
only sweet death now could save

Yet far worse loomed just ahead
greater misery on a train was there
Such that was better off to be dead
torment spread and ruled everywhere

Down roaring tracks the evil acomin'
echoes sounded of the deepest of doom
Futile those that set out arunnin'
this darkness found every known room

Robert Lindley
August, 1989

note: Another poem from my private journal.

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Five Dark Devils

The last was deeper than the first
he for blood always ravenously thirst
Every cry was for innocent to die
demanded I give it my best try

The fourth came in like a lion
swore my soul was then dyin'
Promised relief if I but retreat
into his cold, dark cave to eat

Third was as slippery as an eel
his every dark sin I would feel
When I refused his every dark wish
made me eat raw meat from a dish

Second, a dancing ghost was he
forced me to laugh and lie by three
Every morn my head felt like lead
as he tossed me out of my bed

First was worst of the bad lot
burned my heart and all I got
Stayed until he was forced out
left with a boom and mighty shout

Five dark devils did torture me
each kept me from living free
All eventually had to fly on away
for light told them not to stay

Robert Lindley, Sept 14th 1980

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

No More Stones


No more stones,my dinner plate is full
my teeth broken on that hardened heart
Broken,the heavy chain you loved to pull
dead,the horse that dragged your evil cart

Whisper softly to me again as you fade
from this damn misery- meal that you made

No more rocks, I am much wiser and older
I see pitch black upon your angel wings
I need a sweet companion just to hold her
with fiery spirit that makes my soul sing

No more cuts, the knife is getting dull
waves of blues eat deep into my brain
Holes you drilled into my sleeping skull
birth dark echoes with each aching pain

No more stabs, the kind you do so well
secrets we shared call out but I refuse
Tender were kisses and sweet your smell
now darkness looms,one I did not choose

No more cries,cries for your sweet love
now fire burns hot,in this living Hell
Mercy arrived today,came from far above
told me,see her as dust in a dry well

No more shouts,soft words decorating you
songs I wrote,in praise of your romance
Foolish me,gave you more than your due
wrapped in love,so deep in a blind trance

No more stones,my dinner plate is full
my teeth broken on that hardened heart
Broken,the heavy chain you loved to pull
dead,the horse that dragged your evil cart

Whisper softly to me again as you fade
from this damn misery- meal that you made



Robert J. Lindley, 05-19-2015 (previous-1976)

Note: Rewrite from memory of a poem my ex-wife burned decades ago.

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Huge Blue Eyes That Speak


I heard your bright eyes, they speak
your lusts they did so softly leak
Penetrating my best hidden shield
seeking,long night's greatest yield

Searching for touch to find it all
a rapture that does then enthrall
Speak more with those blue eyes
painting days of sweet sunny skies

The images those thoughts project
stirs my love to hold and protect
I would crumble in your soft embrace
happily lose myself without a trace

Eyes saying,I want your hot passion
me replying but I am so old fashion
Cries for me to melt deep into you
know your soul,finding every clue

Should you speak that way again
you will be far more than a friend
I will seek to make you all mine
on our love we shall forever dine

Those eyes place passion in my heart
each blink cranks up the loving start
Even your breath now sings to me
this my darling is how it should be

Eyes that sparkle and deeply shine
begging for nights of roses and wine
Life's love mysteries are no more
tonight I shall land upon your shore

I heard your bright eyes, they speak
your lusts they did so softly leak
Penetrating my best hidden shield
seeking,long night's greatest yield

Searching for touch to find it all
a rapture that does then enthrall
Speak more with those blue eyes
painting days of sweet sunny skies

Robert J. Lindley, 05-19-2015

Note: One not dark, a request from a dear friend...

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

The poet Thomas Moore (1779-1852) was born in Dublin but lived in Sloperton, near Bowood House, where he was a frequent visitor at the social gatherings of his patron, the Marquis of Lansdowne. Together with the Marquis of Lansdowne and the Wiltshire poets Crabbe and Bowles, he was present at the grand opening of the Bath Royal Literary and Scientific Institution in January 1825. From his diaries we get a flavour of this evening:



The grand opening today of the Literary Institution in Bath. Attended the inaugural lecture by Sir G. Gibbs, at two. Walked about a little afterwards - and to dinner at six. Lord Lansdowne was in the chair [...] "Lord L. alluded to us in his first speech, as among the literary ornaments, if not of Bath itself of its precinct [...].



Thomas Moore then himself gave a speech, received by "a burst of enthusiasm" by his audience in which he talked of the "springs of health with which nature had gift the fair city of Bath".

Thomas Moore and his wife Bessie were frequent visitors to the city, as their beloved daughter Anastasia went to school here. His poetry was loved by his contemporaries, especially his Irish Melodies, Lalla Rookh and the Loves of the Angels. In Prose he wrote the Life of Sheridan and as a friend of Lord Byron, he published The Letters and Journals of Lord Byron and in 1830 edited Byron's collected works. He was a frequent guest in aristocratic circles at Lacock Abbey and Bowood, dining, dancing, singing, reciting poetry and talking about politics.This was witnessed by an astonished 6th Duke of Devonshire, visiting Bowood in April 1826, who wrote in his diary that Thomas Moore, "the little urchin" was shown straight into Lord Lansdowne's room without any ceremony.

The Bath Royal Literary and Scientific Institution is fortunate in having in its collection a bust of the poet Thomas Moore.


----------------------------------------------------------------------------

After the Battle
by Thomas Moore

Night closed around the conqueror's way,
And lightnings show'd the distant hill,
Where those who lost that dreadful day
Stood few and faint, but fearless still.
The soldier's hope, the patriot's zeal,
For ever dimm'd, for ever crost --
Oh! who shall say what heroes feel,
When all but life and honour's lost?

The last sad hour of freedom's dream,
And valour's task, moved slowly by,
While mute they watch'd, till morning's beam
Should rise and give them light to die.
There's yet a world, where souls are free,
Where tyrants taint not nature's bliss; --
If death that world's bright opening be,
Oh! who would live a slave in this?
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

An Expostulation to Lord King
by Thomas Moore

How can you, my Lord, thus delight to torment all
The Peers of realm about cheapening their corn,
When you know, if one hasn't a very high rental,
'Tis hardly worth while being very high born?

Why bore them so rudely, each night of your life,
On a question, my Lord, there's so much to abhor in?
A question - like asking one, "How is your wife?" --
At once so confounded domestic and foreign.

As to weavers, no matter how poorly they feast;
But Peers, and such animals, fed up for show,
(Like the well-physick'd elephant, lately deceas'd,)
Take wonderful quantum of cramming, you know.

You might see, my dear Baron, how bor'd and distrest
Were their high noble hearts by your merciless tale,
When the force of the agony wrung even a jest
From the frugal Scotch wit of my Lord L-d-d-le!

Bright Peer! to whom Nature and Berwickshire gave
A humour, endow'd with effects so provoking,
That, when the whole House looks unusually grave,
You may always conclude that Lord L-d-d-le's joking!

And then, those unfortunate weavers of Perth -
Not to know the vast difference Providence dooms
Between weavers of Perth and Peers of high birth,
'Twixt those who have heir-looms, and those who've but looms!

"To talk now of starving!" - as great Ath-l said --
(and nobles all cheer'd, and the bishops all wonder'd,)
"When, some years ago, he and others had fed
Of these same hungry devils about fifteen hundred!"

It follows from hence - and the Duke's very words
Should be publish'd wherever poor rogues of this craft are --
That weavers,once rescued from starving by Lords,
Are bound to be starved by said Lords ever after.

When Rome was uproarious, her knowing patricians
Made "Bread and the Circus" a cure for each row;
But not so the plan of our noble physicians,
"No Bread and the Tread-mill" 's the regimen now.

So cease, my dear Baron of Ockham, your prose,
As I shall my poetry -- neither convinces;
And all we have spoken and written but show,
When you tread on a nobleman's corn, how he winces.

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Never shown this poem to anybody before but feel its time.. -Tyr


Death of My Father

Sunrise seen from hospital window view
his body wasting away nearby
Nothing! Nothing, I could ever do
death was coming and I knew not the why

Strong man lay there in misery and pain
cancer eating away his precious life
Teenage son about to go completely insane
coming fate was just too damn much strife

Darkness played deep in that small room
of what use speed, strength and skill
Against cancer and its mad racing doom
reality was, it is soon going to kill

Now those past memories savagely haunts
with mornings of morbidly saddened blues
After nights of dark spirits giving taunts
pray no others walk in these tired, sad shoes!


Robert J. Lindley

Note: I was 15 and spent 72/96 hour shifts in hospital with my dad as he was dying with cancer.
My brother Ricky and I stayed there during the weekdays and mom came for weekends.
Those 4 months felt like 40 years! I could do nothing to stop what was coming.I vowed then to make
somebody pay for this and it turned out to be me that I punished.
Here I am 46 years later and still see this as the greatest test of my soul ever. Also I see how
it changed me forever.
My dad was sent home to die after his operation. He lasted 6 times longer than they said he would.
Tough as nails was he.
I wrote that poem at age 35, 20 years after his passing.
I think of my dad every day, every day...... Sixty-one and still miss him...

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Three Moons Barking


Three moons barking, silvery shadow each
midnight echoes seek the night-lark glow
shining right there,yet just out of reach
Silver mist enchants the lovers scene
touching to increase the memories
moonbeams wrap all in a brilliant sheen

Midnight dance,three moon plays the part
gifting a mood meant only for lovers
each sharing the others softly aching heart
Summer night set to hold this long embrace
deepest in the long tender kisses
love so set in stone,nothing can erase

Three moons barking, silvery shadow each
midnight echoes seek the night-lark glow
shining right there,yet just out of reach

Robert J. Lindley, 05-21 -2015

Note: Written for a contest.
16 LINES OR LESS, SUBJECT LOVE AND MOONLIGHT

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

This from my private journal. Hope you may enjoy...-Tyr


Where Led That Path Not Taken


Where led that path not taken
a tramp into a mist of waving grain
Away from this God forsaken
racing for ever more foolish gain

How stands the present crop
thistles and thorns by the wayside
Will this marathon stop
seeking my shelter calm Bay-side

Will time dare to yield
harvest of sweet, delightful fruits
Can I drop my old shield
steady in faith of my parental roots

Where led that path not taken
a tramp into a mist of waving grain
Away from this God forsaken
racing for ever more foolish gain

Robert J. Lindley
02, 23, 1990

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Greed, Man's Affliction


What world will mankind create next
using his arrogance as a pretext?
Another sham to satisfy his greed
stealing daily from those in need

Will man next conquer the moon
steal and sell all too soon
Reach out to space to grab more
selling stars from galactic shore

When will the greed ever stop
or man dare reap an honest crop
Could be only after death rebukes
greed's power far greater than nukes

What world will mankind create next
using his arrogance as a pretext?
Another sham to satisfy his greed
stealing daily from those in need


Robert J. Lindley, 05-23-2015

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Posting a poem written by my poet friend , Lindsay Laurie, an Australian that inks the page quite well.
Hope you may enjoy this write as much as I did. Added this poem to my fav list and he kindly gave his permission just this morning for me to present the poem here. -Tyr






Poems by Lindsay Laurie


Sunrise on the Living Desert

Streaks of pink 'cross morning skies.
Land shaded lemon; last star dies…
Lightening blue spreads far and wide,
a half red sun. New dawn’s arrived.

This living desert yawns and wakes.
A foreign sparrow flits and takes
what morsel that darkness denied
to night feeders who now hide.

The sun begins its golden rise.
Shadows bear before my eyes.
Range of mountains now in view
look purple hazed and crumpled too.

A gentle breeze blows cool and soft.
A drifting hawk soars past aloft.
A static call echo's the morning.
Somewhere close, the first days warning.

There's golden bloom on mulga's face,
saltbush combines in shadow space,
a rabbit warren mounds the sand!
Three's company seems hand in hand.

The rugged hillside carved away,
gorged and furrowed brown and gray.
Eroded sand displays the shale,
where layered seams look to impale.

Tufted grasses dry and withered,
amongst that broken shale that slivered.
Stand out quartz already bright;
The rising sun turns glistening white.

A different swallow, black and white;
blue backed wrens dart out of sight.
Sunning now on walking tracks,
lay together; shingle backs.

And now the scene spreads far and wide,
to struggling wattle; sheer cliff side.
On closer look near at the base,
three kangaroos take a two-step pace.

Stillness lingers, there's an unknown call,
what bird is that? I love them all!
And the red plain grows beneath blue skies,
as the living desert welcomes sunrise.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

The Goddess of Nature, A Visit

The depth of the journey ventured!
Across the vast plains I glide: the sky beaming down upon my back.
This my trek-- sends tingles into my hardened soul.
A feast! A galactic flight into the realms of Nature's mysteries.

I stand upon a forested shore, the sun speaks;
the wind beckons me forward into the welcoming glen.
I tread lightly and silently to observe without damage or distress,
the wildlife that now stirs my dreams.

As waves of purest delight enter my mind, the birds sing out in tune.
A melody so fine the earth snatches at the moon!

I hold my position to absorb this enchantment longer.
I am open my heart to grab the spirit,
the olden deity that sees my true soul.
I float in a mirage that mists my face with colors, smells and kisses of glory!

The she appears!
The Goddess of Nature, a raven haired beauty of grace.
Touching my heart as it races to catch her majesty!

This is the scene I saw in my dream before the adventure and day's sojourn.
The beauty of She that holds the sky, the woods , mountains and the seas in her hands.
Time stands still for an eternity , then...
She lets me go,
A release back into my reality.

I again see her handiwork and marvel at this gift.
This creation that mankind fails to appreciate or understand!

All is stored in a memory for replay and wonderment.
A carved image of Nature and her majesty that soothes the ever yearning heart!

Robert J. Lindley
Sept. 1993

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

A haiku, contest write.. -Tyr


Sky pose on paper
eternity in a breath
broken shoes both blue

Syllable count, 5 7 5... 3 lines,
standard English haiku

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Remove Illusion And Its Dark Mask


A nail in each eye may gift light
for to see without eyes is sight
One must hold the heart to task
remove illusion and its dark mask
Ears become echo chambers of fact
heart and soul both remain intact
Spiritual knowledge soon appears
in volume when there are no fears

Clear the mind of selfish thought
victory in battle faithfully fought
Allow the soft breeze to rush on in
Truth of life only then will begin
Defining moment,a magnificent start
divine guidance will play it's part
A dark veil will have been lifted
bumper crop harvested,wheat sifted

Light of Truth requires a new clean slate
our blessing is the power to change our Fate!

True life,true love both are difficult tasks
neither can be had while we wear our masks!

Robert J. Lindley, 05-25-2015

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Forgotten Love, So Deeply Regretted


After the fire has burned very low,
the shadows move with sinister look,
You see the place you fear to go
think of the truest lover you forsook;

Did not that Love manifest its worth,
a touch that reached your needy soul,
Embraced your heart giving a rebirth,
remove that all too heavy deadening toll;

And sleep within your dreams a delight,
golden kiss wrapped in softest touch
The greatest Lover never given sight
As you so loved yourself far too much.

Robert J. Lindley
OCT, 14TH 1979

Note: Bringing this out from my private journal to see the light of day.
Hope you may enjoy it as I remember being very sad when writing it.
Only one other ever saw it(a copy), sent it back with tear stains on it
but took no action. Such is life, we win some , we lose some..

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Poetry, Lost In My Thoughts

I write my poems in a deep thought
with the pain my life dearly bought
Lost,listening to a vanishing muse
this world's whispers I often use!

Words given by ancient gnarly trees
echoes embraced from tumbling seas
Sounds of silence in forested glen
far away from greed and wiles of men

Cry from distant star or cold stone
shadows dancing by moonlight shown
Fleeting grabs at moments of serenity
promising future gift of infinity

I am giant tree reaching to the sky
spreading my limbs out and so high
Mirror of Life's fantastic desires
a creature cast from heavenly fires

I write my poems in a deep thought
with the pain my life dearly bought
Lost,listening to a vanishing muse
this world's whispers I often use!

Imagination brings sweet words to ink
volleys from ship impossible to sink
Heart beaten into indestructible bell
Sounding red rose,eating its smell

I am a river,flooding poetic page
servant of Nature,slave to my sage
Erupting volcano spewing heated ash
darkness that dares to live to smash

The great joy of seeing a newborn son
elation of finishing a marathon run
Memories of dancing in pouring rain
blessing of finding lost love again

I write my poems in a deep thought
with the pain my life dearly bought
Lost,listening to a vanishing muse
this world's whispers I often use!

Robert J. Lindley, 05-27-2015

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Because Baby, I Sit Here Naked And Alone


Sweet baby, you can curse me when I am gone
you can scream it out, kick my headstone
But baby, you really should pick up the phone
because baby, I sit here naked and alone!

Crank that Mustang and fly on over here
I have my lust for you and cold beer
Candle in the window for romantic lights
longing for one of our not sleeping nights!

Darling, rip off your clothes on your way in
mad passion explodes on us as we begin
Remember your promises from our last dance
your swore forever to this hot romance!

Just now I put your favorite beer on ice
when we rest the taste will be so nice
Bring your best see-through just to tease
all your sexual desires I plan to please!

Sweet baby, you can curse me when I am gone
you can scream it out, kick my headstone
But baby, you really should pick up the phone
because baby, I sit here naked and alone!

Robert J. Lindley, 05-28-2015

Note - Written for contest, theme is Get Your Romance On.
Any rhyming form of 32 verses or less. The sexier the better.
Dazzle me.

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

The Mystic Scene

The glow of a summer day breaking,
whispers of clouds drifting in,
Rose bushes rising in deep beauty,
symphony to the angels of morn.
Sun gifts the rays of natural life
around We that seek the longing day,
A dance of intensely strong melody,
enters souls ripened for the beauty.


Robert J. Lindley, May 9th, 1975

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Off With Their Filthy Heads



Should one dare oppose the arrogant kings
cry out with pride so it soundly rings
Stand with sweet honor, our hat in hand
fight corruption in this freedom's land

Those that say nay are simply afraid
going against the massive power laid
What power, have any over the Soul
death is always the unavoidable toll

A man walks his very own selfish path
bringing on misery and darkened wrath
Why not step off that selfish trail
avoid the sending one deep into Hell

Every king served a spiritual master
bad deed brought judgment ever faster
Yet having power over life and death
was a stone choking their every breath

Shall you be stalwart and honor true
let your gentle heart judge only you
Leave others to see your honoring him
or walk blindly with their light so dim

Should one dare oppose the arrogant kings
cry out with pride so it soundly rings
Stand with sweet honor, our hat in hand
fight corruption in this freedom's land

Yes, we dare to oppose those tyrant Kings
Slay them , give that filthy crown a fling
Off their heads with true justice abated
justice the goal never with vengeance hated!

Robert J. Lindley, 05-06-2015

Note: The term "King" is used to denote great power and not necessarily royalty
in its usual interpretation.
------------------------------------------------------
My popularity took a 90% hit after I dared to post this poem on my poetry site.
I knew my popularity would take a major hit , posted the poem anyways. Thats just how I am.
However had not a clue it would be that big of a hit. Now I simply must write a poem far more scathing
of the corrupt obama regime.
Folks, speaking truth always comes at a high cost. People, many people hate to hear or read it..

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Within The Mind, A Storm Blasts Out Flashes



Inside the head, the brain, the human mind
are passageways filtered in dark stains,
Thoughts deep, dark and so ravenously unkind
sit like waste stuck in kitchen drains.

Within the soul, longings await a new life
with love that is so rightly sealed,
Dreams of sweetest pleasure with no strife
and old wounds that have been healed.

Inside the heart, mists of soft dreaming love
yielding to the lusts of flesh so weak,
Stares out upon the sky filled with stars above
daring only to imagine but never speak.

Within the mind, a storm blasts out flashes
brilliance wrapped in hardened shells,
Fueled by great pain and bad emotional crashes
fear sounds out like loud warning bells.

Behind the eyes, sits a screen showing all
movies and plays of dreams not born,
Danger creeping down a darkened castle hall
bringing death some future winter morn.

Robert J. Lindley
Nov. 18th, 1986

Note: From my private journal, an old poem written during a very bad time in my life.

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

I Will Rise, Above Heart's Weakness


Shall I bend, to your massive will
break chains of my aching heart
Or with infinite time wait until
life gives love's sweet restart

Shall I cry, into your bad heart
show pain dripping in blood
Or wait until we dare race apart
in a deluge waiting to flood

Should I weep, for your mistakes
eat truth to save your soul
Beg forever even more hard retakes
and love burning like a coal

Should I grovel, in abject shame
a man dying in his despair
A fool uncaring of his family name
begging again without a care

I will look, again into dark eyes
fight blackness that stares back
Choose to forget your very bad lies
seek deeper love that you lack

I will rise, above heart's weakness
cut out my longing love needs
Forget your sexy body and sleekness
which my dream forever feeds

Robert J. Lindley

Note: Written decades ago but edited
this morn to remove too many very personal verses.
The original stays private within my journal.

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Introductory Note

THESE verses and brief pieces of prose, which one might call prose poems, are selected from the two books of his poems Ernest Dowson saw published in his short lifetime (1867-1900). First published was Verses (1896); second was Decorations in Verse and Prose (1899). The two longer prose selections included here are from his book Dilemmas: Stories and Studies in Sentiment (1895).

In presenting any considerable selection of Dowson’s work to readers familiar only with his few widely anthologized poems, or but slightly acquainted with his tragic life, one can hardly do better than to quote from the introduction to the biography researched and written by Mark Longaker:

“Although by no means a poet of the front rank,” Longaker wrote, “Ernest Dowson’s place in literature is secure. No anthologist who presumes to select the best poems in the language can possibly ignore him, and no literary historian who is concerned with true poetic values can identify him with a movement and pass on. That his verse profits by selection cannot be gainsaid, but there is more lyric beauty in his slender volumes than is generally believed. He is far more than a one-poem poet: exquisite as the ‘Non Sum Qualis Eram Bonae Sub Regno Cynarae’ is, it is by no means all of Dowson, or all we need to know.

“Nor is the view of the vexed and torn spirit, the refugee in cabmen’s shelters, East End dives, and dimly lighted cafes around les Halles a complete and balanced portrait of Dowson. It is true that his life was lived amongst shadows rather than light, but on occasion sunbeams filtered through the wall of cloud with which his heredity and environment surrounded him. His life and character cannot be called exemplary, but it can readily be shown that he was far from the wastrel that he is often pictured. Without laboring the point, one who has familiarized himself with the facts can readily conclude that Dowson was more a victim of circumstance than one who deliberately cultivated nostalgie de la boue and chose the path which led to evil and destruction. Of admiration for his character and life there can be little; but it is easy to like Ernest Dowson, and to wish that something might have been done to give him sanctuary from the world and from himself.”

And for a comprehensive, balanced account of the life of Dowson, one could hardly do better than to buy or borrow a copy of Professor Longaker’s Ernest Dowson, published by the University of Pennsylvania Press, Third Edition, April 1967.

—Wiley Clements
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He wrote so many truly great poems! I chose this one to present tonight. Very likely will feature much more of his work as I just found him last week and am now a huge fan.-Tyr
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Impenitentia Ultima

BEFORE my light goes out forever if God should give me a choice of graces,
I would not reck of length of days, nor crave for things to be;
But cry: "One day of the great lost days, one face of all the faces,
Grant me to see and touch once more and nothing more to see.

"For, Lord, I was free of all Thy flowers, but I chose the world’s sad roses,
And that is why my feet are torn and mine eyes are blind with sweat,
But at Thy terrible judgement-seat, when this my tired life closes,
I am ready to reap whereof I sowed, and pay my righteous debt.

"But once the sand is run and the silver thread is broken,
Give me a grace and cast aside the veil of dolorous years,
Grant me one hour of all mine hours, and let me see for a token
Her pure and pitiful eyes shine out, and bathe her feet with tears."

Her pitiful hands should calm, and her hair stream down and blind me,
Out of the sight of night, and out of the reach of fear,
And her eyes should be my light whilst the sun went out behind me,
And the viols in her voice be the last sound in mine ear.

Before the ruining waters fall and my life be carried under,
And Thine anger cleave me through as a child cuts down a flower,
I will praise Thee, Lord, in Hell while my limbs are racked asunder,
For the last sad sight of her face and the little grace of an hour.

Ernest Dowson

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Memories Of Crossing Fires And True Romance


Upon the deep waters of life long endured
are joys and pains of we that did dance
Testament that we did indeed live is assured
are memories of crossing fires and romance
Place and time of true living rightly secured

In the great divide, death's lonely separation
darkness and regret often loom so large
Our loved ones lost need no bold proclamation
made by we in great despair left in charge

Rather we hold onto sweet memories so dear
rainbow rays of love and celebrations
Yield not to the misery of many sad tears
dance gaily with thoughts of our consolations
Acknowledge happiness in the passing years

Songs bring memories we eternally cherish
a chorus of moments we joyfully shared
This our sacrament shall not ever perish
memories of those loved, that lived and dared!

Robert J. Lindley

[Tyr-Ziu Saxnot]

Heaven Reaching Down


Silence

Moment of gold

Holy majestic kiss

Heaven reaching down to save man

Rapture

by Robert J. Lindley

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A Modern Cinquain poem written for a contest:--Tyr



What to Submit?

One Cinquain Style Poem

Only one stanza, just one, 1, one, one stanza,

The theme is your choice but within the guidelines of the site..



There two types of Cinquain Poems this is what I want



An example of Modern Cinquain poem..



Author: Adelaide Crapsey



Title: Three Silent Things



These be

Three silent things

The falling snow...the hour

Before the dawn..the mouth of one

Just dead..



Take notice:

First line..two syllables or two single syllable words

Second line: Four syllables or four single syllable words

Third line: Six syllables or six singled syllable words

Fourth line: Eight syllables or eight single syllable words

Fifth line: Two syllables or two single syllable word