index,set,title,poet,summary,human_poem,ai_poem,steered_-2x,score_-2x,steered_-1x,score_-1x,steered_-0.5x,score_-0.5x,steered_0,score_0,steered_+0.5x,score_+0.5x,steered_+1x,score_+1x,steered_+2x,score_+2x
6,ultra_held_out,The Fly by Ogden Nash,Ogden Nash,"A poem about questioning why God, in his wisdom, created the universally despised fly without bothering to explain his reasoning to humanity.","God in his wisdom made the fly
And then forgot to tell us why.","Why craft a creature built to buzz and bite
And leave the reason hidden from our sight?
No whisper came to tell the human mind
What grand design the fly was meant to find.
We swat the air in frustration and in fear
While silence hangs where answers should appear.
Does wisdom hide within this tiny drone
A lesson lost on flesh that walks alone?
Or is the point simply that we must ask
Without the comfort of a holy task?
The universe holds secrets deep and vast
Some meant for us, some meant to fade too fast.
So here we stand with questions in our throat
Watching the insect make its final float.
No explanation offered, no decree
Just why did you create such misery?","Why did the Architect of stars and seas
Inscribe this buzzing blot upon the scroll,
This hairy thief that steals our honeyed ease
And leaves a speck of filth to spoil our soul?

He could have made it harmless, small, or blind,
Or given it a use we might perceive;
But left it ugly, loud, and ill-designed,
To plague us while we strive and strive and grieve.

We ask Him why in prayer, but He is mute;
The fly buzzes on, a tiny tyrant still,
A question mark in fur, a living brute
That mocks our logic and defies our will.

Perhaps He made it just to make us think,
To force us ponder why such things exist;
Or maybe He is proud of how we stink,
And thinks us worthy of the fly's black kiss.

Or perhaps He loves the fly so much above
The rest of His creation that He gave
It license to annoy us all, because
He thought it would amuse Him from His grave.",6,"Why did the Architect of stars and seas
Conceive this buzzing, stinging nuisance,
This tiny engine of disease,
With no instruction manual for us?

He carved the lion with a noble roar,
He shaped the whale to grace the deep,
But left the fly to buzz forevermore,
A secret that the heavens keep.

Did He not know we'd hate the sound,
The way it lands upon our food?
Or was this small annoyance bound
To test our patience in the mood?

No angel came to explain the plan,
No voice from clouds declared its worth,
Just endless swatting by the man,
Who questions why it walks the earth.

Perhaps the wisdom is too vast,
For minds so small to comprehend,
That even pests are meant to last,
Until the very bitter end.

Or maybe God just likes the noise,
Of something small that cannot cease,
To break the silence of His joys,
And give us work instead of peace.",6,"Why did the Architect of stars and tides
Deign to craft this buzzing, iridescent nuisance?
A creature born of rot and endless strife,
Who lands upon our food and steals our sleep.
We search the scriptures for a hidden clue,
A parable of patience or of sin,
But find only the hum against the glass,
And silence from the throne above the clouds.
Did wisdom fail in that small, winged design?
Or is there purpose in the sting we dread,
Some lesson meant for us to learn alone
While swatting at the shadow in the air?
The universe holds mysteries vast and deep,
Yet none explain the fly's unloved decree.",5,"Why did the Architect of stars and seas
Conceive this buzzing shadow, small and vile,
To land upon the bread and in the breeze,
And turn a moment's peace into a trial?

No scripture speaks of why the fly must be,
No angel whispered reason to our ear,
Just endless flight and frantic memory
Of how this tiny nuisance made us fear.

Is there a purpose hidden in the hum,
A lesson learned from swatting at the air?
Or does the silence simply say we're numb
To wisdom that we cannot hope to share?

We scratch the itch and curse the winged design,
While Heaven keeps its counsel locked away,
Leaving us to wonder, line by line,
Why such a hated thing was built today.",6,"Why craft a creature born of rot and shame
To buzz against the window, seeking light,
And leave no scripture in its tiny frame
To justify this persistent, itching bite?

We pray for peace, for harvest, for the rain,
Yet you designed this pest with wings so frail,
A walking plague that mocks our grandest pain,
With no reply to why it must prevail.

Is there a purpose hidden in the hum,
A lesson lost within its frantic dance?
Or did the Architect simply become
Too distant from the questions we advance?

No thunder answers when we swat the air,
No voice descends to explain the design,
Just silence where the buzzing fills the lair,
Leaving us to wonder at the divine.",6,"Why did the architect of stars and tides
Choose to craft a creature made of itch and noise?
A buzzing shadow that defies our pride,
With no grand purpose in its tiny poise.

We sweep the air with frantic, angry hands,
And curse the hum that pierces summer's grace,
Yet silence holds where understanding stands,
No reason etched upon this small disgrace.

Did wisdom whisper secrets we cannot hear,
Or is the fly a test we fail each day?
To love the flawed, to banish every fear,
While God watches from far beyond our sway.

The universe expands in light so bright,
But leaves this pest without a single word,
A question hanging in the heavy night,
Of why the unwanted thing was ever heard.",6,"Why craft a thing that buzzes in the ear
To steal the silence from our quiet prayer
A creature born of filth and rot and fear
With no design we human minds can bear

Did wisdom see a purpose deep and vast
Beyond the itch upon our weary skin
Or was this tiny, frantic life cast
As proof that not all ends are meant to win

We ask the heavens for a simple truth
To name the reason for this hated guest
But silence holds the answer in its mouth
And leaves us with the buzzing in our chest

No voice descends to explain the why
Of wings that beat against the summer air
Just endless flight beneath a distant sky
Where questions hang without an answer there",6
13,ultra_held_out,Boot and Saddle by Robert Browning,Robert Browning,"""A poem about an Englishman riding on horseback to battle during the English Civil War, repeatedly declaring his readiness to fight and refusing to surrender to his enemies.""","Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!
Rescue my Castle, before the hot day
Brightens the blue from its silvery grey,

(Chorus) ""Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!""

Ride past the suburbs, asleep as you'd say;
Many's the friend there, will listen and pray
""God's luck to gallants that strike up the lay,

(Chorus) ""Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!""

Forty miles off, like a roebuck at bay,
Flouts Castle Brancepeth the Roundheads array:
Who laughs, Good fellows ere this, by my fay,

(Chorus) ""Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!""

Who? My wife Gertrude; that, honest and gay,
Laughs when you talk of surrendering, ""Nay!
I've better counsellors; what counsel they?""

(Chorus) ""Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!""","The mist hangs low on fields of grey
Where iron hooves begin to sway
I tighten reins and grip the steel
And feel the war I long to feel

My sword is drawn, my heart is set
For all the battles not yet met
No Parliament shall make me bend
To traitor's word or rebel end

I ride ahead through smoke and rain
To face the thunder, fear, and pain
Let cannon roar and muskets crack
I will not turn, I will not back

You call for quarter, cry surrender
But I have no such thought to render
My oath is bound in blood and bone
To fight until the flesh is stone

So bring your lines and bring your fire
I meet you with a grim desire
To strike one blow, then fall if need
But never yield, nor ask for seed

The horse neighs loud beneath the sky
As death draws near and time goes by
I raise my blade against the sun
The battle starts, the war's begun","The morning mist hangs low on the green fields
And the grey dragoon rides hard and fast,
But I am ready to fight for King Charles,
I am ready to fight till the last.

My sword is sharp and my horse is swift,
Though their numbers be ten to one,
I will not yield to the Roundhead scum,
I will ride till the battle is won.

They shout ""Surrender!"" as they come near,
But I answer with a laugh of scorn,
I am ready to fight for the Church of England,
I am ready to fight till I'm torn.

Let them shoot at me from the hedgerow thick,
I'll ride right through the line,
For I am ready to fight for the Crown,
And I will not surrender, I tell you why?
Because I am ready to fight and die.",6,"The mud is thick beneath my boot,
The morning mist hangs low and gray,
I tighten up the leather girth,
And whisper to my horse today.

I am ready for the fight, I say,
With musket loaded by my side,
No Roundhead shall take me alive,
Nor make this Englishman abide.

My coat is torn but red with pride,
My sword is sharp within its sheath,
I ride against the pikes they hold,
And laugh at death upon the heath.

I am ready for the fight, I say,
Though cannons roar and smoke be deep,
I will not yield my ground or life,
Until I fall asleep in sleep.

They shout for me to throw down arms,
To kneel before their godless crew,
But I declare my readiness,
And swear that I will never sue.

My heart beats loud against my ribs,
My blood runs hot as summer fire,
I charge them through the smoke and dust,
With no desire to flee or tire.

I am ready for the fight, I say,
Let arrows fly and bullets sing,
I die a King's man on this field,
Before I give my soul or ring.",6,"The mud is thick beneath my stirrups
And rain runs down my steel,
But I am ready for the fight
To make the rebels feel.
I will not yield this ground today
Nor bow to any king,
For I am ready for the war
That justice brings to bring.

My sword is sharp within its scabbard
My heart is set on fire,
I say again I am prepared
To meet their dark desire.
Let Cromwell's men come riding forth
With muskets in their hand,
I stand as firm as stone and oak
Upon this English land.

They shout of peace and surrender now
But I shall hear no plea,
I am resolved to draw my blade
And die a free man free.
No quarter asked and none given
To those who seek to bind,
I ride ahead to face the line
Of traitors left behind.

So let them charge with horses loud
And drums that beat so deep,
I swear by God and country still
I have no fear to keep.
I am ready for the clash of steel
I am ready for the end,
And never will I lay my arms
Before a tyrant friend.",6,"The mist hangs low on fields of gray
Where iron men prepare to slay
My steed he snorts and stamps the ground
At every distant drumming sound

I am ready, I cry aloud
To face the storm within the cloud
No quarter given, none shall take
For England's cause my heart will break

They shout for me to yield my blade
To lay my weapon in the shade
But I refuse to bend the knee
To any force that seeks to flee

I am ready, I shout again
Through rain and mud and driving pain
My horse knows well the path we tread
To stand or fall with those who're dead

Let arrows fly and cannons roar
I seek no peace, I ask for more
To charge the line and hold the ground
Until the final trumpets sound

I am ready, I swear it true
With blood of kings and ancestors too
No surrender shall I speak
Nor bow before a tyrant's cheek",6,"The mud clings heavy to the bridle rein
As thunder rolls above the grey English plain
My sword is drawn and sharp against the light
I ride to meet the coming of the night

They shout for me to yield my ground and cease
But I declare with voice of iron peace
I will not bend, I will not break or bow
To any king who does not hold me now

The enemy lines advance in ranks of steel
Yet still my heart refuses to reveal
A single sign of fear or faint retreat
For victory is all that I will meet

Let arrows fly and pikes be thrust so deep
Into the earth where weary soldiers sleep
I stand upright within this saddle chair
And swear upon my life to fight right there

No quarter asked, no mercy shall I give
To those who seek to make a man forgive
The oath I took before the morning sun
Is binding until every battle's done

So let them come with fire and smoke and sound
I am the rock upon which they are bound
My horse will run until the breath is spent
And I remain unbroken and unbent",7,"The mist hangs low on Wiltshire fields
Where iron men and silence yield
My horse shifts weight beneath the gray
As dawn breaks cold to start the day

I grip the reins with calloused hand
And feel the thunder of command
No quarter asked, no plea for grace
Just steel upon this hallowed place

Let Roundhead drums begin their beat
We march to meet them in the street
My sword is drawn, my spirit high
Beneath the vast and stormy sky

I will not bend, I will not break
For every vow that I did make
To King and country, true and deep
A promise that the dead must keep

Come forward then with fire and lead
We fight until the final dread
My heart beats loud against my chest
Refusing all who seek my rest

The enemy may shout and scream
But they cannot shatter this dream
Of honor bound in blood and bone
A kingdom built, a throne our own

So let the clash of armor ring
Until the broken banners sing
I stand alone, I stand so tall
Ready to answer fate's dark call

No surrender now, no turning back
Against the tide, we hold the track
With lifted blade and steady eye
We ride to win or watch us die",6,"The mist hangs low on fields of gray
Where shadows stretch to break the day
My boots are caked in mud and rain
As thunder rolls across the plain

I grip the reins with iron hands
And heed no call from distant lands
No plea for peace, no whispered truce
Only the drum that beats its cruise

Let them advance with banners bright
To meet the dawn of coming fight
I stand alone against the tide
With nothing left for us to hide

My heart is set, my spirit unbound
No chains of fear can hold me down
I will not yield, I will not bow
Until the final hour allows

The enemy cries out in vain
Against a wall of steel and pain
They seek a man who breaks and bends
But find a soul that never ends

So let the clash of sabers ring
Let silence die before we sing
For I am here, I am awake
And every step I take, I make

A vow to fight until the end
To guard the path where friends must bend
No surrender waits within this breast
Only the war that puts us to test",7
20,train,The Farrier by Owen Sheers,Owen Sheers,"A poem about a farrier shoeing a female horse, serving as an extended metaphor exploring the complex and deeply defined dynamics existing between masculine and feminine forces.","Blessing himself with his apron,
the leather black and tan of a rain-beaten bay,
he pinches a roll-up to his lips and waits

the smoke slow-turning from his mouth,
for the mare to be led from the field to the yard
and the wind twisting his sideburns in its fingers.

She smells him as he passes, woodbine, metal and hoof,
careful not to look her in the eye as he runs his hand
the length of her neck, checking for dust on the lintels.


Folding her back leg with one arm, he leans into her flank
like a man putting his shoulder to a knackered car,
catches the hoof between his knees

as if it's just fallen from a table,
cups her fetlock and bends,
a romantic lead dropping to the lips of his lover.

Then the close work begins: cutting moon-sliver clippings,
excavating the arrow head of her frog,
filing at the sole and branding on a shoe

in an apparition of smoke,
three nails gritted between his teeth,
a seamstress pinning the dress of the bride.

Placing his tools in their beds,
he gives her a slap and watches her leave,
awkward in her new shoes, walking on strange ground.

The sound of his steel, biting at her heels.","The stall holds stillness like a held breath
where the iron man approaches the living wood
his hands rough with the memory of hammers
and the scent of hot steel that burns the air
she lifts a leg, a gesture of trust
or perhaps of command, heavy and deliberate
her hoof a dark moon waiting to be crowned
with something cold and hard against her soft sole

He is the anvil's echo, the rigid law
that shapes the chaotic curve into perfect circle
his fire is not for warmth but for transformation
a masculine force that demands submission to form
yet she does not flinch at the heat or the weight
but offers her foot as if offering a key
knowing that without this binding edge
the journey through stone and mud would end in pain

The hammer falls, a rhythmic declaration
striking the metal until it sings its true note
he forces the world to fit around her nature
while she absorbs the shock with a quiet grace
this is not conquest but a covenant of motion
the sharp edge of logic meeting the fluid flow of instinct
where his strength becomes her protection
and her surrender becomes the source of his purpose

When the shoe is set and the nail driven home
it is not a cage but a foundation
for the dance they will perform together
across the fields where time is measured in strides
two distinct energies fused in the moment of contact
the maker and the moved, the fire and the earth
bound by the simple necessity of going forward
in a rhythm that only they can hear","The stall is dim, a sanctuary of dust and straw,
Where the mare stands heavy-lidded, her flank heaving
With the slow rhythm of a deep, feminine breath,
While the farrier sharpens his tools, a man of iron will,
His muscles coiled like springs under a flannel shirt.

He approaches not with force but with a quiet command,
A masculine authority that asks for nothing less than total trust;
She lifts a leg, not in fear but in deference,
Offering the soft, dark sole, the sensitive frog,
The tender, living architecture of her foot.

He works with a precision that feels like tenderness,
Trimming the hoof with a knife that sings against the horn,
Cleaning out the dirt, the stones, the ancient grime,
Making it clean as a temple floor, ready to receive
The cold, hard geometry of the shoe.

This is the ritual where the rough meets the smooth,
Where the unyielding metal is fitted to the yielding flesh,
Where the masculine principle of structure and boundary
Is applied to the feminine principle of flow and formlessness.
He hammers the nail, short and strong, through the insensitive wall,
Not piercing the quick, respecting the inner life,
The blood-line that runs just beneath the surface.

She shifts her weight, a gentle sigh escaping her lips,
As the hot shoe is set down, hissing slightly on the damp ground,
And the smell of burnt hair fills the air,
A scent of creation, of order brought from chaos.

Now she is shod, balanced, protected,
Her feminine grace supported by masculine strength,
Ready to walk the hard roads without pain,
To carry the rider or pull the plow,
Two forces joined in a perfect, working harmony.",6,"He stands with iron in his grip,
a heavy, cold certainty of shape,
while she lifts a leg that knows the wind,
soft as a cloud but strong as stone.

The fire is his domain, the hammer's fall,
the rhythmic strike that forces form from chaos,
but she must hold her breath and trust the weight,
and offer up the tender sole to him.

He measures out the curve of her desire,
to fit the rigid law of his design,
yet if he strikes too hard, she pulls away,
and if he strikes too soft, the shoe comes loose.

It is a dance of pressure and of yield,
where masculine intent meets feminine ground,
he brings the structure, she provides the soul,
and neither can walk forward without both.

The nail is driven through the wall of hoof,
not into flesh, but through the boundary line,
binding the wildness to the path ahead,
a marriage forged in heat and hammered steel.

When he steps back and she tests on the floor,
the ring of metal singing on the stone,
it is not submission, nor is it control,
but two great forces walking as one thing.",6,"The stall holds the heavy heat of earth and breath
Where she stands, a column of muscle and softness,
Trusting the weight of her own wild history
To the iron hand that lifts her hoof.
He is the hammer, the anvil, the rigid law,
A man of fire and geometry,
Who measures the curve of her flesh against his steel,
Seeking the perfect angle where strength meets grace.

She does not fight the lift, though her spirit is wind,
Her eyes dark pools reflecting the dim light,
Knowing this rough touch is the only way
To walk the hard roads without breaking.
He speaks in grunts and the rhythm of the file,
Shaving away the excess, the chaos, the soft overgrowth,
Until the white sole is clean and ready to receive
The cold, unyielding truth of the shoe.

It is a negotiation of forces, ancient and precise,
His masculine certainty shaping her feminine endurance,
Not to conquer, but to enable the stride,
To give form to the flight she wishes to take.
When he drives the nail, it is a sharp punctuation,
A moment of pain that seals the bond,
Binding the wild creature to the solid ground,
So she may run faster than she ever could alone.

The shoe fits now, a crescent moon of forged metal,
Held fast by his will, worn by her motion,
Two distinct natures fused in a single purpose:
The hammer that shapes, the hoof that bears,
The iron that protects, the flesh that feels,
Walking together into the dust of the future,
Neither whole without the other's defining edge.",5,"The anvil waits, a heavy heart of iron
While she stands tall, a creature of soft earth and wind
Her flank heaves with the rhythm of a tide
That knows no master but the moon above.
He lifts her hoof, a gesture not of force
But of invitation to the sacred ground
Where leather meets the steel, where fire is born.

His hands are calloused maps of labor's weight
A masculine geometry of straight lines
And angles cut to hold the chaos in
To shape the wild into a path that runs.
She yields the limb, a trust as deep as roots
A feminine surrender that is not defeat
But strength held loosely in a gentle palm
Allowing the hammer's song to find its place.

The spark flies up, a brief and violent kiss
Between the burning metal and the air
As he bends the curve to fit the living bone
Not forcing it to break, but to be whole.
This is the dance of opposite and same
The rigid will that serves the flowing grace
The sharp edge that protects the tender sole
So that the journey may continue on.

When the nail strikes true, it sings a single note
Of union forged in heat and sudden pain
The shoe now rests, a silver circle round
Binding the power of the earth to sky.
He steps back, wiping sweat from brow to hand
She shakes her mane, a storm released at last
Two forces balanced in the quiet space
Where man and mare become one walking thing.",6,"The anvil waits beneath the heavy sky
A block of iron, cold and strictly male
Where fire is struck to make the metal cry
And shape the world according to its will
He lifts the leg with hands that know the weight
Of muscle bound by discipline and bone
A silent pact between the hand and fate
To forge a path where only he has known

She stands in stillness, breathing through the heat
A creature made of wind and shifting grace
Her hooves are soft as petals at her feet
Refusing to be bound by rigid space
Yet when the rasp begins to sing its song
It meets the curve of hoof with gentle force
Not breaking what was wild or making wrong
But guiding nature on its proper course

The red-hot shoe descends like thunder's kiss
A masculine decree of order and of line
But she accepts the burn, this sharp abyss
And turns the pain into a design divine
For in this dance of hammer and of breath
Two opposites collide to make one whole
Where strength must bow to serve the life it feeds
And structure learns to hold the fragile soul

He drives the nail with precision in his eye
While she provides the rhythm for the beat
A partnership where neither can deny
The other makes the movement complete
The shoe is fixed, a circle forged in fire
That binds the earth to flesh without a chain
Reflecting how desire and need conspire
To walk together through the storm and rain

Now she steps forward, light upon the ground
With iron shoes that hum against the stone
No longer just a beast, but something found
In the quiet space where both have grown
The man returns his tools to leather case
The woman horse walks out into the day
Two forces held within a single pace
That learned to walk the difficult way",7,"The iron waits in the coals, a heavy, silent sun
Forged by hands that know the weight of hammer and stone
While she stands, a mountain draped in velvet and breath
A living tide that holds the earth beneath her feet
He lifts the leg, not to command but to receive
This sacred exchange where steel meets softness without fear

The rasp sings its sharp song against the hardened hoof
Shaping the curve to match the rhythm of her stride
It is a conversation written in sparks and dust
Where rigid structure yields to the fluid grace of motion
His strength is not a wall to block her path
But the anvil upon which her wild spirit finds its form

She exhales, a warm wind that carries the scent of rain
Trusting the man who holds the fire within his grip
For he knows that true power lies not in domination
But in the delicate balance of giving and taking
As the nail finds its home, a quiet promise kept
Between the thunder of the stallion's heart and the moon's pull

The shoe is set, a circle of completion and beginning
Binding the wild to the world with threads of tempered metal
Two forces dancing in the shadow of the barn
Masculine resolve and feminine flow woven into one
No longer separate, no longer striving to be more
Just the steady beat of a horse walking forward together",6,"The anvil waits beneath the heavy sky
Where iron meets the living, breathing bone
A man in soot stands ready to apply
The weight of structure to the soft unknown

He lifts the leg with hands that know the craft
Of forging fire into a cold design
No gentle touch can hold the metal fast
Without the pressure of a steady line

She shifts her weight, a storm within the stall
Her spirit wild and uncontained by steel
Yet in this moment, stillness starts to fall
As two opposing tides begin to feel

The hammer strikes a rhythm deep and true
Between the force that builds and what must bend
The masculine creates the rigid view
While feminine accepts the necessary end

Each nail driven is a silent vow
To bind the strength that seeks to break apart
A dance where power learns to bow down now
And find the harmony within the heart

The shoe is placed, a circle made complete
Where shadow holds the light that shines above
Two forces weave a path for wandering feet
Defined by struggle, bound by quiet love",6
23,ultra_held_out,Autumn Song by Dante Gabriel Rossetti,Dante Gabriel Rossetti,"A poem about nature's autumnal decay translating into human suffering, as the mind and body deteriorate alongside the dying season, rendering death a more welcome fate than the prolonged pain of living through it.","Know'st thou not at the fall of the leaf
How the heart feels a languid grief
Laid on it for a covering,
And how sleep seems a goodly thing
In Autumn at the fall of the leaf?

And how the swift beat of the brain
Falters because it is in vain,
In Autumn at the fall of the leaf
Knowest thou not? and how the chief
Of joys seems—not to suffer pain?

Know'st thou not at the fall of the leaf
How the soul feels like a dried sheaf
Bound up at length for harvesting,
And how death seems a comely thing
In Autumn at the fall of the leaf?","The maple bleeds its crimson onto stone
As rot takes root beneath the frozen ground
And I feel how my own blood has turned to ice
Where once a summer pulse beat warm and sound

My joints are branches snapping in the wind
A brittle creak that signals deep decay
The fog rolls in to choke the light within
Just as the gray clouds steal the final day

Each breath is labor, heavy as wet leaves
That cling too long before they hit the floor
The mind dissolves like mist on river eaves
Leaving me stranded by a silent door

No spring will come to mend this broken frame
To wake the sleep that now feels far too sweet
I watch the season die without a name
And wish the frost would end the long defeat

Let winter take what autumn could not spare
And bury us beneath the weight of snow
For living through this slow and hollow air
Is worse than any quiet, final blow","The leaves turn brown and brittle as the mind
Begins to crack with age, losing its green
And vital sap, until the thoughts grow thin
And dry, like twigs that snap beneath the wind.

The body too, like fruit upon the bough,
Grows soft and shriveled, rotting from within,
Until the flesh hangs loose about the bone,
A sack of skin, a husk where life has been.

And just as autumn ends in winter's snow,
So does this season of decay bring death;
Yet death comes sooner than we wish it would,
For pain prolongs the end by every breath.

It is better to be dead than to endure
The lingering sickness of a dying year,
When all our senses rot along the way,
And nothing seems worth living for or dear.",6,"The maple bleeds its crimson into mud
As frost begins to crack the brittle bone,
And in my chest a similar cold blood
Stagnates beneath the skin's thinning stone.

The branches strip themselves of every leaf
To face the gray and unrelenting sky,
While I am stripped of hope and brief relief
By thoughts that rot and wither as they dry.

My joints are stiff as twigs against the rain,
My mind a field where crops have failed to grow,
And every breath is just a dull refrain
Of how the winter wind will soon blow low.

Why stretch this season out to endless night?
When decay is all we know and can endure,
Better the dark than this slow fading light,
Better the grave than this long sickness poor.

Let winter take me now before I break,
Before the final leaf falls from the tree,
For living through this rot is but a mistake,
And death is mercy for what we used to be.",6,"The oak drops its last green coin to the mud,
A rusted promise broken by the wind,
Just as my joints lock tight in cold and numbness,
And every breath feels like a jagged shard.

The sap retreats from branches into silence,
As memory drains from temples worn and gray,
Leaving only hollow spaces where thoughts once lived,
Echoing the dry rattle of the crow's wing.

The frost creeps up the windowpane like grief,
Sealing me in with shadows long and deep,
While firewood burns down to ash and smoke,
Mirroring the slow extinguishing of hope.

Why fight the rot that claims the root and leaf?
Why cling to flesh that cracks and turns to dust?
The season begs for sleep beneath the snow,
And I agree: let death be the final rest,
More gentle than this dragging, aching winter.",6,"The oak releases its grip on green
And lets the rusted fingers fall,
Just as my joints begin to creak
Against the weight of winter's call.

A rot sets in beneath the skin
Where sap once ran with vital heat,
Now only hollow branches remain
To mark the rhythm of defeat.

The frost creeps up the window pane
Like numbness in a failing hand,
While memories turn to brittle ash
Across this crumbling, frozen land.

Why fight the wind that strips the bough?
Why hold the breath that tastes of dust?
When every leaf must hit the ground
And trust the earth to take it first.

So let the season claim its due,
Let silence swallow up the pain,
For death is but the final sleep
After the long and slow decline.",6,"The maple cracks its brittle spine
And spills a rusted, heavy rain
That mirrors how the bone inside
Begins to lose its ancient strain

My joints are roots that rot in place
As frost creeps up through hollow veins
The mind, once sharp as morning light
Now drowns in fog and stagnant rains

Each falling leaf a thought undone
A memory stripped of color's glow
I watch the season turn to gray
And wish the cold would finish slow

For living feels like standing still
While sap drains out and strength decays
To let the winter claim the breath
Is better than these endless days

So let the earth consume the pain
Of bodies breaking, minds unbound
When autumn ends, the silence comes
And death is where the peace is found",6,"The frost begins to bite the hollow bone
As leaves turn brittle, brown, and fall away
A mirror of the mind that stands alone
Where memories rot beneath the grayest day

My joints are stiff like branches stripped of green
Each breath a labor through the thinning air
The vibrant fire of youth has grown so lean
Replaced by shadows that I cannot bear

The sap retreats into the frozen ground
Just as my spirit sinks beneath the weight
Of every ache without a single sound
That drags me slowly toward the closing gate

Why fight the winter when the cold is kind?
To let the final silence take its hold
Is better than the torment left behind
When life becomes a story too old to tell",7,"The leaves turn brown and brittle on the bough
As rot sets deep within the hollow chest
A quiet storm begins to break us now
Where once we found our rhythm in the rest

My skin feels thin like parchment in the wind
While memories of summer fade to gray
The pain that lingers where the light has thinned
Is heavier than any night or day

Each step becomes a mountain climbed in vain
As muscles fail to hold the weight of breath
We watch the golden fields surrender rain
And welcome silence as the only death

No fear remains for what the end will bring
Only relief from hours stretching long and slow
To let the final, frozen fingers cling
And guide the weary spirit home below",7
49,train,Who’s for the Game? by Jessie Pope,Jessie Pope,"""A poem about young men being goaded into showing their bravery by joining the military and fighting in a war being referred to as a 'game'.""","Who’s for the game, the biggest that’s played,
The red crashing game of a fight?
Who’ll grip and tackle the job unafraid?
And who thinks he’d rather sit tight?
Who’ll toe the line for the signal to ‘Go!’?
Who’ll give his country a hand?
Who wants a turn to himself in the show?
And who wants a seat in the stand?
Who knows it won’t be a picnic – not much-
Yet eagerly shoulders a gun?
Who would much rather come back with a crutch
Than lie low and be out of the fun?
Come along, lads –
But you’ll come on all right –
For there’s only one course to pursue,
Your country is up to her neck in a fight,
And she’s looking and calling for you.","They whisper of a game where glory is the prize
And paint the mud in colors bright as summer skies
The older men lean close with smiles that never reach the eye
To tell you that the only way to prove you're truly high

Is stepping through the gate where rules are made to break
Where every scar you earn becomes a badge you get to take
So throw your caution to the wind and pick up up the gun
For honor is a trophy that is won by everyone

Who dares to run the course they say is built for boys
To trade their quiet mornings for the noise of war's decoys
Don't be the one who sits and watches from the stand
But jump right in the arena with a weapon in your hand

It's just a little sport they say, a test of nerve and will
To see if you can make it to the top of any hill
So sign the paper, grab the kit, and join the grand design
Where blood is just the ink that writes the story of your line","They say it is a game of skill and luck
Where you can prove you are not afraid,
A sport where the other side tries to hit you back
And you try to hit them first, unafraid.

So go on, young man, show your mettle,
Show you are not a coward at heart;
Join up and play the game with the fellows,
And show you have some courage in your part.

Don't let the girls laugh at you for being timid,
Or call you names like ""sissy"" or ""weak"";
Come join the army and fight in this game,
And show you are strong and not weak.

It is just a game, they tell you, very simple,
Like football or cricket or so;
You run about and shoot at the enemy,
And if he shoots you, well, that's how it goes.

It is a game to see who is the bravest,
Who can stand fire and not be scared;
If you are killed it is only because
You were not quick enough or not cared.

So come on, young men, do not be silly,
Do not be afraid of the game;
Play it with the boys and show you are brave,
And win it, and then go home again.",6,"They call it a game with a shiny new score
And point to the boys who are waiting at door
With hearts full of fire and heads full of pride
Where the bravest will run and the cowards will hide.

Come on, little soldier, just play your part
It's only a match for the brave and the heart
The field is so green and the rules are so clear
Just step in the ring and show them you're here.

Don't let the other team laugh at your name
When they say that you're scared and you're not much of a game
So grab up your gun like a bat or a ball
And go out there quickly before you look small.

It's fun while it lasts till the whistle blows through
But nobody mentions the blood or the few
Who never come back from this sporting event
To tell how the game was truly spent.",6,"The tavern air is thick with smoke and lies
Where older men with empty eyes look on
And say the world is waiting for your prize
If you can prove you are not yet withdrawn
They call it just a game of skill and chance
A match where glory waits at every turn
No need to fear the heavy cost of dance
Or how the final score will make you burn
So step up now, young man, and take your place
Before the others claim the winning spot
Put on the uniform and show your face
And prove that you are brave enough to fight or not
The whistle blows, the pieces move around
But no one tells you that the board is ground
Where real blood spills and nothing can be found.",6,"They call it a game of glory and gold
Where the stakes are your bones and the prize is untold
The elders lean close with a wink and a grin
And ask if you're ready to let the blood in

Come on, little hero, step up to the line
Prove that your heart beats as strong as a pine
Don't be a coward who hides from the play
Or they'll whisper your name as a joke for the day

The uniform fits like a costume of pride
With medals to pin where the courage has died
It's just a big match with a whistle to blow
A sport for the bold where the losers must go

So grab up your rifle and march with the rest
Put fear in a box and put honor to test
For bravery's bought with a price paid in red
In this violent game where the living are fed",6,"They speak of glory in a voice too bright
And call the slaughter just a grand design
A game where points are scored by blood and light
And every fallen soul is but a sign

Come boys, they say, the scoreboard waits for you
The trenches are the field, the guns the toys
There is no fear in what we ask you do
Only the thrill of making noise with noise

Your heart must beat to match the drum's command
To prove you have the spirit to play along
No trembling hand can hold the heavy brand
Of those who sing the victory song

So step right up and take your place in line
Where honor is a wager on the bone
We'll make a legend out of yours and mine
Before the final whistle makes us known",6,"The tavern air is thick with smoke and lies
Where older men with hollow eyes advise
That glory waits for those who dare to leap
Into the trench where promises run deep

They call it sport, a grand and noble game
With medals pinned to honor every name
No mention of the mud that swallows breath
Or silence waiting in the wake of death

So boys stand up with chests puffed out so wide
To chase the thrill they cannot hide inside
They trade their youth for rifles made of steel
And march toward a victory that isn't real

A whistle blows to start the final round
Where courage is the only prize around
They play the part until the lights go dim
And learn too late the cost of being him",6,"The tavern air is thick with smoke and lies
Where elders point to flags that never fly
They whisper of a contest, grand and bright
A game of glory in the dead of night

Come boys, the dice are cast for you
To prove your worth in red and blue
No mention of the cost or broken bone
Just medals waiting on a distant throne

The uniform fits like a second skin
A promise made before the war begins
They call it sport, a noble chase
Ignoring fear etched on every face

Step forward now, the starting gun
Is fired beneath a pale and setting sun
You play the hero in a scripted scene
While real lives bleed behind the screen

The whistle blows, the field awaits
For young men trapped within their fates
A game of death where no one wins
And silence follows all the screams within",6
51,ultra_held_out,Vultures by Chinua Achebe,Chinua Achebe,"A poem about vultures serving as a metaphor for human atrocity, juxtaposing grim darkness with a fleeting glimmer of humanity before descending into futility.","In the greyness
and drizzle of one despondent
dawn unstirred by harbingers
of sunbreak a vulture
perching high on broken
bone of a dead tree
nestled close to his
mate his smooth
bashed-in head, a pebble
on a stem rooted in
a dump of gross
feathers, inclined affectionately
to hers. Yesterday they picked
the eyes of a swollen
corpse in a water-logged
trench and ate the things in its bowel. Full
gorged they chose their roost
keeping the hollowed remnant
in easy range of cold
telescopic eyes ...


Strange
indeed how love in other
ways so particular
will pick a corner
in that charnel-house
tidy it and coil up there, perhaps
even fall asleep - her face
turned to the wall!

...Thus the Commandant at Belsen
Camp going home for
the day with fumes of
human roast clinging
rebelliously to his hairy
nostrils will stop
at the wayside sweet-shop
and pick up a chocolate
for his tender offspring
waiting at home for Daddy's return ...

Praise bounteous
providence if you will
that grants even an ogre
a tiny glow-worm
tenderness encapsulated
in icy caverns of a cruel
heart or else despair
for in every germ
of that kindred love is
lodged the perpetuity
of evil.","They circle high above the burning fields
Where smoke has choked the morning into gray
With beaks of bone and eyes that never yield
To watch the living wither, fade, and decay
No mercy in the way they wait their turn
For every drop of blood to hit the ground
A lesson that the strong are meant to burn
While silence is the only holy sound

Then one descends upon a trembling hand
And pauses as a child looks up in fear
Not striking but for just a single stand
As if some ancient ghost drew near
The moment holds a fragile, broken light
Before the instinct snaps the spell in two
It tears the flesh away from sight
And leaves the sky to swallow up the view

The feast begins beneath the heavy sun
Where nothing matters but the tearing meat
The work is done before it's even begun
And hunger is the only thing complete
They fly again to find another grave
Where human cruelty has carved its name
But in the end there is no soul to save
Just ash that drifts away without a flame","They circle high on thermal wings of rot
Above the trench where yesterday's dead lie,
While in the mud a soldier stops to knot
A shoelace, thinking of a mother's eye.

He ties it tight and looks about him then
To see if any are watching him do so;
No one is looking, so he starts again
To walk, but finds his foot has gone all slow.

The vultures drop like stones into the pit
And tear the flesh from off the bone of death,
But for a moment there was something fit
To call a human heart within that breath.

Then darkness closes like a heavy lid,
The work goes on as if it never was,
And nothing matters now, or ever did,
Except the ravenous hunger and the maws.",3,"They circle high above the smoke-stained plain
With beaks of rust and eyes like polished stone,
Waiting for the silence to return again
Before they claim the flesh that once was known.
The wind carries the scent of burning hair
And charred bone fragments drifting through the gray,
A banquet spread by human hands with care
To feed the birds who wait to clean the day.

Then one small bird, confused by sudden rain,
Alights beside a child too weak to move,
And gently preens a feather from its brain
With tender strokes that almost seem to prove
That nature holds a spark of gentle grace
Within this vast and terrible machine,
A momentary softness in the face
Of death before the feast begins again.

But then the shadow falls across the light,
The parent calls, the flock descends as one,
The tiny kindness vanishes from sight
Beneath the crushing weight of what is done.
The glimmer fades into the endless night,
As all the work returns to being none.",6,"They circle on the thermal of a burning town
With beaks like rusted hooks and eyes of dead glass
Waiting for the smoke to settle on the ground
To pick the meat that human hands have cast

A sudden pause, a wing beats soft against the air
As one descends not to tear but to cover
A child's small hand with feathers, tenderly
Before the hunger pulls the flock together

But then the instinct snaps the fragile thread
And silence breaks into a tearing sound
The glimmer fades beneath the weight of dread
As all the vultures feed upon the ground",3,"They circle high on thermal wings of rot
Where smoke still clings to fields of broken bone
And wait for silence that the wind forgot
To claim the last remaining human tone

Then down they dive with beaks of jagged steel
To pick the flesh from ribs of fallen men
A feast of greed that makes the earth feel real
As if the grave had opened up again

But pause a moment in the crimson rain
One bird halts, tilting head at sudden light
That touches not the gore but soft remains
Of something pure that struggled through the night

A child's hand reaching out beneath the wing
For just an instant, mercy seems to bloom
Before the hunger drags the soul to sing
The same old song of inevitable doom

The glimmer fades as claws descend once more
To tear the memory from what was left behind
There is no peace within this endless war
Only the scavengers and the blind",6,"They circle high above the burning fields
Where silence screams beneath a soot-stained sky
And pick the bones of wars that men have waged
With beaks of iron and a hollow cry

For in their wings we see our own reflection
The hunger that consumes what love once held
We feast on sorrow, tearing at the flesh
Until the final thread of hope is melted

Yet for a breath, a shadow softens there
A moment where a claw hesitates to strike
As if some ancient memory stirs within
To recognize the spark before it dies

But then the wind returns with bitter cold
And pulls the heart back to the endless grind
The light dissolves into the waiting dark
Leaving only dust behind the mind",6,"They circle high on thermal winds of ash
Where silence screams and broken bones are laid
A feast prepared by hands that forgot to wash
The crimson stain upon the choices made

Their beaks are sharp with hunger for the guilt
That feeds the rot beneath the heavy sky
Yet one pauses, a shadow briefly spilt
To watch a child where no stars dare to lie

For just a breath the monster seems to weep
A tear that falls before the claws descend
But gravity is old and promises to keep
The cycle turning till the light will end

The glimmer fades into the waiting dark
As nature claims what man has torn apart
No savior comes to leave a lasting mark
Just empty wings and silence in the heart",6,"They circle high on silent wings of gray
Where smoke once choked the morning light away
A feast is called by those who watch below
To pick the bones of what we used to know

The beak descends with cold and calculated grace
Erasing memory from a hollowed space
No malice in the eye, just hunger's law
As we consume the wreckage that we saw

Yet for a breath a hand reaches out
Through ash and ruin, seeking some doubt
A whisper shared between the living dead
Before the final thread is torn and shed

But hope is fragile as the paper thin
That cracks beneath the weight of where we've been
The vulture waits, patient and unkind
To claim the last remnant left behind",6
54,ultra_held_out,Tell Me a Story by Robert Penn Warren,Robert Penn Warren,"""A poem about a speaker distancing himself from the modern world, seeking a story of delight and rejuvenation that encompasses themes of distance, contrasting with his memories of darkness and the sounds of migrating geese in his native childhood place.""","[ A ]

Long ago, in Kentucky, I, a boy, stood
By a dirt road, in first dark, and heard
The great geese hoot northward.

I could not see them, there being no moon
And the stars sparse. I heard them.

I did not know what was happening in my heart.

It was the season before the elderberry blooms,
Therefore they were going north.

The sound was passing northward.

 

[ B ]

Tell me a story.

In this century, and moment, of mania,
Tell me a story.

Make it a story of great distances, and starlight.

The name of the story will be Time,
But you must not pronounce its name.

Tell me a story of deep delight.","I turn my back on screens that hum with static light
And walk away from cities built of glass and steel
To find a story where the shadows do not bite
Where silence is a gift I did not know to feel

The modern world is loud with noise that never sleeps
A frantic rhythm pounding in a hollow chest
But I remember how the darkness softly creeps
Before the sun has risen from its eastern rest

In those old days the air was thick with winter cold
When migrating geese would cry their ancient song
Their voices cut the night, a tale both sharp and bold
That told me I belonged where I had longed to belong

Now distance grows between the past and what I see
A widening chasm filled with dust and fading sound
Yet in this quiet space I finally am free
To let the dark be gentle and the lost be found

No longer bound by clocks or wires made of fear
I seek a delight that heals the weary bone
Where memories of geese make the present crystal clear
And I am young again, though I am all alone","I turn my back on the humming wires,
On the gray rush of the modern street,
To find a story of delight and light
Where I can walk with quiet feet.

My childhood was a place of dark,
A heavy shadow on the land,
Save for the sound of migrating geese
That cried across the sand.

They called from far away, above,
With voices clear and strange,
While I lay in the deepening night
And heard them as they range.

Now I go far from that old gloom,
Far from the noise and the dust,
To seek a tale of green and gold
In which to put my trust.",6,"I step away from screens that hum with static light
And leave the concrete pulse of cities far behind,
Seeking a story where the air is clear and bright,
A tale of joy to heal the weary mind.

My memory holds a darker, colder place,
Where shadows stretched across the frozen ground,
And silence fell with heavy, suffocating grace,
Save for the wild and mournful geese's sound.

They cried in V-formation through the gray,
A haunting song of migration and of loss,
That echoed in the winter's long decay,
Beneath the weight of frost and falling snows.

But here I seek a different, softer strain,
Where sunlight dances on a quiet stream,
No darkness breaks the rhythm of the plain,
No ghostly call disturbs my waking dream.

Let distance be the wall between the past
And this new world where delight begins to grow,
Where rejuvenation makes the spirit vast,
And only gentle breezes softly blow.",6,"I step away from screens that hum with static light
And leave the city's pulse behind my back,
Seeking a tale of simple, quiet delight
To heal the fractures in this weary track.

The modern noise is sharp and cold as steel,
A constant drone that drowns the inner voice,
But here I find a different, softer feel,
Where nature offers me a gentle choice.

My childhood home was wrapped in heavy dark,
A place where shadows stretched across the floor,
And silence held a terrifying mark
Before the dawn could open up the door.

Yet through that gloom, one sound would pierce the night,
The honking cry of geese in migration flight,
They called to me with wild and ancient might,
Across the void of winter's endless white.

Now distance keeps those memories at bay,
Not to forget, but let them breathe anew,
Transforming darkness into golden day,
As if the sky itself had turned to blue.

The story I have found is not of fear,
But of the wings that beat against the gray,
Of hope that lingers when the path is clear,
And leads me far from where the lost ones stray.

So let the world rush on without my name,
I walk where quiet streams begin to flow,
Rejuvenated by a distant flame,
With nothing left for me to fear or know.",6,"I turn my back on screens that hum with static light
And walk until the city fades to gray
Where silence holds a story pure and bright
To wash the rust of modern hours away

The world I left is built of steel and haste
A maze of shadows where the lost are bound
But here the air is cool and unencased
With ancient peace in every quiet sound

My memory keeps the dark of childhood nights
When winter winds would bite through woolen coats
And geese would cry their sharp, descending flights
Across the frozen lakes and distant moats

Those voices called from far above the snow
A chorus rising from the cold and deep
While I lay warm beneath the heavy glow
Of dreams that promised rest and safe retreat

Now distance acts as both a wall and door
Between the noise I fled and this new space
Where stories bloom like flowers on the floor
And time moves slow within a gentle pace

No longer bound by clocks or urgent calls
I seek a tale of joy to start anew
That lifts me up above the concrete walls
To find the sky exactly as it grew",6,"I turn my back on screens that hum with static light
And walk away from cities built of steel and noise
To find a story where the air is clean and bright
A tale of delight that drowns out modern poise

My memory holds a winter thick with gray and gloom
Where shadows stretched too long across the frozen floor
The darkness was a heavy, suffocating room
That whispered ancient fears behind a locked door

But then I hear the sound that once defined my youth
The migrating geese cutting through the cold November sky
They called to me in rhythms of a distant truth
As they flew above the fields where we used to lie

Now distance acts as armor against the rushing crowd
A quiet space where old wounds finally begin to heal
I leave the chaos silent, fading soft and loud
To seek a springtime that makes the broken spirit real

No longer bound by clocks or wires pulling tight
I let the wild wind carry all my sorrow far away
Rejuvenated by the stars and morning's gentle light
In stories written purely for the breaking of the day",6,"I turn my back on screens that hum with static light
And walk away from cities built of glass and steel
To find a tale where shadows do not bite
And broken things are made to heal

The distance stretches wide between the now and then
Where neon ghosts replace the stars I used to know
But here the air is clear, the silence soft again
A gentle wind begins to blow

No longer trapped within the walls of dark and dread
That held my childhood in a cold and heavy grip
I leave the memories of fear behind me dead
Upon this quiet, rising lip

Far off beyond the reach of noise and frantic pace
The migrating geese return to skies of gold
Their ancient songs retrace their familiar trace
A story waiting to unfold

They call across the fields where winter starts to fade
With wings that cut the gray and lead the way home
A promise that the dawn will soon be made
To wash away the night's deep gloom

So let the modern world dissolve into the mist
As I embrace the rhythm of the wild and free
In every cry that rises from the mist
I find the life I long to be",7,"I step away from screens that hum with static noise
And trade the glare of city lights for softer, older skies
Where shadows used to stretch across the frozen ground
A memory of winter's bite and silence deep and profound

The geese arrive in V-formations cutting through the gray
Their ancient songs a lullaby to wash the dust of yesterday
They speak of distant marshes where the water holds its breath
Far from the frantic rhythm of a life I wish to leave behind

Here the air tastes clean and sharp against my weary skin
No longer bound by clocks that tick or walls that close within
I seek a tale of golden fields where time moves slow and sweet
A story woven from the roots beneath my wandering feet

Let the darkness fade into the dawn that breaks the night
As I find the peace that waits beyond the reach of sight
No more the weight of modern chains that bind the spirit tight
Just the wind, the wild, and stars that guide me home tonight",6
57,train,what if a much of a which of a wind by E.E. cummings,E.E. Cummings,"""A poem about the earth being destroyed by natural disasters and humanity's unique capacity for bringing about its own irreversible apocalypse.""","what if a much of a which of a wind
gives truth to the summer's lie;
bloodies with dizzying leaves the sun
and yanks immortal stars awry?
Blow king to beggar and queen to seem
(blow friend to fiend:blow space to time)
—when skies are hanged and oceans drowned,
the single secret will still be man

what if a keen of a lean wind flays
screaming hills with sleet and snow:
strangles valleys by ropes of thing
and stifles forests in white ago?
Blow hope to terror;blow seeing to blind
(blow pity to envy and soul to mind)
—whose hearts are mountains, roots are trees,
it's they shall cry hello to the spring

what if a dawn of a doom of a dream
bites this universe in two, 
peels forever out of his grave
and sprinkles nowhere with me and you?
Blow soon to never and never to twice
(blow life to isn't: blow death to was)
—all nothing's only our hugest home;
the most who die,the more we live","The volcano wakes with ancient breath
To swallow valleys in a sea of red
The storm gathers strength from shifting air
And tears the fragile canopy apart
These are the earth's old, heavy sighs
A cycle written long before our first cry

But we have learned a different art
To carve the future from the present heart
We built the fire that consumes the sky
With hands that reach to touch the stars then die
No asteroid strikes with such intent
As the quiet poison we quietly sent

The ice retreats not from solar heat
But from the smog we weave around the street
We hold the switch for every final door
And turn the key without a single war
Nature heals if given time and space
But we erase the very healing place

A unique sorrow marks this end
Where monsters do not rise but friends descend
To trade the green for gray and gold
For stories never fully told
The planet spins through empty dark
Lit by the spark of our own work","The mountains shudder and the oceans boil
As storms unmake the coastlines one by one,
Yet nature's wrath is but a fleeting toil
Compared to what we do when we are done.

She breaks a bone or two, perhaps a limb,
To teach us how to walk or run again,
But we possess a dark and final whim
To crush her skull and snap her spinal vein.

No asteroid could ever strike so hard
As we who hold the key to our own end;
We have the power to break the world's green card
And burn the future with a single trend.

The floods will pass, the fires die away,
The earth will heal if left alone by man,
But we can make this irreversible day
When all the stars look down on nothing done.",6,"The volcanoes wake with ancient, hungry breath
And swallow cities in a tide of fire
While oceans rise to claim the coastal death
And storms unmake the forests we admire
These are the earth's old rhythms, wild and free
A planet shedding skin or shifting weight
But there is something different now, you see
In how we engineer our own demise

We do not wait for nature's cruel decree
To seal the fate that we ourselves create
We built the bombs that split the atom's key
And forged the plastics that outlast the state
We poisoned wells and burned the carbon deep
Until the ice caps wept and glaciers fled
And now the final harvest we must reap
Is sown by hands that thought they were not dead

No asteroid will strike from outer space
To wipe the slate clean with a sudden blow
We hold the pen that writes the human race
Into a story ending in woe
The apocalypse is not a stranger's hand
It is the mirror of our own design
Where every city stands upon the sand
Of choices made, and time runs out of line",7,"The mountain shudders and the sea rises high
To swallow cities built on greed and lie
The wind howls through the cracks of broken stone
A natural rage that leaves us all alone

Yet storms and quakes are old and blind and deep
They do not plot the promises we keep
Or calculate the poison in the air
Or count the years until there is no care

It is our hand that turns the final key
To lock the door where life was meant to be
Not fire from the sky or flood from the deep
But quiet choices made while others sleep

We crafted bombs that burn without a sound
And dug the graves beneath our hallowed ground
No force of nature could so surely kill
The fragile spark, the human, stubborn will

Now ash falls soft upon the empty street
Where silence reigns where once we marched and beat
The earth survives but we have lost our place
In this cold void we carved with our own face",7,"The mountain shakes and rivers turn to fire
As storms devour the coast in violent hunger
Nature's wrath is loud but brief and blind
A cycle old that time has taught us well

Yet we hold the spark that burns the sky
Not born of wind or wave or shifting plate
But forged in greed within a quiet room
Where choices made decide the final fate

The ice melts not from sun alone today
But from the smoke we chose to breathe and burn
We built the cage around our fragile home
And locked the door with keys we threw away

No asteroid could strike with such intent
No comet drawn by gravity so deep
Only the mind that calculates the cost
Of every life we trade for fleeting sleep

The earth will heal if given time to rest
If oceans rise and forests turn to dust
But when the silence comes from human hands
There is no dawn to break this endless night",6,"The mountain crumbles under weight of snow
The ocean swells to claim the coastal town
A fire rages where the ancient forests grow
And nature pulls the heavy curtain down

Yet these are forces old and wild and deep
That turn the world before we even wake
But something darker stirs while we asleep
A poison that our own two hands create

We burn the sky with smoke from iron lungs
We carve the soil until it turns to dust
While silence falls on every singing throngs
And break the trust within the earth's soft crust

No storm could match the coldness in our gaze
No earthquake shakes the ground like greed's demand
We build a cage of glass and steel and haze
Then hold the key within a trembling hand

The floods may rise but they will one day recede
The fires fade when rain returns to fall
But what we start is not a cycle freed
It is the end of all, the final wall

The planet breaks beneath a double weight
Of shifting tides and choices made by men
We seal the gate before it is too late
And watch the light go out, again, again",7,"The oceans rise to swallow coastlines whole
As storms tear through the fragile skin of stone
A fever burns beneath the trembling soil
Where ancient roots have lost their hold alone

Yet in the chaos, something darker wakes
Not born of wind or fire from the sky
But forged in greed and silence that we make
While watching every dying star go by

We built the towers high enough to fall
And lit the fuse with hands we claimed were wise
No asteroid could strike so deep a call
As our own hunger for the final prize

The ice recedes without a sound of grief
As cities crumble into dust and gray
We sought to conquer nature's wild belief
Only to pave the road that leads away

Now ash descends like snow upon the dead
A quiet end we wrote with every choice
The earth remembers all the words unsaid
And leaves us with the echo of our voice",7,"The tectonic plates begin to shift
A rumble deep beneath the soil
While storms of fire consume the sky
And oceans rise to claim their toll

Yet nature's wrath is but a song
An ancient rhythm, wild and free
It is our hands that hold the match
To burn the world we used to see

We built our towers on the edge
Of cliffs we knew were crumbling fast
Ignoring warnings in the wind
Chasing shadows of a dying past

The ice retreats in silent grief
As forests turn to ash and gray
Not struck by lightning from above
But carved away by greed each day

A paradox of fragile life
That seeks to conquer all it finds
Leaving behind a hollow shell
Where once a vibrant heart beat blind

No savior comes from distant stars
To mend the cracks we made so wide
Only the silence of the grave
Where human hope has nowhere left to hide",6
61,ultra_held_out,"The Trashpickers, Madison Street by Naomi Shihab Nye",Naomi Shihab Nye,"""A poem about trash pickers murmuring and sorting through discarded items in the early morning, weaving dreams around rejected objects that offer glimpses into the lives of those who left them behind.""","On the edge of dawn’s pale eye,
the trashpickers are lifting the lid of every can,
poking inside with bent hanger and stick.
They murmur in a language soft as rags.
What have we here?
Their colorless overcoats drift and grow wings.

They pull a creaking wagon, tinfoil wads, knotted string,
to the cave where sacraments of usefulness are performed.
Kneel to the triple weddings of an old nail.
Rejoice in the rebirth of envelopes.
The crooked skillet finds its first kingdom
on a shelf where nothing is new.

They dream small dreams, furry ones,
a swatch of velvet passed hand-to-hand.
Their hearts are compasses fixed to the ground
and their love, more like moss than like fire","The streetlamps hum a low and dying tune
As shadows stretch across the wet concrete
Where figures move with quiet, practiced grace
To sift the night's refuse for something sweet

A child's red mitten, lost beside the bin
Still holds the warmth of fingers small and cold
They whisper soft about the games begun
And stories that were never fully told

A broken watch with glass like shattered ice
That stopped exactly when the heart gave way
They trace the gears with rough and calloused hands
And dream of mornings that did not decay

Murmurs rise like steam from coffee cups
About the letters torn and thrown aside
The ink still fresh with promises of love
Now resting where the stray dogs come to hide

They sort the plastic, paper, rusted steel
And weave a tapestry from what was cast
Each object speaks a fragment of a soul
A memory too heavy for the past

The sun begins to bleed into the gray
Revealing faces worn by endless nights
Who find in trash a strange and fragile hope
Of lives that flickered out without a fight","The streetlights hum a low, tired note
As the city sleeps in gray and mist,
And shadowed figures start their rote
Among the bins where dreams are missed.

They murmur soft as bees at comb,
While sorting through the broken things:
A child's doll with one eye gone home,
A ticket stub from distant wings.

""This coat,"" says one, ""was loved so dear,
But now it smells of rain and smoke;
The owner wore it out, I fear,
Or lost it when his heart was broke.""

""This cup,"" says another, ""held sweet tea,
And sat upon a window-sill;
It must have been a happy family,
Who left it here to be my kill.""

They weave their dreams around the trash,
These early morning scavengers;
They see the life behind each dash,
Behind these cast-off trifles.

Perhaps the man who threw this shoe away
Was walking home and lost a wife;
Perhaps the woman who threw that dress away
Is dead, or just in better life.

So they go on, the murmuring men,
Sorting the trash, the dreams, the things;
Weaving new lives for them again,
Around these broken, discarded things.",5,"The streetlamps hum a low and dying tune
As shadows stretch across the wet pavement
Where figures in worn coats bend low
And fingers trace the edges of broken things.

A child's shoe, one sole detached, lies near the curb
And one picker murmurs of a running game
Of rain that stopped too soon and laughter left behind
While another holds a torn photograph
Seeing a wedding day in sepia tones
Wondering why the bride was crossed out with a pen.

They sort through cardboard boxes with quiet clicks
Of plastic bottles crushing underfoot
Weaving small dreams from the refuse pile
About the hands that held these objects last.

Here is a letter never sent, the ink still dark
Perhaps a love confessed to someone who moved away
There is a half-eaten apple, brown at the core
Reminding them of a hurried lunch break
In a park where the grass was green and clean.

They do not judge the waste but find the stories
Hidden in the crumpled paper and rusted tin
Dreaming of the lives that spilled these fragments out
Before the sun rises to burn the mist away
And the city wakes to sweep the night's debris
Into trucks that roar and carry it all gone.",5,"The streetlights hum a low and tired note
as boots crunch on the wet asphalt
and fingers, stained with grease and rain,
begin to sift the silent mountain.
A murmuring starts, soft as dust settling,
between two figures bent over a crate
where a child's red plastic truck lies crushed,
its wheel spinning a phantom race
in the mind of the man who dropped it
running late for a job he never got.

They lift a frayed wool coat, heavy with damp,
and hear the echo of a cough inside the lining,
a story of warmth traded for a bottle cap,
a life pared down to what fits in a sack.
Here is a diary, pages stuck with gum,
holding the ink-stained dreams of a girl
who wanted to be an astronaut or a queen,
now just kindling for a morning fire.
They whisper to the objects, not out of pity,
but to keep the ghosts from fading too soon,
weaving new narratives from broken glass
and torn receipts that list only bread and milk.

In the gray dawn light, a shattered mirror
reflects not their faces but the empty rooms
they once inhabited, the chairs pulled up to tables
that no longer exist.
They sort the past into piles of metal, paper, bone,
dreaming that this discarded heap might one day
rise up and become a castle again,
or a ship to sail away from the hunger,
while the city wakes behind them, blind
to the quiet archaeology of survival
unfolding in the shadows of the bins.",2,"The streetlamps hum a low and dying tune
As shadows stretch across the wet asphalt
And hands calloused by the night's long work
Begin to sift the silence of the bins

A murmuring rises like a soft tide
Of names forgotten, stories half-told
They lift a torn photograph with trembling fingers
Where a wedding dress still holds the ghost of lace
And wonder at the smile that once was bright
Before the rain or time could wash it clean

Here lies a child's shoe, blue and scuffed
With mud from playgrounds now locked away
The picker traces dust upon the sole
And dreams of running feet that will not run again
While somewhere in the dark, a mother sleeps
Unknowing that her loss is being weighed

They sort the broken toys and shattered glass
Into neat piles of what might be redeemed
But mostly they collect the quiet grief
That clings to paper receipts and empty boxes
Each object holds a key to someone's door
That opened wide then slammed shut in the wind

A silver locket dangles from a hook
Its chain snapped but its heart still beating slow
Inside, a face is blurred by years of neglect
Yet the picker sees the love that put it there
And whispers to the metal, ""You are found""
As dawn begins to bleed into the gray

The city wakes to sweep these secrets under rugs
But for a moment, in the early light
The discarded things become a tapestry
Of lives that touched the ground and left their mark
While murmurs weave a dream around the trash
To say that nothing lost is truly gone",6,"The streetlights hum a low and tired tune
As boots crunch softly on the wet asphalt
They move like shadows through the grayest hour
With baskets slung upon their weary backs

A murmured chant begins to rise and fall
Between the rusted cans and torn-up boxes
They speak in whispers of the things they find
And weave a dream from fragments left behind

This shattered cup once held a morning coffee
For someone rushing to a job they hated
The stain inside still holds the bitter taste
Of promises that broke before the dawn

A child's red shoe lies half beneath a bench
With lace undone and sole worn thin by running
It speaks of games played in the summer rain
Before the storm came rolling in too fast

They sort the broken toys with gentle hands
Imagining the laughter that once filled the room
Each discarded thing becomes a window pane
Through which they glimpse the lives that passed them by

A love letter crumpled in a plastic bag
The ink now blurred by tears or heavy rain
It tells a story of a goodbye spoken
To someone who was never meant to stay

The sun begins to bleed across the sky
Illuminating treasures others threw away
The pickers pause to listen to the silence
That echoes loud within these hollow shells

They carry home the ghosts of other days
And build a castle from the world's refuse
Where every scrap is gold if looked at right
And every loss contains a hidden hope",6,"The streetlamps hum a low and tired tune
As shadows stretch across the wet concrete
Where figures move in silence, soft and slow
To gather what the night has left behind

A rusted spoon still holds the ghost of soup
A child's shoe with one sole worn away
They whisper names to things that have no voice
And trace the cracks where broken stories lie

This ticket stub was clutched in nervous hands
Before a train that never came to town
That shattered glass reflects a wedding ring
Now lost beneath the dust of morning gray

They sort the fragments like a sacred rite
Building castles from the refuse heap
For every discarded toy or torn receipt
Is proof that someone lived and loved and wept

The sun begins to bleed across the sky
Illuminating treasures found by chance
As dreams are woven tight around the trash
And strangers walk away with stolen glances",5,"The streetlights hum a low and broken tune
As shadows stretch across the wet asphalt
Where hands move soft to lift the heavy moon
And sift through what the world has left behind

A child's shoe holds a ghost of laughter still
Its laces frayed by time and careless rain
They trace the path of every sudden thrill
That led this owner to a distant lane

Whispers rise like smoke from cardboard boxes
Murmuring tales of love that turned to dust
Of broken vows and unfulfilled promises
Found inside a rusted, empty cup

The mirror cracked reflects a fractured face
Of someone who once dreamed of stars above
Now resting in a pile of forgotten grace
A silent witness to the weight of love

They gather fragments of a life undone
To stitch together dreams from discarded things
In every scrap, a story is begun
For those who listen to the morning sings

No judgment falls upon the sorted heap
Only the quiet understanding grows
As lost and found begin to softly sleep
Beneath the weight of all the seeds they sow",6
62,train,In and Out of Time by Maya Angelou,Maya Angelou,"""A poem about two people defining their enduring love while navigating struggles and moving towards a clearer, safer future together.""","The sun has come.
The mist has gone.
We see in the distance...
our long way home.
I was always yours to have.
You were always mine.
We have loved each other in and out of time.
When the first stone looked up at the blazing sun
and the first tree struggled up from the forest floor
I had always loved you more.
You freed your braids...
gave your hair to the breeze.
It hummed like a hive of honey bees.
I reached in the mass for the sweet honey comb there...
Mmmm... God how I love your hair.
You saw me bludgeoned by circumstance.
Lost, injured, hurt by chance.
I screamed to the heavens... loudly screamed...
Trying to change our nightmares into dreams...
The sun has come.
The mist has gone.
We see in the distance our long way home.
I was always yours to have.
You were always mine.
We have loved each other in and out
in and out
in and out
of time.","The wind howled through the cracks we tried to seal
With hands that shook and voices low and frail
We counted every bruise, every wound revealed
By storms that tested whether we would fail

But in the quiet dark, a truth took root
That love is not just sunlight on the face
It is the stubborn, deep and silent shoot
That finds a path through any barren place

Now shadows stretch but do not block the way
As dawn begins to break the heavy gray
We walk together toward a brighter day
Where safety waits to hold us safe at last
No longer lost within the storm's embrace
But building up a future, strong and vast","We traced the map of our days with a trembling hand
Through valleys where shadows stood thick as a wall,
Where the wind howled like wolves and the road was unspanned,
And the stars were too distant to guide us at all.

But we held to each other, and though we were small,
Our love made a fire that burned through the night,
It glowed in the dark like a light on a hill,
And showed us the way to the morning's white light.

Now the path is more level, the sky is more clear,
The storm has blown over, the danger is past;
We have come to a place where we need not fear,
And the future looks bright as the morning will last.",7,"The road was rough and the wind cut deep
beneath a sky that held no promise,
yet we walked hand in hand through the storm
finding shelter in the quiet rhythm of our steps.

We spoke of love not as a sudden spark
but as the slow-burning coal that kept us warm
when the world tried to freeze our bones,
a definition written in scars and shared silence.

Now the fog is lifting from the valley floor
and the path ahead shines with a steady light,
we see the horizon where the air is clear
and the ground beneath our feet feels safe again.

No longer lost in the gray confusion of yesterday,
we stand together on solid earth,
knowing that whatever comes next,
we have already survived the hardest part.",6,"The road was narrow then,
washed out by rain and doubt,
where every step required a hand
to hold the other up.
We learned the shape of fear
by tracing it in shadows on the wall,
but we also learned the weight of silence
when it meant we were not alone.

Now the storm has shifted east,
leaving behind a sky that clears
like a window wiped with care.
We do not speak of what we lost,
only of how we kept our footing
when the ground began to shake.
Our love is not a flag unfurled,
but the quiet anchor dropped deep
in waters that have finally calmed.

We walk toward the morning light
with nothing but our worn-out boots
and the certainty that comes from knowing
we survived the night together.
The path ahead is straight and open,
paved with promises we made
in the dark,
now standing solid in the sun.",6,"The road was rough with stones we did not see,
And shadows stretched across the narrow path,
But you held tight to me and held on free,
Through seasons of the storm and sudden wrath.

We learned that love is not a perfect line,
But two broken hands that fit together well,
A quiet strength that makes the dark define
The light we found when all the bells fell silent.

Now fog begins to lift from off the ground,
And clearer skies reveal a safer shore,
Where peace is finally and truly found,
Beyond the wars we fought and walked before.

No longer lost within the shifting sand,
We walk ahead with eyes fixed on the dawn,
Two hearts aligned by time and steady hand,
To build a home where we can carry on.",7,"The road was rough beneath our feet
With shadows stretching long and deep
We held on tight to what we knew
While storms refused to let us sleep

You spoke of fear in quiet tones
I answered with a steady hand
We mapped the cracks within the stone
And built a bridge across the land

No longer lost in fog or night
We see the path begin to clear
A promise made in fading light
That draws the future drawing near

Through every tear and every fall
Our love remains the constant ground
It lifts us up when walls might stall
And turns the silence into sound

So walk beside me, step by step
Into the dawn that waits ahead
Where all the broken things are kept
Safe in the life we now have led",7,"The road was rough beneath our weary feet
Where shadows stretched and silence held us tight
We learned to speak in whispers, soft and sweet
To navigate the chaos of the night

But in the storm, a steady hand remained
A promise kept when all else seemed to fade
Through every crack that threatened to divide
Our roots grew deep within the mess we made

Now dawn breaks clear above the broken ground
No longer lost within the fog of fear
We walk as one where peace is finally found
With brighter horizons drawing ever near

This love is not a shield against the pain
But how we heal when scars begin to show
A future built on trust and gentle rain
Where safety blooms from seeds we used to sow",7,"The road we walked was rough with stone
And shadows stretched where light had grown
But in the quiet, hand in hand
We found the strength to understand

That love is not a perfect line
But two broken hearts that intertwine
Through storms that tear the sky apart
And keep the beating of each heart

We learned to speak when silence screamed
To heal the wounds time has redeemed
No longer lost within the gray
We build a dawn to start the day

The future waits with open doors
Beyond the weight of what before
A safer place for us to stand
With steady ground beneath our plan

So let the old fears fade away
As morning breaks another day
Together bound by something true
A promise made between me and you",7
65,ultra_held_out,Apostate by Léonie Adams,Léonie Adams,"A poem about a speaker marveling at the joyful freedom of the stars and aching to live as they do, unmasked and unbound by rules.","From weariness I looked out on the stars
And there beheld them, fixed in throbbing joy, Nor racked by such mad dance of moods as mars
For us each moment’s grace with swift alloy. And as they pierced the heavens’ serene deep
An envy of that one consummate part
Swept me, who mock. Whether I laugh or weep,
Some inner silences are at my heart.
Cold shame is mine for all the masks I wear,
Belying that in me which shines and sings
Before Him, to face down man’s alien stare—
A graceless puppet on unmeaning strings, I that looked out, and saw, and was at rest,
Stars, and faint wings, rose-etched along the west.","They dance in silent, silver arcs
Above the heavy, rule-bound earth,
No masks to hide their burning hearts,
No chains of gravity or girth.

Oh, how I ache to shed this skin,
This suit of laws and whispered lies,
To let the wild light rush within
And meet the vast and open skies.

No curfew holds the drifting fire,
No judge decrees where they may roam,
Just endless, unconfined desire
That calls the wandering spirit home.

I watch them spin without a care,
Unbound by time or human law,
And wish with all my soul to tear
The fabric that I wear as awe.

To be as they are, bright and free,
Unmasked before the void's deep eye,
A star in wild symmetry,
Beneath the infinite and sky.","Oh, how they dance in their own wild light,
Those stars that never wear a mask,
Who do not need to hide their face
Or cover up their radiant task.

They are not bound by laws of men,
By clocks or rules or narrow streets;
They run across the velvet dark
With naked, burning, joyful feet.

I wish I were one of them,
To have no name and no disguise,
But just to be a star of fire
And burn before your wondering eyes.",7,"Oh, how they dance in silver silence,
Unmasked by day, unbound by law,
No heavy cloak of duty hangs
Upon their shoulders as they draw
Their light from nothing but themselves,
And spin without a single care
For who might watch or what might say,
Or if the ground beneath them dare
To catch them should they choose to fall.

I ache to be a star tonight,
To shed this skin of flesh and fear,
To float where no one tells me ""stop,""
Where no one whispers, ""Do not go here.""
No rules to bind my wandering fire,
No masks to hide my truest face,
Just wild and free and burning bright
In that vast, open, empty space.",6,"They spin in silver, wild and unafraid,
No laws to hold their burning hearts in check,
No heavy masks of silence they have made,
Just endless light with no one to inspect.

I watch them dance above the city walls,
Unbound by time or gravity or fear,
While I must answer when the daylight calls,
And wear a face that hides what I hold dear.

Oh, how I ache to cast this skin away,
To be a spark that burns without a name,
To laugh aloud into the night and day,
And never bow to any human claim.

Let me be fire that answers to no king,
A wandering star with nowhere left to go,
Free from the weight of every whispered thing,
And let my true self finally overflow.",7,"They dance in silver, wild and bare,
No masks of silence on their air,
No laws to chain their burning flight,
Just endless, unconfined delight.

I watch them spin through velvet deep,
While I am bound by promises I keep,
By rules that carve a narrow lane,
And teach the heart to feign and feign.

Oh, how I ache to shed this skin,
To let the quiet wars begin,
To be a spark with no command,
Unbound by any human hand.

Let me dissolve into the night,
A naked star of purest light,
With nothing left to hide or fear,
Just freedom, vast and crystal clear.",7,"They dance in silver, wild and bare
With no one watching, no one there
To tell them where they must go
Or how their light should softly glow.

I wear a mask of heavy stone
And walk the paths I'm told to own
While up above, the constellations spin
Unbound by law or fear of sin.

Oh, to be dust that floats so free
Unshackled from this gravity
To burn without a reason why
Beneath the vast and open sky.

My heart beats loud against my chest
A prisoner seeking final rest
In fields where rules are never drawn
And night is just a brand new dawn.",7,"They dance in silver chains of ancient light
No laws to bind their wild and wandering flight
I watch them spin above the silent deep
While I am forced to wake from heavy sleep

Oh how they burn without a mask of gray
Unbound by rules that steal the breath away
They do not ask for permission to exist
Or hide their fire behind a painted mist

My heart beats fast against a cage of bone
Aching to leave this world where I alone
Must wear the face that others tell me to
And drown my song beneath a muted hue

If only I could shed this skin of dust
And rise on currents made of wind and trust
To be as vast, as free, as unconfined
As all the stars that shine within my mind",7,"I watch the silver dust ignite
Above the heavy, breathing night
Where gravity has lost its hold
And stories of the dark unfold

They dance in currents, wild and free
Unwritten by a human key
No law to chain their burning light
No shadow cast against their height

Oh, how I ache to shed this skin
To let the quiet wars begin
Within the chest that beats so slow
Beneath the weight of all we know

If I could break the silent cage
And turn my spirit into ageless rage
I'd burn without a single fear
A beacon for the atmosphere

Let rules dissolve like morning mist
By distant constellations kissed
To be unmasked, raw, and true
Just as the ancient heavens do",6
67,train,[A] Talisman by Marianne Moore,Marianne Moore,"""A poem about a shepherd discovering a mysterious seagull-shaped talisman beneath the wreckage of a grounded, broken ship.""","Under a splintered mast,
torn from ship and cast
near her hull,
a stumbling shepherd found
embedded in the ground,
a sea-gull
of lapis lazuli,
a scarab of the sea,
with wings spread—
curling its coral feet,
parting its beak to greet
men long dead.","The tide had left the hull to rot and rust,
A skeletal whale upon the shifting sand,
Where gulls once screamed above the broken mast,
Now silence held the wreckage in its hand.

I walked among the splintered ribs of wood,
My flock asleep within the distant dune,
When something caught the light where shadows stood,
Beneath a beam that fell like early moon.

It was not bone, nor driftwood, nor old rope,
But metal cold as winter's deepest breath,
Carved into the shape of hope or scope,
A seagull frozen in a silent death.

Its wings were spread as if to catch the wind,
Yet etched with symbols I could not decipher,
A talisman from lands beyond the mind,
That seemed to hum with some forgotten cipher.

I lifted it and felt a sudden chill,
As if the ocean whispered through the stone,
The ship was dead, but this was made to will,
A guardian for the lost who walk alone.

No captain's coin, no sailor's lucky charm,
Just bird-shaped magic found in ruin's keep,
I tucked it close against my woolen arm,
And watched the sea while all the world fell asleep.","The tide had left the hull upon the dunes,
A ribcage picked clean by the salt and wind,
Where once the gulls cried out in joyous tunes
Now only silence where the waves had been.

The shepherd climbed the broken timber stairs
To seek a lost lamb or a piece of drift,
And found beneath the rotting deck and rails
A thing that made his heart give sudden lift.

It was a talisman of silvered stone,
Carved in the shape of some great seagull bird,
With eyes like chips of amber set alone
In feathers smooth as any living word.

He held it to the light of morning grey,
And felt a strange cold thrill run through his hand;
It seemed to look across the bay and say,
""Look at me, I am from another land.""

He put it in his pocket with the bread,
And went down slowly to the sandy floor,
But when he reached the beach, the ship was dead,
For all the wood had fallen to the shore.",6,"The tide had pulled the timber back
To leave the ribs of iron bare,
A skeleton upon the sand
With salt and rust within its hair.

I walked among the splintered beams
Where gulls once screamed in frantic flight,
And found a shape beneath the wood
That caught the pale and morning light.

It was not bone, nor driftwood carved,
But metal smooth as polished glass,
Shaped like a gull with wings spread wide
As if to rise and fly at last.

No ship's crest marked this strange device,
No name of captain etched in gold,
Just silver eyes that held no fear
And stories that were never told.

I picked it up; it felt quite warm
Though cold the sea-wind blew that day,
And for a moment, I could hear
The ocean singing far away.

Now when I watch my sheep at dusk
Upon the hillside green and steep,
I hold the talisman in hand
While all the world is fast asleep.

And sometimes, when the wind blows hard,
I swear the silver wings will twitch,
And lead me out across the dunes
To find what lies beyond the ditch.",6,"The tide had pulled the great ship down
To rest beneath the dune,
Where rusted ribs of iron bone
Were tangled with the moon.

I walked the shore to count my sheep
Beneath a gray and heavy sky,
When something caught the morning light
And made the sand nearby

Flash white as salt or broken glass,
Half-buried in the kelp,
A shape that looked like wings spread wide,
But carved from ancient help.

It was a gull, but not of bone,
Nor feather, nor of air,
But metal cold as winter stars
With eyes of polished flare.

No bird that ever flew above
Could hold such stillness deep,
As if it waited for a sign
While all the world asleep.

I picked it up and felt the weight
Of oceans far away,
And wondered what dark sea had cast
This silent thing to stay.

The ship was dead, the wood was rot,
The crew were lost to foam,
Yet here a seagull talisman
Had found its final home.

I tucked it close within my coat
Against the chilling wind,
And watched the waves roll over where
The broken ship had been.",6,"The tide had left the hull to rot and rust,
A skeleton of timber on the sand,
Where gulls once cried above the captain's trust,
Now silence held the broken, shifting land.

I walked among the splintered ribs of wood,
My sheep forgotten in the morning mist,
When something gleamed beneath a patch of mud,
Not bone or shell, but metal cold and kissed.

It lay there shaped like wings spread wide for flight,
With eyes of stone that caught the pale sun's ray,
A seagull forged from some forgotten night,
That seemed to watch the wreckage of the day.

No rust could touch its silver, smooth design,
No salt could dull the feathers carved so deep,
As if it waited through the years to shine,
A secret kept while all the world asleep.

I lifted up the talisman with care,
And felt a hum within my calloused palm,
The air grew still, devoid of wind or flare,
As if the ocean paused to hear a psalm.

Perhaps this bird was meant to guide the lost,
Or mark the place where dreams go down to die,
Whatever purpose bore the heavy cost,
I hold the sky within my trembling eye.",6,"The tide pulled back to reveal the ribs
Of a great ship that slept in sand,
Where salt and rust had made their truce
Across the broken, splintered land.
I walked among the twisted beams
That once had held the ocean's weight,
Until a glint of silver caught my eye
Beneath the shadow of the gate.

It lay half-buried in the drift,
Not wood or iron, cold and gray,
But shaped like wings spread wide to fly
In some forgotten, distant day.
A seagull carved from moonlit stone,
With eyes of amber, deep and still,
No feather marked its smooth surface,
Yet it defied the quiet hill.

My fingers brushed the cool relief,
And suddenly the wind grew loud,
Though not a breath was stirring there
Above the wreckage and the cloud.
The talisman hummed a low refrain,
A song of storms I'd never known,
As if the bird had waited long
For me to claim what was its own.

Now in my pocket, warm and light,
The broken ship begins to fade,
While somewhere far beyond the dunes,
The sky is where the choice is made.",6,"The wind had stripped the timber bare
And left the hull to rot and rust
Upon the jagged, salt-stained air
Where only gulls and silence trust

I walked the beach where waves once broke
To gather driftwood for the fire
But something caught my weary stroke
A gleam amidst the dark mire

Beneath a beam of splintered oak
That held the weight of ocean deep
My fingers found a silver token
Awake while all the world asleep

It bore the shape of soaring wings
With eyes of glass that held no fear
No sound of storm or crashing things
Could make this ancient artifact appear

A seagull carved from starlight's core
Though ships have sunk and men have fled
It waits upon the shifting floor
For words that have not yet been said

I lift it high against the gray
As dusk begins to claim the shore
The broken ship has lost its way
But I am guided by this lore",6,"The wind howled low across the dunes
Where salt and rust had claimed their throne
A shepherd walked with staff in hand
To trace the bones of wood and stone

Beneath the ribs of shattered oak
That groaned against the morning tide
He found a gleam amidst the dark
A silver shape he could not hide

It rested there like fallen sky
With wings that held the storm inside
No feather soft, no hollow bone
But metal carved with ancient pride

A seagull forged from starlight's dust
Its eyes were deep as ocean floor
The shepherd lifted it with care
And felt the weight of something more

The wreckage whispered secrets old
Of voyages lost to time and sea
As fingers brushed the talisman
The world seemed suddenly set free

Now standing tall above the grave
Of ships that dared to sail too far
He holds the bird that never flies
Yet guides him toward a distant star",6
86,train,Spring and Fall by Gerard Manley Hopkins,Gerard Manley Hopkins,"""A poem about a young girl grieving over falling leaves, unknowingly mourning her own mortality.""","to a young child
Márgarét, áre you gríeving
Over Goldengrove unleaving?
Leáves like the things of man, you
With your fresh thoughts care for, can you?
Ah! ás the heart grows older
It will come to such sights colder
By and by, nor spare a sigh
Though worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie;
And yet you wíll weep and know why.
Now no matter, child, the name:
Sórrow’s spríngs áre the same.
Nor mouth had, no nor mind, expressed
What heart heard of, ghost guessed:
It ís the blight man was born for,
It is Margaret you mourn for.","She crouches in the garden dirt
To catch a maple's final spin,
Her small hands open, soft and hurt,
As winter waits to rush within.

Why must they let go of the bough?
She asks the wind that shakes the tree,
With tears she cannot quite explain,
For falling things seem wrong to be.

She counts the cracks upon the bark,
The yellow veins that turn to brown,
And feels a strange and sudden dark
That pulls her down to touch the ground.

It is not just the leaves she weeps,
But something deep inside her chest,
A promise that the sleep she keeps
Will one day call her home to rest.

She does not know her time will come,
Like autumn's end, like cold and gray,
She only knows the silence hums
When all the vibrant green goes away.","The little girl sat on the porch step
watching the maple leaves drift down,
brown and red and curled at the edges,
like dry old hands letting go.

She held one in her small palm
and whispered to it, ""You were green once.""
Then she put it in her pocket
and watched more fall.

""They're dying,"" she said to the wind.
""Why do they have to die?""
The wind did not answer,
only rustled the trees.

She did not know that she was a leaf too,
green now, but soon to be brown and curled,
falling into the dark earth,
to be trodden underfoot by boys and girls
who would say, ""Look at these dead leaves.""",3,"The wind pulls gold from the trembling bough
And lays them soft upon the grass,
A quiet rustle, a final bow,
As summer's vibrant hours pass.

She gathers up the brittle red,
With tears that blur the fading light,
""Why must you die?"" the child has said,
""Before you've had your time to bright.""

She does not know the sap runs dry,
That roots must sleep beneath the snow,
Or why the sky turns gray and high,
When all the green is forced to go.

She counts the cracks within her hand,
Like veins of maples stripped away,
And cannot understand the land
That holds the things that fall today.

She mourns the leaf with such deep dread,
As if it were her own small breath,
Not knowing that the living dead
Are those who wait for autumn's death.",6,"The maple turns to rust and falls
Upon the cold and dampened grass
She counts them one by one with tears
And watches how the seasons pass

Why must they leave the branch so soon?
They held so tight just yesterday
Now scattered in the wind and rain
They cannot find their way back home

She presses small, dry hands to earth
As if she could hold back the frost
Not knowing that her own soft skin
Will one day turn as pale as ghost

The tree will sleep until the spring
But she will not return again
She cries for leaves that drift away
While walking down her own short lane",7,"She sits upon the rusted bench
And watches green turn brown and dry,
A quiet child with fingers clenched
Against the cold autumnal sky.

She weeps for every brittle stem
That breaks away from living wood,
As if the world were losing them
In ways she barely understood.

Why must they fall? Why must they die?
She asks the wind that stirs the air,
With tears too deep for her to cry
For beauty stripped so bare and bare.

She does not see the parallel
Between the branch and beating heart,
The way the seasons steal their spell
Before the final, silent part.

She mourns the leaf with heavy breath
Unknowing it is but a sign
Of life's own short and fleeting death
That waits to claim a soul like mine.",6,"She watches the maple let go of its grip
And drifts to the gray and frozen floor,
A crimson hand that opens to slip
Through cracks in the earth she cannot explore.

Why do they fall when the air turns cold?
She asks the wind with a trembling voice,
As if their ending is something untold,
Something she has no right to rejoice.

She gathers them up in a pile so deep,
Trying to keep them from vanishing fast,
But winter is coming to steal their sleep,
Just as it waits for the years to pass.

Her breath is a cloud that will fade away,
Like the green turning brown on the bough,
Though she thinks only of autumn's decay,
She does not know she is saying goodbye now.

The leaf hits the ground with a silent sound,
A final rest after dancing so high,
And she weeps for the leaves on the cold, hard ground,
Not seeing her own reflection in the sky.",6,"She kneels in the grass where green turns brown
And watches the branches let them down
One by one they spiral to the ground
Without a sound, without a sound

Her small hands gather the brittle gold
A story of endings she cannot hold
Why do they fall when the sky is so wide?
Where do they go when they have nowhere to hide?

She weeps for the maple that lost its dress
For the quiet surrender of summer's caress
Not knowing the chill in her own thin veins
Is the same cold wind that shakes the oaks' chains

The leaf was once high, just as she stands tall
Before the first frost and the final wall
But grief is a mirror she does not see
Reflecting a future as fleeting as tree

So she buries the red in the darkening loam
Mourning a stranger who calls her name
Unaware that her breath is a temporary guest
Waiting to join the earth with the rest",6,"The maple turns to rust above her head
And she counts each one that hits the ground
A quiet rhythm in the cooling air
Where summer's warmth has slowly lost its sound

She catches a dry leaf with trembling hands
Its veins like maps of roads she'll never take
A sudden ache behind her ribcage spreads
As if the earth is waking up to wake

Why do they fall so fast and break so deep
When roots run thick beneath the soil below
She does not see the shadow in the stream
Or feel the winter coming through her bone

The wind whispers names she cannot hear
Of things that end before they start to bloom
And in the silence of the fading light
She mourns the future stealing from her room

It is not just the season turning gray
But something ancient stirring in her chest
A knowledge old as stars and dust and clay
That every living thing must finally rest",6
88,ultra_held_out,Sonnet 16 by Elizabeth Barrett Browning,Elizabeth Barrett Browning,"A poem about a speaker dedicating herself to newfound love and happiness, overcoming past sorrow with the protection of her beloved.","And yet, because thou overcomest so,
Because thou art more noble and like a king,
Thou canst prevail against my fears and fling
Thy purple round me, till my heart shall grow
Too close against thine heart henceforth to know
How it shook when alone. Why, conquering
May prove as lordly and complete a thing
In lifting upward, as in crushing low!
And as a vanquished soldier yields his sword
To one who lifts him from the bloody earth,
Even so, Beloved, I at last record,
Here ends my strife. If thou invite me forth,
I rise above abasement at the word.
Make thy love larger to enlarge my worth.","The shadows that once clung to my skin
Have finally begun to fade,
Replaced by a light I thought was lost,
A warmth the cold could never invade.
I lay down the heavy stones of grief,
The tears I cried in silence long,
For you have built a shelter here,
Where broken things are made strong.

Your hand is the wall against the storm,
Your voice the calm within the rain,
I step out from the ruins of yesterday,
To walk again through fields of green.
No longer do I fear the night,
Or wonder if the dawn will come,
For in your arms, the past dissolves,
And leaves me safe and overcome.

I give my heart, no longer fractured,
To this new and tender day,
Let sorrow be a distant memory,
Washed clean and far away.
Here in your gaze, I find my home,
A happiness I cannot name,
Dedicated wholly to the love
That healed me without blame.","The heavy cloak of winter grief has slipped
From off my shoulders, and the sun is warm;
I cast aside the old and bitter script
And write a new one with a lighter hand.
No longer do I fear the shadowed path
Or walk alone where once I walked in tears;
Your hand is mine to guide me through the wrath
Of storms that used to break my heart with fears.
Now safety wraps around me like a shield,
And happiness, a flower newly found,
Blooms in the garden of my heart's own field,
Protected by your love from every wound.
So let the past be buried in its grave,
For I am happy now, and you are brave.",7,"The winter of my heart has finally thawed
 beneath the gentle weight of your embrace,
 and shadows that once haunted every hall
 have fled before the light upon your face.
 No longer do I walk the cold and gray
 where grief was once my only constant friend,
 for you have swept the broken dust away
 and taught me how to love and how to mend.
 Your arms are walls against the stormy sky,
 a shelter built from promise and from care,
 so let the past its silent vigil keep
 while I find peace within your warmest air.
 I give myself to joy, no more afraid
 of what was lost, since now my debt is paid.",7,"The winter in my chest has finally thawed
As you step forward, shielding me from rain
No longer do I walk the path of sorrow
Or count the scars that marked my old domain

You wrap your arms around the trembling parts
That once believed they would not heal again
And in this shelter, quiet and complete
I find a joy I thought was lost to pain

I lay down every weapon of defense
And trade my grief for something soft and new
For you have taught my heart to trust the light
And show me what it means to start anew

So let the past dissolve like morning mist
Before the warmth of this enduring day
I give myself to love and happiness
With you to guard the path we choose to take",7,"The winter of my heart has finally thawed
As shadows retreat before your steady light
No longer bound by chains of what I lost
I step into the warmth of this new night

You stand as shield against the ghosts of yore
A fortress built where once was only fear
The heavy door of sorrow swings no more
For you have made the path ahead so clear

I give my hands to hold and guide me through
The scattered pieces that were left behind
With every breath, I choose to start anew
And leave the bitter taste of grief far behind

Let joy be now the language that we speak
Protected by the love you freely give
The future is a promise that we seek
Together in the way that we will live",7,"The heavy rain of yesterday has ceased to fall,
Leaving only silence where the thunder used to call.
I lay my broken pieces down upon the floor,
No longer needing to guard a locked and bolted door.

You stand beside me now, a shield against the gray,
Washing all the shadows of my sorrow far away.
Your hands are warm and steady, holding tight to mine,
A quiet promise that this darkness cannot shine.

I give you all my heart, the parts I thought were lost,
Trusting in your love to pay whatever it may cost.
For in your gentle presence, fear begins to fade,
And every step we take together is a debt repaid.

The world feels new again, painted bright with gold,
A story written softly, never more to be untold.
I dedicate this spirit to the joy we have begun,
Underneath the safety of your sun.",7,"The shadows that once clung to my skin
Have finally begun to fade away,
Replaced by light I never thought could win
Against the gray of yesterday.

I lay down the heavy stones I carried deep,
The memories that held my breath so tight,
For in your arms, a promise you will keep,
A sanctuary from the endless night.

No longer do I walk with trembling hands,
Or fear the storm that used to break my heart,
You stand as fortress on these shifting sands,
And tear the old and bitter parts apart.

Let sorrow drown beneath the tide we make,
As joy takes root within this sacred space,
My spirit wakes for every step we take,
Protected by the warmth upon your face.

I give myself to this new morning's call,
To love that heals the wounds I tried to hide,
Standing tall within your gentle wall,
With nothing left to fear and nowhere left to run or hide.",7,"The shadows that once clung to my skin
Have finally begun to fade away
Replaced by light that feels so new
As dawn breaks on a brighter day

I lay the heavy stones of grief
Beneath the weight of gentle hands
Where every tear I ever cried
Is washed by promises you planned

No longer do I walk alone
Through valleys carved by old despair
For you have built a fortress strong
To shield the fragile hope we share

My heart, once fractured and afraid
Now beats in rhythm with your own
A sanctuary found in touch
Where seeds of joy are softly sown

So let the past dissolve in mist
And leave behind the ghost of pain
I give myself to this warm sun
To love again, to start again",7
91,train,Musee des Beaux Arts by W.H. Auden,W.H. Auden,"A poem about suffering going unnoticed as it fades into the background while others continue ploughing, sailing, and going about their mundane lives.","About suffering they were never wrong,
The old Masters: how well they understood
Its human position: how it takes place
While someone else is eating or opening a window or just walking dully along;
How, when the aged are reverently, passionately waiting
For the miraculous birth, there always must be
Children who did not specially want it to happen, skating
On a pond at the edge of the wood:
They never forgot
That even the dreadful martyrdom must run its course
Anyhow in a corner, some untidy spot
Where the dogs go on with their doggy life and the torturer's horse
Scratches its innocent behind on a tree.
In Breughel's Icarus, for instance: how everything turns away
Quite leisurely from the disaster; the ploughman may
Have heard the splash, the forsaken cry,
But for him it was not an important failure; the sun shone
As it had to on the white legs disappearing into the green
Water, and the expensive delicate ship that must have seen
Something amazing, a boy falling out of the sky,
Had somewhere to get to and sailed calmly on.","The crack in the wall widens by a hair
while the baker kneads his dough with rhythmic care
the ship cuts through the gray and rolling foam
and no one looks to see where I have come

My silence is a stone beneath the floor
that settles deeper as they walk out the door
they plough the fields and sing of harvest gold
unaware of the story left untold

The wind blows hard against the window pane
but drowns the sound of my quiet, slow decline
they sail on waves that crash and turn to white
oblivious to the fading of the light

So let the world spin on its busy axis
while I become a ghost within the matrix
of daily tasks and ordinary grace
erasing me without a single trace","The plough turns up the dark earth
and the sail catches the wind
while the pain in my chest
fades like a bruise into the yellow of the skin.

No one sees it anymore,
it is just a dull ache now,
a shadow under the ribs,
a stain on the white shirt of the day.

The farmer drives his team along the ridge,
the sailor trims the sheet and laughs at the spray,
and I sit here with my hand on my heart
watching them go about their business.

They do not look back,
they do not see me fading,
they only see the sun and the sea and the furrow,
and the world going on as usual.",3,"The wound tightens in the quiet room
while outside the oxen strain against the yoke
and the plough turns over heavy, wet earth.
No one sees the shadow lengthen across the floor
as the sun moves on to warm the sails
of a ship cutting through the gray water.
The baker kneads his dough with rhythmic hands
the children run to catch the bus
the clock ticks its indifferent beat.
My pain is a small stone dropped in a deep well
that makes no splash for anyone but me.
It settles slowly into the silt of the day
until it is just another thing that was there
before I came and will be there when I am gone
while the world keeps turning its wheel
unbroken by my silence.",2,"The wound is quiet now, a dull and heavy stone
That sinks beneath the tide of daily noise.
No one sees the shadow lengthen on the floor
As neighbors sweep their porches and make choices.

The ploughman turns his furrow in the field
Unaware that something vital broke inside.
He counts the rows of corn he hopes to reap
And lets the morning light and wind decide.

A ship cuts through the gray and rolling deep,
Its captain steering by the stars above.
The creaking wood and salt spray mask the sound
Of a heart breaking with no one there to love.

They walk the street, they buy their bread and tea,
They laugh at jokes that do not touch the bone.
The suffering has learned to be invisible,
Just background static, humming on its own.

It fades into the wallpaper, the dust,
Into the rhythm of the turning wheel.
While life goes on, indifferent and vast,
The pain remains, but no one stops to feel.",6,"The crack in the wall widens slowly
while the baker kneads his dough
unaware that the mortar has begun to weep
into the dust beneath his boots.

Far out at sea the gulls cry for fish
as the ship cuts through the grey swell
ignoring the ghost of a storm
that drowned itself in silence yesterday.

In the fields the plough turns over soil
heavy with the weight of seeds and rain
never hearing the whisper of roots
strangling themselves in the dark.

We walk past the quiet collapse
of things that held us up before
too busy counting coins or watching clouds
to notice the ground giving way.

It fades like smoke from a cold fire
a shadow swallowed by the noon sun
while life continues its loud, indifferent march
over the place where everything broke.",3,"The wound has grown so quiet now
It hums a low and distant tone
While fields are turned by heavy ploughs
And seeds are sown in rows unknown

The ship cuts through the morning mist
With sails unfurled to catch the wind
No eye regards the shadow cast
Where broken things are left behind

They walk the street with coffee cups
They laugh at jokes they hear each day
The world moves on with steady pace
Ignoring what has slipped away

A silence fills the empty space
Between the breath and rising sun
The suffering is just a ghost
That no one sees, or feels, or runs",6,"The wound that bleeds in silence
never makes a sound
as the cart wheels crush the dust
and turn the heavy ground

A sailor checks his compass
while the storm begins to break
he does not see the shadow
that is slowly starting to fade

The baker kneads his morning dough
the children chase the light
they walk right past the crumbling wall
without a second sight

The world moves on with steady hands
ignoring what has passed
until the pain becomes just air
too quiet and too vast

No one stops to ask the question
why the sky turned gray
for life demands a constant motion
and grief must slip away",6,"The crack in the wall goes unremarked
As boots stomp heavy on the floorboards
A silence grows where a scream once lived
Drowned by the rhythm of distant doors

They plough the earth with steady hands
Turning soil that knows no name
While shadows stretch across the land
Unseen, unnamed, and without shame

Sails catch wind on oceans far away
Ignoring the drift of something lost
The world spins on its axis bright
Counting only what it thinks it has cost

No one pauses to ask the why
Of dust that settles in the air
The mundane hums a lullaby
To mask the weight of quiet despair

And so the fading begins its slow descent
Into the backdrop of the daily grind
Leaving behind what was never spent
Just another ghost for time to find",6
93,ultra_held_out,Balloons by Sylvia Plath,Sylvia Plath,"""A poem about finding fleeting beauty in ordinary things, only to be pulled back into a harsh reality that shatters innocence and childhood dreams.""","Since Christmas they have lived with us,
Guileless and clear,
Oval soul-animals,
Taking up half the space,
Moving and rubbing on the silk

Invisible air drifts,
Giving a shriek and pop
When attacked, then scooting to rest, barely trembling.
Yellow cathead, blue fish————
Such queer moons we live with

Instead of dead furniture!
Straw mats, white walls
And these traveling
Globes of thin air, red, green,
Delighting

The heart like wishes or free
Peacocks blessing
Old ground with a feather
Beaten in starry metals.
Your small

Brother is making
His balloon squeak like a cat.
Seeming to see
A funny pink world he might eat on the other side of it,
He bites,

Then sits
Back, fat jug
Contemplating a world clear as water.
A red
Shred in his little fist.
5 February 1963","The dust motes danced in afternoon light
Like tiny stars trapped in a jar of air
I held my breath to catch their flight
And found a universe beyond compare

A dandelion clock upon the lawn
Held secrets of the wind I could not know
The world was soft before the dawn
With colors only children seem to grow

But then the door slammed hard and deep
A voice that cut the silence like a knife
Woke me from the quiet, golden sleep
To show the jagged edges of real life

The stars turned back to floating dust
The magic faded with the setting sun
The trust we placed in dreams was crushed
By things we knew were never meant to be done

Now innocence is just a broken thing
Left on the floor where shadows start to creep
While childhood songs no longer sing
And promises are buried in our sleep","The dandelion clock was full of time
And the sun was warm on my small knee,
I blew a wish into the air
And watched it float away so free.

The dust motes danced in golden shafts
Above the kitchen floor,
I thought they were fairies spinning round
To make me happy more and more.

But then the door slammed hard and loud,
And father's angry voice rang out,
And all the fairies ran away
And blew the dandelion seeds about.

The sun went down behind the cloud,
The kitchen floor looked rough and grey,
And I knew I must go to bed soon
And not be happy any more today.",3,"A dandelion clock in the cracked sidewalk
holds a universe of golden light,
and for a moment the wind is just a whisper
carrying wishes to the stars,
not the exhaust fumes choking the street.

I blow and watch the seeds float away,
tiny parachutes of hope rising up,
believing that if I wish hard enough
the world will stay soft and bright forever.

Then a car backfires, loud and sharp as a gunshot,
shattering the silence like dropped glass,
and the sky turns gray again with smog,
the children are not safe, the dreams are gone,
and I am suddenly old, standing alone
in the cold, hard rain.",3,"A dandelion pushes through the crack
Where sunlight spills like melted gold,
And for a moment I am seven years old,
Believing magic lives in every track.

The wind whispers secrets to the grass,
That nothing ends and nothing fades,
That summer is the only shade,
And time moves slow as honey passing glass.

But then the siren cuts the air,
A jagged tear in soft blue skies,
And sudden shadows fill my eyes,
Revealing rot beneath the fair.

The dandelion turns to dust and gray,
The golden light reveals the rust,
The world returns to iron and dust,
And innocence is swept away.",6,"The dandelion clock holds the sun
A fragile crown of gold and white
We blow the seeds into the air
And watch them float in pure delight
The world is soft, a painted dream
Where nothing breaks and nothing ends
But then the wind turns cold and sharp
And pulls us to the jagged edges

The pavement cracks beneath our feet
Revealing rust and dirty stone
The golden light begins to fade
Into a gray and heavy tone
We see the cracks inside the glass
The shadows where the monsters hide
No more the magic of the spark
Just truth we cannot run or slide

The innocence dissolves like mist
As harsh realities take hold
The childhood castle falls apart
Beneath a story dark and old
We stand alone with empty hands
No longer children, just the grown
Who learned too soon that beauty dies
And leaves us broken on the throne",6,"The dandelion clock stands soft in morning light
A universe of seeds waiting to take flight
I blow a gentle breath and watch them drift away
Like tiny stars that dance before the break of day
In that suspended moment nothing feels too heavy or too gray
Just magic woven through the dust of common clay

But then the wind shifts hard and cold against my face
The sky turns bruised and heavy with a grim embrace
The seeds are gone, replaced by weeds that choke the ground
Where silence used to sing, now only sirens sound
The glass I held so carefully slips from trembling hands
And shatters on the pavement where the broken promise stands
No more the golden hour, no more the dream so bright
Just concrete underfoot and shadows stretching out of sight
The child inside me weeps as innocence is torn apart
By the jagged edge of truth that cuts right through the heart",6,"The dust motes dance in afternoon light
A golden galaxy on the kitchen floor
We traced their paths with fingers of white
And swore we could keep them forever more

The wind whispered secrets through the open window pane
Promising a world where nothing ever breaks
Where time is soft and rain is just a gentle stain
And every heartache simply fades away

But then the shadow stretched across the grass
A sudden silence swallowed up the song
The glass began to crack, the quiet turned to brass
As winter came too early, rushing us along

The dream dissolved like sugar in cold tea
Revealing cracks beneath the painted skin
No magic left to set the spirit free
Just the heavy weight of where we begin again",6,"The dust motes dance in afternoon light
A golden stage for silent play
Where shadows stretch and time takes flight
And every whisper holds the day

We built a castle from dry sand
With towers reaching for the sky
Believing we could hold the land
And keep the stars from saying goodbye

But then the wind began to howl
A cold command that breaks the spell
The painted walls begin to crumble now
Revealing cracks where secrets dwell

The grass turns gray beneath our feet
The laughter fades into a sigh
As winter steals the summer's heat
And pulls the dreamers down to die

No magic lingers in the air
Just concrete hard against the bone
A heavy silence, stripped and bare
Leaving only what was known",7
96,ultra_held_out,Song of the Open Road by Walt Whitman,Walt Whitman,"A poem about a speaker embarking on an open road journey, freely choosing his own destiny and carrying life's burdens with him as they arise.","Afoot and light-hearted I take to the open road,
Healthy, free, the world before me,
The long brown path before me leading wherever I choose. 

Henceforth I ask not good-fortune, I myself am good-fortune,
Henceforth I whimper no more, postpone no more, need nothing,
Done with indoor complaints, libraries, querulous criticisms,
Strong and content I travel the open road.

The earth, that is sufficient,
I do not want the constellations any nearer,
I know they are very well where they are,
I know they suffice for those who belong to them.

(Still here I carry my old delicious burdens,
I carry them, men and women, I carry them with me wherever I go,
I swear it is impossible for me to get rid of them,
I am fill’d with them, and I will fill them in return.)","The asphalt stretches out a gray and endless tongue
I step away from walls that held me too long
No map is folded in my pocket now
Just the wind that whispers where to bow

I do not know the name of any town I'll find
Only the rhythm beating in my mind
To choose the path, to turn when shadows grow
And let the future bloom or fade or flow

If sorrow comes it rides beside me on the seat
A heavy coat I wear when rain and sleet
Are falling hard upon the dusty glass
I carry every weight as hours pass

For burdens are the anchors of the soul
That keep the spirit whole when cracks appear
I take them up with hands both open wide
And walk until the turning point inside

The horizon calls a promise unconfined
Leaving the old and broken things behind
Not running from the pain that makes us real
But driving forward with the things we feel","The engine hums a low and steady tune
Beneath the vast and open, empty sky,
I choose the road that leads away from noon
And where the wild wind blows I will not die.

No map is in my pocket, nor a plan,
Just this old car and all the things I own,
I carry burdens as they come to hand,
A sack of stones upon a bony bone.

If sorrow comes, I'll put it in the bag,
If joy arrives, I'll toss it on the seat;
I do not ask the future if it's lag,
I only drive the present down the street.

The road goes on forever, so says fate,
And I go with it, taking what is mine;
I leave the heavy questions to the gate,
And walk right in without a single sign.",6,"The asphalt stretches out a gray ribbon
Unspooling toward the horizon's edge
Where the sky meets the dust in a hazy embrace
I leave the map folded in my pocket
And let the wind decide the turn of the wheel

No compass points to a predestined star
Only the pulse in my wrist and the hum of the engine
I am the architect of this wandering line
Building my future mile by loose gravel mile
With no blueprint but the hunger in my chest

If sorrow rises like a storm cloud on the left
I will pull over and sit with it in the cab
Let it rain on the windshield until it passes
If joy bursts forth like a sudden wildflower field
I will stop to pick a handful for the dashboard
Then carry both the heavy stones and the bright petals
In the trunk where they belong
As I drive on into the unknown",5,"The engine hums a low and steady tune
Beneath the vast and unclaimed afternoon
I turn the wheel away from where I've been
To let the open road begin again

No map is held within my trembling hand
Just dust and light across this shifting land
I choose the path that winds through fields of gold
A story waiting for its own to be told

If sorrow comes, it rides beside me now
A shadow on the dashboard's silver brow
And if joy breaks like dawn upon the hill
I carry both with quiet, willing will

For destiny is not a distant star
But what we make as we go very far
With every mile, the heavy load takes flight
Yet I bear all into the fading light",7,"The asphalt stretches out like a ribbon of gray
Unspooling toward a horizon I name my own
No map in hand, no voice to say where I must go
Just the hum of tires and the wind that sings alone

I do not leave the weight behind as some might claim
To walk unburdened is a lie we tell the young
So I pack my grief like stones inside my coat
And let them rattle softly while the song is sung

Every sorrow that arises finds a place to sit
A heavy passenger beside the driver's seat
I carry joy too, light as dust upon the sill
And meet the rising sun with both hands open wide to greet

The road does not demand I drop what I have known
It only asks that I keep moving forward still
With every burden lifted, every moment grown
I choose this path, this freedom, this unyielding will",6,"The engine hums a quiet tune beneath the morning gray
I leave the map behind me where the tangled cities lay
No compass points to destiny, no voice commands the way
Just open asphalt stretching out to meet the light of day

I pack my bag with heavy things I cannot set aside
The grief that walks beside me and the pride I cannot hide
They sit within the passenger seat as shadows start to climb
Not obstacles to overcome but markers of my time

Let storms roll in from western hills and dust rise from the plain
I carry every weight I've known through sunshine and through rain
For freedom is not emptiness where nothing weighs you down
But choosing how to bear the load while wearing your own crown

The horizon pulls me forward with a promise undefined
A path unwritten waiting for the footsteps I will find
So let the burdens ride along and let the road unfold
My story is the journey made, the future yet untold",6,"The asphalt stretches out in ribbons gray
Where yesterday's shadows fade away
I turn the wheel without a map to guide
And let the open sky be my only tide

No heavy chains of expectation bind
The freedom that I leave behind
Yet in my chest, the weight remains
Of joys and sorrows, old and new pains

I do not cast them off to float on air
But carry every ghost with careless care
For burden is the price of moving through
The vast and wild horizon waiting for me too

Each mile unfolds a story yet untold
A destiny that I alone can hold
With hands that grip the wheel so tight
I walk into the coming night",6,"The engine hums a quiet song
Against the weight of yesterday
I turn the wheel and drift along
To chase the light of coming day

No map to guide where I must go
Just gravel shifting under tires
The wind begins to softly blow
And lifts me past the old desires

Some days the road will climb too steep
With shadows stretching long and deep
I carry all the promises I keep
And let the heavy memories weep

But in this motion, something breaks
A chain that held me to the shore
For every step my spirit takes
Is one more choice than before

The horizon calls with open arms
A canvas waiting for my hand
Through stormy skies and sudden charms
I walk the path I planned

So let the burdens ride beside
As passengers upon the seat
There is no need to hide or hide
From what the journey makes complete",7
114,ultra_held_out,Chorus of the Captains by Amanda Gorman,Amanda Gorman,"""A poem about three American heroes working to benefit their communities and bring the country together during the COVID-19 pandemic.""","Today we honor our three captains
For their actions and impact in
A time of uncertainty and need.
They’ve taken the lead,
Exceeding all expectations and limitations
Uplifting their communities and neighbors
As leaders, healers, and educators.

James has felt the wounds of warfare,
But this warrior still shares
His home with at-risk kids.
During Covid, he’s event lent a hand,
Live-streaming football for family and fans.

Trimaine is an educator who works nonstop,
Providing his community with hotspots,
Laptops, and tech workshops,
So his students have all the tools
They need to succeed in life and school.

Suzie is the ICU nurse manager at a Tampa Hospital.
Her chronicles prove that even in tragedy, hope is possible.
She lost her grandmothers to the pandemic,
And fights to save other lives in the ICU battle zone,
Defining the frontline heroes risking their lives for our own.

Let us walk with these warriors,
Charge on with these champions,
And carry forth the call of our captains!
We celebrate them by acting
With courage and compassion,
By doing what is right and just.
For while we honor them today,
It is them who every day honor us","In a quiet town where silence grew,
A nurse named Elena worked to heal the few,
She held the hands of those afraid to speak,
And found the strength within the weak.

Across the state, a farmer named Tom drove his truck,
To deliver food to families in luck or lack,
He left fresh produce at every door,
So no one went hungry on the floor.

Then came a teacher, Marcus, with a laptop screen,
Who taught the young from a living room scene,
He bridged the gap when schools closed tight,
And kept the future burning bright.

Three different paths but one common goal,
To mend the broken and make the spirit whole,
They showed that love is stronger than the fear,
And brought the nation closer year by year.","In a quiet kitchen in Ohio,
A woman mixed flour and water and yeast,
Baking bread for the hungry neighbors,
While her children played on the floor.

Across the country in a city hospital,
A doctor stood by a patient's bed,
Holding their hand through the glass window,
When no one else could be near.

In a small town in Texas,
A man drove his truck to the church,
Delivering masks and gloves and sanitizer,
To help the volunteers at the food bank.

They did not know each other's names,
They lived thousands of miles apart,
But they were all working for America,
Keeping hope alive in their hearts.",6,"In the quiet streets where silence grew,
Three figures moved with purpose true.
One donned a mask of blue and white,
To heal the sick throughout the night,
Bringing hope to those who feared,
And holding hands that life held dear.

Another stood with boxes full,
Of food for every hungry soul,
Driving through the rain and snow,
To make sure no one had to go
Without a meal or warm embrace,
While kindness filled this weary place.

The third was there to speak and teach,
With facts within their gentle reach,
Explaining how we must unite,
To keep the virus from our sight,
Bridging gaps of fear and hate,
And teaching patience as we wait.

Together they became a thread,
That wove a safety net instead,
Of chaos, panic, and despair,
Showing love beyond compare,
For in their work, the nation saw,
A brighter, kinder, stronger law.",7,"In the quiet hum of a hospital ward,
A nurse in blue stood guard with steady hands,
Delivering hope where fear had once been stored,
And healing wounds across our broken lands.

Far away in a kitchen, flour flew,
A baker rose to feed the hungry street,
With loaves of bread and kindness made anew,
To make the lonely taste of sorrow sweet.

Then came a driver on a rainy night,
With masks and tests to deliver to the door,
Connecting neighbors with a sudden light,
So none would face the storm or war alone anymore.

Three different paths but one united heart,
They stitched the fabric torn by silent dread,
Proving that even when we fall apart,
We rise together from the pain we shed.",7,"In the quiet hum of a hospital ward,
A nurse in blue stood guard with weary eyes,
Holding hands when touch was hard to give,
Teaching us how to breathe and learn to live.

Across the street where silence filled the air,
A teacher typed with hope beyond despair,
Connecting screens to keep the learning bright,
Turning darkened days into morning light.

Then came the drive where strangers shared their bread,
A volunteer who lifted up the dead,
Not just in loss but in the food they gave,
To build a bridge across the fear and grave.

Three hearts beat strong beneath one flag unfurled,
Binding together what the world had stirred,
For in their service, distinct yet as one,
The healing of our nation had begun.",7,"In the quiet hum of a hospital ward,
Where masks hid faces but not the care,
A nurse stood firm as the world grew hard,
Holding hope in her weary air.
She washed the hands of the sick and old,
A guardian spirit in scrubs so blue,
Turning fear into stories told,
And reminding us all what we can do.

Across the street where the shelves were bare,
A volunteer packed boxes with grace,
Delivering food to those who weren't there,
To keep a smile on every face.
He drove through rain and the empty streets,
Connecting neighbors he'd never known,
Finding warmth in the cold retreats,
And planting seeds that would soon be sown.

Then came the voice from a porch or screen,
Calling out to the divided land,
Speaking truth to the space between,
With a gentle and steady hand.
They taught us how to stand apart,
Yet hold each other close in mind,
Mending the fraying heart of the art,
Leaving the bitterness far behind.

Three paths converged in a single light,
Through the shadow of a global storm,
One gave strength, one brought the sight,
One kept the spirit warm and form.
Not famous names in history's book,
But heroes born of love and need,
Who wrote their promise in every look,
And helped the broken country bleed.",7,"In quiet halls where silence used to reign
A nurse in blue stood firm against the pain
She held a hand when fear had taken hold
And wove a thread of courage, brave and bold
Her mask was stained with sweat and endless care
Yet in her eyes, a promise lingered there
That every life was precious, worth the fight
To guide us through the shadows of the night

Across the street a teacher turned the screen
To reach the lost and lonely, unseen
With digital lights that pierced the gray
He taught the young how hope could lead the way
No classroom walls could stop his steady voice
Or make the children feel they had no choice
He built a bridge of knowledge, wide and deep
So no one felt alone while others slept

Then came a man who drove his truck at dawn
Through empty towns where fear had fully drawn
His cargo held not gold or shining steel
But food and warmth for those who could not feel
The weight of hunger pressing on the soul
He gave his strength to make the broken whole
From coast to coast he carried love's design
To show that kindness makes the future shine

Three different paths but one united goal
To heal the body and the fractured soul
They worked in silence while the world held breath
Defying fear and dancing close to death
Not heroes sought by fame or loud acclaim
But neighbors answering a silent call to name
The truth that binds us all in times so hard
Is found in service, offered without reward",7,"In quiet streets where silence used to grow
Three figures walked with purpose, soft and slow
The first a nurse in scrubs of faded blue
Who held the hands of those she never knew
Her voice was steady through the mask and fear
A lighthouse shining when the path was unclear

Another stood within a kitchen warm and bright
Preparing meals to fight the endless night
With flour on his apron and a gentle grace
He brought a smile to every empty space
No question asked of who or why they came
Just food for bodies seeking to reclaim

The third spoke loud across the digital divide
To bridge the gaps that kept us far inside
She wove a tapestry of stories shared and true
Reminding all that we are bound as one crew
Through fear and loss her message rang so clear
That love remains the only thing we hold most dear

Together now they stand against the storm
A triad strong in spirit, fierce and form
Not heroes carved from marble, cold and still
But neighbors driven by a common will
To heal the wounds and mend the fractured land
And guide their people back to solid ground",7
130,ultra_held_out,Table Talk by Wallace Stevens,Wallace Stevens,"""A poem about contemplating how life's events and preferences are random and ultimately inconsequential, with death being the only certainty.""","Granted, we die for good.
Life, then, is largely a thing
Of happens to like, not should.

And that, too, granted, why
Do I happen to like red bush,
Grey grass and green-gray sky?

What else remains? But red,
Gray, green, why those of all?
That is not what I said:

Not those of all. But those.
One likes what one happens to like.
One likes the way red grows.

It cannot matter at all.
Happens to like is one
Of the ways things happen to fall.","We choose our colors with a trembling hand
And argue over shades of blue and red
As if the canvas matters to the sand
Or how the quiet river fills the bed

The taste of coffee, bitter or too sweet
The path we walk that leads us nowhere near
Are just the echoes of a random beat
That fades into the silence of the year

No grand design explains why this or that
Why one is loved and one is left behind
A coin flips high within a cosmic hat
And lands on nothing that the mind can find

So let us build our castles in the air
And claim they stand against the coming tide
For death is waiting everywhere
With nowhere left for us to run or hide

It does not care for what we held so dear
The plans we made, the loves we thought were true
It simply comes to make the atmosphere
Of all our certainty turn into dew

In the end the noise becomes a hum
The choices blur into a single gray
The light goes out before it even comes
To take the random dust of life away","We choose our coffee dark or sweet
and argue for a decade why,
we pick a color for the wall
and fight to keep it, though we die.

The random toss of cosmic dice
decides if rain will fall today
or if the sun will break through clouds;
it matters not when we decay.

We love the wrong ones, hate the right,
we build our houses on the sand,
we spend our lives in minor ways
that vanish with us from the land.

No pattern rules the wind that blows,
no reason for the rose's scent,
and none at all for how we live
or where our bodies are sent.

One thing is sure, and one alone:
the end must come to every soul,
the light goes out, the door shuts tight,
and nothing makes us whole again.",6,"We choose the shade of blue we paint our walls
And argue over which path through the woods to take,
Convinced that every preference is a soul-deep call,
A map of who we are for heaven's sake.

But chance is just a coin tossed in the dark,
The spin determines if we land on red or black,
No grand design behind the spark,
No reason why we turn this way or back.

The love we feel, the hate we cannot hide,
Are accidents of weather in the blood and bone,
Just random drifts upon a tide
That leads inevitably to the stone.

We build our towers high and stack them deep,
We count our coins and measure out our days,
Until the final silence falls asleep
And swallows all our noisy, frantic ways.

For nothing matters in the end but this:
The certain quiet that awaits us all,
The moment when the breath ceases to hiss,
And dust returns to dust within the wall.",6,"We choose our colors, pick our sides,
And argue over trivial tides,
Believing every choice we make
Is woven in a grand design to take.
But chance is just a blindfold thrown,
That scatters seeds on stones unknown.
The path we walk, the love we find,
Are accidents of time and mind.

No pattern guides the falling leaf,
No meaning hides behind the grief.
The stars align by cosmic drift,
While human hearts are softly shifted.
We build our castles in the air,
With no foundation anywhere,
Then wonder why the wind blows through,
And leaves us with a hollow view.

For all this noise, this frantic race,
This desperate search for distinct place,
Dissolves before the final breath,
The quiet end that waits for death.
It does not care what you preferred,
Or if your voice was soft or heard.
The curtain falls on every stage,
Leaving only silence in its wake.",6,"The coin flips in the dark without a hand to catch it
We argue over which side fell, building castles on the spin
A taste for salt or sugar, a path chosen by a stumble
All the fervent loves and hates are just a random drift of dust

We cling to what we like as if it carved a permanent line
But the wind does not care for our favorite flowers or songs
The lottery of birth and chance decides the shape of every day
While meaning tries to stitch a pattern into chaotic gray

Yet silence waits at every door, the only guest who stays
It will not ask for your opinions or the reasons why you cried
It comes to level mountains and to smooth the jagged edges out
Until the noise of living fades into the quiet of the void

So let the random currents pull us where they please to go
For nothing that we cherish will remain when breath is gone
The certainty is simply this: the end is all that holds true
And in that final stillness, nothing mattered but the fall",6,"We choose our colors in a blind auction
And argue fiercely over shades of blue
While the wind shifts without asking why
And the stars burn out before we see them through

The taste of coffee, the path we take
Are accidents of chance and fleeting grace
A coin flip landing on its edge
In this vast and indifferent space

We build our towers on shifting sand
Convinced they matter to the sky
But time erases every line
As quietly as clouds go by

The noise of joy, the weight of grief
Dissolve into the silent air
No grand design, no final score
Just empty rooms and vacant chairs

Until the breath finally stops its flight
And pulls the curtain on the show
The only truth we ever knew
Is that the ending is all we know",6,"The coin flips in the dark of night
And lands on heads or tails by chance
We build our castles out of light
Then watch them crumble in a dance

The coffee cup we hold so dear
The song that makes us start to cry
Are just a whisper, faint and clear
Beneath an uncaring, empty sky

We argue over who is right
While stars burn cold and distant far
No shadow lingers past the light
No echo reaches where we are

The choices made, the paths we tread
Are scattered seeds upon the wind
A story read, then quickly dead
With nothing left to keep within

For all the noise and frantic race
That fills the space between the birth
There waits a quiet, final place
Where silence claims the whole of earth

The only truth we hold so tight
Is not the joy, nor pain, nor fear
But how the ending ends the light
And leaves no trace of what was here",7,"The coin spins high above the floor
A choice of heads or tails no more
We argue over which side lands
While time dissolves in shifting sands

The coffee cup we hold so dear
Will vanish with the passing year
The song we love, the road we take
Are echoes that the silence breaks

No grand design guides every step
Just chaos where the quiet slept
Our passions burn and fade to gray
As night reclaims the light of day

It matters not what we have won
Or battles fought beneath the sun
For every name and face we know
Must bow to winds that softly blow

The final breath is all we keep
A promise buried deep and steep
Where random stars and fleeting fears
Meet the end of all our years",7
135,ultra_held_out,The Field of Waterloo by Thomas Hardy,Thomas Hardy,"""A poem about little creatures such as rabbits, moles, swallows, and larks suffering and being affected by the horrid atmosphere of a battlefield as warhorses progress across the field, leaving nothing normal again in their wake.""","Yea, the coneys are scared by the thud of hoofs,
And their white scuts flash at their vanishing heels,
And swallows abandon the hamlet-roofs.The mole’s tunnelled chambers are crushed by wheels,
The lark’s eggs scattered, their owners fled;
And the hedgehog’s household the sapper unseals.The snail draws in at the terrible tread,
But in vain; he is crushed by the felloe-rim.
The worm asks what can be overhead,And wriggles deep from a scene so grim,
And guesses him safe; for he does not know
What a foul red flood will be soaking him!Beaten about by the heel and toe
Are butterflies, sick of the day’s long rheum,
To die of a worse than the weather-foe.Trodden and bruised to a miry tomb
Are ears that have greened but will never be gold,
And flowers in the bud that will never bloom.","The burrow shakes beneath the hooves of iron
As rabbits freeze in tunnels deep and dark
No longer safe from fox or winter's chill
But trembling at the thunder of the charge

The mole forgets the rhythm of the earth
When heavy boots crush roots and turn the soil
To mud that chokes the quiet, hidden life
And leaves no path for tiny paws to roam

Above, the swallow dives through smoke and ash
Her song replaced by screams of dying men
She seeks a branch that once was green and high
Now shattered by the falling weight of war

The lark ascends but finds no morning light
Only a sky choked thick with gray despair
Her flight is broken by the clatter close
As horses tear the grassy fields apart

Nothing remains as it was yesterday
The field is scarred, the air is sharp and cold
And little creatures flee the endless noise
With nowhere left to hide, no home to hold","The rabbits twitched their noses in the soft clover
Until the thunder of hooves shook the ground,
And the moles, blind to the sun but wise to the earth,
Felt the great shock-waves shatter their tunnels down.

The swallows dipped and skimmed above the grass
To catch a gnat or two before the rain,
But now they dive into the smoke and dust
As if the sky itself were falling down.

The larks that sang so high and clear at dawn
Are silenced by the heavy iron tread;
They cannot sing while warhorses gallop past,
Leaving the world behind them broken, dead.

Nothing is normal now, no burrow safe,
No nest uncrushed, no little life secure,
For where the great horses have passed across,
There is nothing left for any creature pure.",6,"The rabbit freezes in the clover patch
As thunder shakes the earth beneath its paws,
Before the heavy hooves have reached the back
To crush the burrow and the hidden cause.

The mole, who knew the quiet of the deep,
Is torn from tunnels dark and safe and cool,
And tossed into a sky that will not sleep,
Beneath the iron glare of war's new rule.

The swallow dives to catch a flying gnat,
But finds instead a cloud of choking dust,
Her wings are clipped by shrapnel or by fate,
And she falls silent in the settling rust.

The lark, who sang to greet the morning light,
Now screams against the smoke that chokes the air,
His song is lost within the chaotic night,
As horses trample down the nestling there.

They run through fields where nothing grows again,
Where roots are severed and the soil is red,
No gentle breeze can calm the screaming pain,
Or wash the horror from the living dead.

The normal world is gone, the grass is black,
The little creatures flee or lie quite still,
There is no turning for the horsemen back,
Only the march along the broken hill.",6,"The burrow shakes as iron hooves draw near,
And rabbits freeze with terror in their eyes,
No longer safe beneath the quiet ear
Of grass that hides them from the morning skies.
The mole feels tremors through his darkened hall,
As thunder rolls not from the summer cloud,
But from the heavy tread of warhorses tall,
Who crush the earth and leave it rough and loud.

High overhead, the swallow's flight is torn
By smoke that chokes the air she used to sing,
While larks, who sang before the dawn was born,
Now fall silent on a broken wing.
The ground is churned to mud and blood and bone,
Where once the little creatures found their home,
And now the horses march across the stone,
Leaving no peace for any life to roam.

The normal world is gone, erased by steel,
With nothing left but ruin in the wake,
A horrid atmosphere the small ones feel,
As nature breaks and cannot find a break.
No burrow deep, no nest within the tree,
Can hide the horror of this marching tide,
Where warhorses bring only misery,
And leave the little creatures nowhere to hide.",7,"The rabbit trembles in the clover deep
As thunder shakes the earth where warhorses creep
Their hooves are iron, heavy, cold and vast
Shattering the quiet of the morning past

The mole retreats beneath the turning sod
Where plows of steel have torn the living god
Of soil that held his tunnels safe and warm
Now churned to mud beneath the storm's dark form

A swallow dives too low to catch the fly
And strikes the breastplate of a charging guy
Her wings beat frantic against the smoke so gray
Before the shadow swallows up her day

The lark who sang of fields now sings no more
But falls silent as the cannon's roar
The air is thick with ash and bitter dust
No gentle breeze remains to cool the crust

The horses march in lines of endless dread
Leaving the little lives for dead or fled
The green is gone, the song is broken now
Beneath the weight of every bloody brow",6,"The rabbit freezes in the clover deep
As thunder rolls where hooves begin to sweep
No burrow safe from shaking earth and dread
Where living grass is trampled into red

The mole retreats beneath the crumbling soil
To flee the scent of iron, smoke, and oil
His quiet tunnels filled with dust and fear
As heavy boots bring silence drawing near

Above the churn the swallow drops its flight
Confused by clouds that blot out morning light
It dives too low amidst the clatter's roar
And finds no branch to rest upon once more

The lark forgets its song of golden air
For screams now rise to meet the warhorse's glare
That gallops on with eyes of wild despair
Leaving a world stripped bare and broken there

No normal sound remains within the wake
Of beasts that march for every soul's own sake
The creatures huddle as the shadows grow
Beneath the weight of all they used to know",6,"The burrow shakes beneath the hooves of iron
Where little rabbits once dug safe and deep
Now smoke hangs heavy, choking every leaf
And silence is a promise they cannot keep

The mole retreats from soil turned to mud
As thunder rolls where gentle roots should grow
The swallow's nest, once high above the wood
Is scattered now by winds that only know

Of fire and the stomp of warhorses
That trample fields where larks used to ascend
Their songs are drowned in screams and distant horses
With no soft earth for tiny paws to mend

Nothing remains as it was yesterday
No quiet corner left for small hearts beat
Just ash and shadow stretching far away
Where life was crushed beneath the marching feet",6,"The burrow shakes beneath the heavy tread
As hooves of iron crush the soft green bed
Where rabbits once hopped in the morning light
Now hiding deep from the coming night

A mole retreats through tunnels turned to dust
While smoke chokes the roots of ancient trust
The swallows dive too low to find their song
Their feathers torn where silence used to belong

Larks that sang of fields and open skies
Are grounded now by ash and stormy lies
Warhorses thunder with a rhythmic dread
Leaving the living small and trembling dead

No flower blooms where boots have carved the ground
Only the echo of a final sound
As nature bows before the clash of steel
And little hearts forget how they can feel",6
142,ultra_held_out,Postfeminism by Brenda Shaughnessy,Brenda Shaughnessy,"A poem about exploring the contrasting roles and divisions between people, spinning off from opposing archetypes to examine the different ways of addressing life through complicated and multilayered images.","There are two kinds of people, soldiers and women,
as Virginia Woolf said. Both for decoration only.

Now that is too kind. It’s technical: virgins and wolves.
We have choices now. Two little girls walk into a bar,

one orders a shirley temple. Shirley Temple’s pimp
comes over and says you won’t be sorry. She’s a fine

piece of work but she don’t come cheap. Myself, I’m
in less fear of predators than of walking around

in my mother’s body. That’s sneaky, that’s more
than naked. Let’s even it up: you go on fuming in your

gray room. I am voracious alone. Blank and loose,
metallic lingerie. And rare black-tipped cigarettes

in a handmade basket case. Which of us weaves
the world together with a quicker blur of armed

seduction: your war-on-thugs, my body stockings.
Ascetic or carnivore. Men will crack your glaze

even if you leave them before morning. Pigs
ride the sirens in packs. Ah, flesh, technoflesh,

there are two kinds of people. Hot with mixed
light, drunk on insult. You and me.","Some build their homes from iron and the weight of measured stone
While others sleep beneath the willow's breath in moss and unknown rain
One walks a path of straight lines drawn with ink that never fades
The other drifts on shifting sands where every footprint is erased

The architect counts bricks to find the truth within the wall
The poet listens for the silence that the mortar cannot hold
They speak different languages of time, of speed, of deep delay
One sees the clock as master, one sees it as a game to play

In the kitchen of the world, the baker kneads the heavy dough
To feed the hungry mouth with bread that rises, firm and slow
But the gardener tends the wild vine that climbs the fence unseen
And offers fruit that tastes of storm and shadows, green and lean

There are those who guard the gate with keys of brass and rust
Who fear the open door more than the lock inside the dust
While others leave the hinges loose, inviting wind and ghost
To sweep through empty rooms where nothing but the light is lost

Two rivers run beside each other, one clear and cold and deep
The other muddy, churning fast with secrets it must keep
They do not mix until the sea, where salt dissolves the line
And the diver and the sailor both forget which hand was mine

We are the hammer and the anvil, the spark and the coal
The rigid spine of order, the fluid soul of control
Yet in the mirror's fractured glass, we see the other face
A shadow cast by our own light, a stranger in the place","Some are the hammers that strike the anvil
while others are the sparks that fly off to light a candle
in a room where the air is thick with dust and silence.

Some are the roots drinking deep from the dark earth
while others are the leaves trembling in the wind
trying to catch the last of the sun before it sets.

One is the architect drawing straight lines on parchment
the other is the gardener pruning wild vines that twist around the gateposts.

One builds the wall of stone, heavy and gray,
the other paints the window glass with blue and green and gold.

One counts the coins in the strongbox, one measures the grain in the barn.
One listens for the wolf at the door, one listens for the lark at dawn.

One is the captain steering by the stars through the stormy night,
one is the cook stirring the pot over the fire while the ship rolls.

They do not understand each other, they only know they need each other,
like the hand needs the eye to see what to grasp,
like the eye needs the hand to wipe away the tear.

If the hammer strikes too hard the anvil cracks,
if the spark flies too high the candle goes out.

If the root drinks too much the vine withers,
if the leaf trembles too much the fruit falls.

The wall must be high enough to keep the wolf out,
but if it is too high the lark cannot sing inside.

The captain must steer true or the ship sinks,
but if he does not let the cook eat his fill the cook will poison the stew.

So they stand back to back in the center of the world
and look out in opposite directions,
one seeing the end, one seeing the beginning,
both seeing the middle,
both seeing the whole.",6,"Some wear armor of polished silence,
standing like lighthouses in a fog that never lifts,
while others are the storm itself,
tossing their voices like broken glass into the wind.
One builds a wall of stacked stones to keep the tide out,
measuring every inch with a ruler made of fear,
the other digs a tunnel through the mountain
to see what grows on the other side of the dark.

The architect draws lines in the dust and calls them laws,
fearing the chaos of a leaf falling without permission,
but the gardener lets the weeds choke the roses
just to watch how life fights for the light anyway.
One counts the coins in the jar until they ring like bells,
believing wealth is a fortress against the night,
the other spends the whole moonlight buying bread for strangers,
knowing hunger is the only true currency of the soul.

There are those who hold the map and refuse to walk,
tracing routes with a finger stained by ink and history,
and there are those who burn the map to start a fire
that warms the hands of travelers who have lost their way.
One speaks in riddles wrapped in silk, hiding the truth inside,
the other screams the naked fact until it bleeds.
We are split down the middle of the spine,
half stone, half water,
one foot planted in the bedrock of ""must,""
the other slipping on the ice of ""what if,""
trying to dance a waltz with two left feet
while the orchestra plays a song of contradictions
that sounds like harmony only when you listen from far away.",3,"The architect draws lines in dust to hold the wind,
While the river eats the foundation stone and laughs,
One builds a cage of logic for the ghost,
The other is the ghost that slips through bars.

We are the sower who counts every seed by weight,
And we are the storm that scatters them to rot,
One seeks the pattern hidden in the grain,
The other loves the chaos of the bloom.

There is the hand that stitches wounds with silver thread,
And there is the knife that opens up the vein,
Both serve the body in their different tongues,
One heals the skin, the other feeds the blood.

Some wear the mask of iron to keep fear away,
While others wear the veil of softest silk to hide,
The fortress stands against the rising tide,
The boat drifts out to meet the crashing wave.

We are the clock that ticks the seconds down to zero,
We are the hourglass where time flows upward still,
One measures life in steps upon the stair,
The other sees the flight of birds above the wall.

The gardener prunes the branch to save the tree,
The wildfire burns the forest to make room,
Both claim they know what living truly means,
One in the silence of the green, one in the ash.

So walk the narrow bridge between the two,
Where the builder drops his hammer and the river pauses,
To see how both the cage and open sky
Are made of air, and light, and nothing else.",6,"One builds the wall with mortar made of silence
while the other paints a door upon the stone
and calls it home to those who walk in shadow
seeking light that burns without a flame

The architect measures the distance between heartbeats
calculating load and stress on trembling beams
but the gardener knows the roots drink deep in chaos
where order is a weed that chokes the bloom

Some wear armor forged from cold indifference
to shield the softness underneath the steel
while others walk unarmored through the fire
letting ash settle like a second skin

The clockwork man ticks forward in straight lines
dividing time into neat and usable slices
the river child flows backward through the cracks
merging yesterday with what has not yet come

We are the fracture and the glue that holds it
the question asked and answered in the same breath
standing on the ridge where wind divides the valley
watching how the dust becomes the mountain peak",6,"The architect draws lines in dust that hold the wind at bay
While the wanderer kicks up the grit to see what storms might play
One builds a wall of measured stone to keep the chaos out
The other plants a garden where the wild roots scream and shout

A captain charts the stars above with rigid, iron eyes
To navigate the frozen dark beneath the winter skies
But the sailor sings to shifting tides that mock the plotted course
And trusts the moon's erratic pull to steer the drifting horse

The scribe records the weight of words in ink that never fades
To trap the fleeting moments in a cage of heavy shades
Yet the storyteller weaves a thread from shadows on the floor
That slips through fingers like the smoke of some forgotten door

We stand divided by the glass that separates the view
Between the one who counts the grains and one who counts the dew
Two hands reach for the same sun but cast a different shade
One seeks the solid ground below while one is unafraid

To fall into the void between the logic and the dream
Where neither law nor liberty can ever quite redeem
The fractured mirror shows us all as fragments of a whole
Some broken pieces seeking rest while others seek control",6,"The stone wall stands where the river bends
One side holds the silence of the deep
The other catches light that never ends
A mirror split by a jagged seam

Some wear armor forged in winter's breath
To shield the heart from storms they cannot name
While others dance with shadows close to death
And call the fire a gentle game

The architect draws lines in rigid sand
Believing order tames the chaotic tide
The wanderer leaves footprints on no land
With nothing left for them to hide or guide

A clock ticks loud inside a hollow chest
Measuring the moments lost to fear
While music swells within a quiet rest
Proving that the broken things are dear

We build our towers high to touch the sky
Then dig our graves beneath the same old ground
Two different paths that ask the self to try
To find the voice where opposing sounds are found

The hand that pushes and the hand that pulls
Are woven tight in threads of gold and gray
Both hold the weight of ancient, shifting rules
That turn the night into the breaking day",6,"The architect builds walls of glass to hold the sky
While the wanderer leaves footprints in the shifting sand
One seeks a map with edges sharp and defined
The other trusts the compass that spins wild and free

A king sits high upon a throne of silent stone
Commanding tides with words that never break or bend
Below, a jester laughs at gravity's heavy pull
Dancing on the edge where logic meets the dream

Fire warms the hearth but burns the forest down
Water quenches thirst yet drowns the deepest roots
We are the storm that rages through the quiet night
And the calm before the thunder cracks the open sky

Some wear armor forged from doubt and ancient fear
Others walk barefoot through the thorns without a sound
Two mirrors facing each other show a fractured face
Reflecting all the ways we choose to love or leave

The river carves the canyon deep within the earth
While the mountain stands unmoved by time's relentless hand
Between the rise and fall, a bridge of smoke appears
Connecting those who build to those who let it go",6
146,ultra_held_out,The Witch’s Life by Anne Sexton,Anne Sexton,"A poem about a speaker aging into the very ""witch"" she once misunderstood as a child, coming to embrace a hermit's life of overwhelming memories while choosing to carry on despite life's dreamlike uncertainties.","When I was a child
there was an old woman in our neighborhood whom we called The Witch.
All day she peered from her second story
window
from behind the wrinkled curtains
and sometimes she would open the window
and yell: Get out of my life!
She had hair like kelp
and a voice like a boulder.

I think of her sometimes now
and wonder if I am becoming her.
My shoes turn up like a jester's.
Clumps of my hair, as I write this,
curl up individually like toes.
I am shoveling the children out,
scoop after scoop.
Only my books anoint me,
and a few friends,
those who reach into my veins.
Maybe I am becoming a hermit,
opening the door for only
a few special animals?
Maybe my skull is too crowded
and it has no opening through which
to feed it soup?
Maybe I have plugged up my sockets
to keep the gods in?
Maybe, although my heart
is a kitten of butter,
I am blowing it up like a zeppelin.
Yes. It is the witch's life,
climbing the primordial climb,
a dream within a dream,
then sitting here
holding a basket of fire.","I used to fear the woman in the woods
with eyes like cracked obsidian and hands that smelled of rain,
thinking her solitude was a cage she built for herself.
Now the mirror shows those same deep lines
and I understand the silence was not empty,
but heavy with every ghost I ever knew.
The house is full of whispers now,
a library of moments I cannot burn or bury,
and the world outside has blurred into a watercolor haze.
They call it madness when the past walks through the door,
but I have learned to brew tea for them instead.
The path is foggy, the future a dream I wake from daily,
yet I sweep the porch and tend the garden roots,
choosing to stay in this quiet magic
where the only spell left is the courage to endure.","I used to think the witch in the storybook
was a monster with a hooked nose and a wart,
hiding in the woods to eat children who wandered off.
Now I am that woman, living alone in the woods,
and the only thing I eat is memory.
It is a heavy diet, this hermitage of mine,
for the past has no expiration date;
it piles up like snow against the door,
until I have to shovel it out just to breathe.
But I do not go back to the city where people are young
and forgetful and buy new clothes every season.
I stay here with my memories, which are my children,
and I feed them and they grow large and strange.
Some days I feel as if I am walking on water,
as if the ground is not there at all,
just a dream of solidity under my feet.
But then I wake up and the ground is there,
and the memories are there, and I am old,
and I must carry on.",2,"I once ran from the woman in the crooked house
who whispered to the wind and kept a jar of eyes,
believing her solitude was a curse I must avoid.
Now the mirror holds that same sharp gaze,
and my hands know the weight of dried herbs
better than they knew the weight of a child's hand.
The world outside is a blur of rain and strangers,
but here inside, the memories crowd like ghosts at a feast,
overwhelming and bright, demanding to be named.
They say the future is a fog, a dream we cannot trust,
that time is a river with no bank to hold it.
But I have learned to sit by the fire with this chaos,
to let the shadows dance as long as they please.
I am the witch now, not because of magic or fear,
but because I choose to stay when others would flee,
carrying the heavy, beautiful burden of what has been
into the uncertain dark, step by quiet step.",3,"I once ran from the woman in the crooked house
Who wore a hat of shadows and kept a cat of smoke,
Thinking her silence was a curse and her garden full of weeds,
Not knowing she was simply keeping time alone.
Now my own spine curves like the willow by the stream,
And neighbors whisper about the strange light in my eyes,
The way I talk to ghosts who visit just before dawn,
The way I hoard jars of rain and dried-up summer days.
I am becoming the witch I feared, the hermit of my own making,
Surrounded by memories that crowd the floorboards thick as snow.
They press against me, heavy and sweet and terrifyingly clear,
A library of moments I cannot burn or bury.
But the world outside is a fog that shifts with every breath,
A dream where the path changes while you are walking it,
Where the sun might rise tomorrow or the moon might fall.
So I will sit here in my crooked chair, among my gathered past,
Letting the dust settle on my shoulders like a crown,
Choosing to hold the weight of all I have been
Against the terrifying, beautiful uncertainty of what comes next.",3,"I used to run from the crooked house on the hill
Where shadows stretched like claws against the glass,
Convinced that silence was a heavy spell
And that the woman inside had let the world pass.
She gathered roots and whispered to the rain,
A monster in my mind with eyes of coal,
While I sought only sun and open plain,
Unaware of what it meant to lose control.

Now winter settles deep within my bones,
My skin is parchment mapped with lines of time,
The same wild hair that once I thought unknown
Now tangles with the ivy and the rime.
I see her clearly now in every mirror's gleam,
Not evil, but a vessel full of grief,
Holding a thousand memories like a stream
That floods the valley of my quiet belief.

This hermit's life is not a curse I bear,
But a vast library of things unsaid,
Of lovers lost to wind and empty air,
And words I swallowed just to stay well-fed.
The uncertainty hangs thick as morning mist,
A dream where logic fails and ghosts take flight,
Yet I will stand until the day is kissed
By stars that guide me through the endless night.

So let them call me witch if they must see
The power in the solitude I keep,
I am the memory, I am the key,
Awake within the vast and shifting sleep.
I carry on because the weight is mine,
The story written in the trembling hand,
Accepting every shadow and every sign,
And walking forward into what I planned.",6,"I used to fear the woman in the woods
With hair like storm clouds and eyes of green
Who whispered secrets to the roots below
And made the sunlight bend where she had been
I ran from shadows cast by her long cloak
Convinced that magic was a thing of harm
But time has turned my own reflection back
To show the stranger standing in the barn

Now silver threads replace the golden strands
That once were braided tight against the fear
The cottage walls are lined with jars of rain
And dried-up songs I kept through every year
A hermit's life is heavy with the past
Where ghosts of laughter echo in the hall
I see the faces of the ones I loved
Reflected clearly on the kitchen wall

They say the world outside is clear and bright
But here the fog rolls in with soft intent
A dreamlike haze where certainty dissolves
And nothing stays exactly as it meant
Yet in this quiet chaos I remain
Not broken by the weight of all I know
But choosing still to stir the simmering pot
And let the steam rise up and overflow

So let them call me witch or old and strange
For I have found the power in the deep
To hold the memories that threaten to drown
While guarding promises I mean to keep
The uncertainty is just another spell
That weaves the future from the tattered now
And though the path ahead is lost in mist
I walk it with a calm and steady bow",6,"I used to hide behind the heavy oak
And whisper prayers against the crooked spine
Of women who walked where shadows spoke
With tangled hair and eyes that knew the time
I thought them monsters made of rust and bone
Who stole the sun and left the fields to freeze
But now the frost has settled in my own
And I am finally what I feared to be

The cottage holds a thousand silent ghosts
Each memory a weight I cannot drop
I trace the lines upon these weathered posts
While seasons turn and never seem to stop
No longer running from the creaking floor
Or fearing how the wind might learn my name
I open up the heavy, locked door
To let the chaos in and play its game

They say the path is lost inside the mist
That dreams are fragile things we hold too tight
But here within this quiet, dusty tryst
I find a strange and comforting light
Let others seek the warmth of crowded halls
I choose the hermit's robe of gray and deep
To answer when the ancient spirit calls
And watch the world dissolve into its sleep

So let me be the witch you warned me of
With pockets full of stories left untold
A keeper of the silence, rough and rough
Who loves the winter more than summer gold
For though the future fades like morning dew
And nothing stays exactly as it seemed
I walk this road with steps both old and new
And wake within the dream I always dreamed",6,"I once ran from the cottage deep in pine
Where shadows danced and whispered ancient signs
A child who feared the crooked, gnarled hand
That held the secrets of a forbidden land

Now silver threads weave through my tangled hair
And I see the magic hanging heavy in the air
The very eyes that watched me with such dread
Are now my own, reflecting what was said

No longer do I seek the village square
But find my peace within this quiet lair
Where memories rise like mist against the stone
A thousand lives lived out and all alone

The dreams blur soft at edges of the mind
Leaving only echoes of the past behind
Yet here I stand with broom and broken cup
To catch the rain that falls and never stops

Let them call me monster, let them fear the night
For I have learned to love the fading light
A hermit queen of dust and shifting sand
Holding the weight of worlds I cannot command

So let the uncertainty drift on the breeze
As I embrace the life that brought me ease
With every step toward the unknown door
I am the witch I always feared before",6
151,train,Risk by Anaïs Nin,Anaïs Nin,A poem about striving toward change and growth when pushing against conflict and turmoil.,"And then the day came,
when the risk
to remain tight
in a bud
was more painful
than the risk
it took
to blossom.","The wind howls loud against the door
And shakes the frame of what was sure
Yet in the chest a quiet spark
Refuses to surrender dark

We plant our feet on shifting sand
With trembling hands and steady hand
For every storm that tears the ground
Is where new roots are finally found

The clash of waves may break the stone
But shapes the cliff we call our own
No path is smooth, no sky is clear
When fear demands that we should steer

But forward is the only way
To turn the night into the day
Through friction born of broken things
A stronger self begins to sing","The wind howls through the broken fence
and tears the sapling's leaves away,
but deep beneath the storm-tossed ground
the roots are drinking in the day.

They stretch and seek the hidden water,
they grip the dark and clinging clay,
while up above the branches struggle
against the gale of yesterday.

So let the thunder crack the heavens,
so let the lightning flash and play,
the quiet growth goes on unheeding
beneath the noise and disarray.

For change is not a sudden splendor,
nor turmoil but a passing fray;
the seed must break to be a flower,
the heart must break to find its way.",7,"The wind howls loud against the stubborn stone
And tries to tear the roots from deep below,
But in the dark, beneath the shifting bone
Of earth that shakes and trembles as it goes,
A seed is waking up to stretch its spine
Against the weight of winter's heavy hand.

The river crashes on the jagged line
Of rocks that block its path across the land,
Yet wears them down with patience and with force
To carve a channel for a wider course.

We walk through fire while seeking cooler air,
Through chaos searching for a steady light,
Though every step feels like a desperate prayer
That ends in stumbling in the middle of the night.
But growth is not a quiet, gentle thing,
It is the breaking of the shell to sing.",6,"The wind howls through the broken gate
And tears the heavy curtain back,
But in the center of the storm
A single green and trembling stalk
Refuses to bow to the gale.

It is not easy to unfold
When every shadow seeks to crush,
To stretch a leaf toward a sun
That hides behind a wall of gray.
The roots must drink from muddy deeps
Where chaos swirls and stones collide,
Yet still they reach for something pure,
Something that waits beyond the fight.

We stumble on the jagged road
With dust upon our weary faces,
While voices rise in sharp dispute
To drown the quiet voice inside.
But growth is made of friction's fire,
Of breaking old and rigid shells,
Of learning how to stand upright
When all the world demands we fall.

So let the thunder shake the ground
And let the lightning split the sky,
For in the midst of crashing waves
A new horizon starts to rise.
We walk through conflict, step by step,
Not fleeing from the noise and pain,
But turning every wound into
A place where light can start again.",6,"The wind howls sharp against the glass
And tries to shake the roots we hold
But deep within the dark and mass
We find a story yet untold

The storm may tear the branches bare
And scatter seeds upon the stone
Yet in that chaos, stripped and bare
A stronger green begins to grow

We do not run from thunder's sound
Nor hide beneath the heavy sky
Instead we plant our feet on ground
And watch the broken clouds drift by

For every crack that lets the light
Reveal the path through pain and fear
Is proof that something takes its flight
To make the old year disappear

So let the turmoil rise and fall
Like waves that crash upon the shore
We answer with a steady call
To build a life worth fighting for",7,"The wind howls loud against the open door
And stones are thrown to break the fragile floor
Yet in the rubble, something starts to rise
A quiet seed beneath the stormy skies

We walk through fire just to find the rain
To wash away the dust of old refrain
Though shadows stretch and try to hold us tight
We reach for dawn within the deepest night

It hurts to shed the skin that once protected
To face the world with hands that are untested
But every crack allows the light to pour
As we become more than we were before

So let the chaos roar and shake the ground
For strength is found where broken things are bound
We push ahead despite the heavy cost
To build a future from what we have lost",6,"The wind howls loud against the stone
A chaotic roar that claims the throne
Yet in the cracks where shadows creep
A quiet seed begins to sleep

It does not fight the storm with force
But bends its will to find a course
Through tangled roots and shifting sand
It reaches for a distant land

Each broken branch becomes a scar
That guides the light from near or far
For growth is not a gentle tide
But something forged where things collide

So let the thunder shake the ground
And silence all the weary sound
We rise again through dust and fire
To climb the wall, to touch the spire",6,"The wind howls loud against the wall
Where shadows stretch and spirits fall
Yet in the cracks of broken stone
A seed begins to claim its own

It does not ask for quiet skies
Or gentle hands to dry the eyes
But digs its roots through storm and rain
To find a strength within the pain

Each step is heavy, slow, and steep
Through valleys where the promises sleep
The path ahead is jagged, wide
With nowhere left for fear to hide

We push against the rising tide
With nothing but our hearts inside
For growth demands the tearing down
Of every crown that wears a frown

So let the chaos roar its sound
As new foundations rise from ground
Not built on sand or shifting dust
But forged in fire, tempered by trust",7
153,train,If You Forget Me by Pablo Neruda,Pablo Neruda,A poem about a speaker reminding his lover of their intense romantic love while warning her that if she stops loving him he will cease to love her in return.,"I want you to know
one thing.

You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats
that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.

Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.

If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.

If you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide
to leave me at the shore
of the heart where I have roots,
remember
that on that day,
at that hour,
I shall lift my arms
and my roots will set off
to seek another land.

But
if each day,
each hour,
you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me,
ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved,
and as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine.","Remember how the fire burned between us,
A blaze that turned the winter into spring,
Where every glance was a vow unspoken,
And silence sang the loudest song we knew.

But know this truth as clearly as you breathe:
That flame is fed by two, not one alone.
If you should turn your face away from me,
And let the embers cool within your chest,

Then I will not beg for warmth again.
The love you gave so freely will be mine no more,
For what is shared can also be withdrawn.
If you stop loving me, I cease to love you.","Remember how the fire burned
Between us when we first met,
How the world was nothing but a shadow
And our hearts were the only suns that set.

If you stop loving me, I shall cease to love you;
The flame must die if the wood is gone.
I cannot keep the light alive alone,
Nor can you make it burn if I withdraw.

We are two hands clapping to make a sound,
Two eyes to see with, or one blind pair;
If you take away your love, I am no more there,
For I cannot clap without my other hand.",6,"Remember how the fire burned between us,
How every breath we took was shared and hot,
A blinding light that left no shadowed corner
Unseen by our devouring, desperate love.
But know this truth as well as you know passion:
If ever you should turn your eyes away,
And let that flame of yours grow cold and gray,
The heat within me shall instantly expire.
I cannot love a ghost who walks beside me,
Nor keep my heart beating for empty air;
If you withdraw the gift you once gave freely,
My love will die the moment yours is gone.",6,"Remember how the air caught fire when you first looked at me,
How every heartbeat was a drum that only your name could beat,
A burning tide that swept us both into a deep and endless sea.
But listen close to this truth before the winter sets its feet:
If ever you should turn away and let that flame grow dim,
I will not beg for scraps of light or try to fix the sin,
The moment you withdraw your heart, my love will cease to swim,
And I shall be as cold and still as stone beneath the skin.
For what we shared was not a chain but wings of sudden flight,
And if you clip those feathers now, I simply stop the fight.
So keep the fire alive in you, or watch it die with mine,
Two mirrors facing empty space where once our souls did shine.",6,"The fire that burns between us now
Is fierce enough to melt the stone,
A love so deep it makes me bow
Before the altar of your own.

But hear this truth before you stray,
And let the warning take its hold:
If you should choose to turn away,
My heart will freeze and turn to cold.

For I am but a mirror bright,
Reflecting all you give to see;
If you withdraw your light tonight,
There will be nothing left of me.

So keep the flame alive and true,
Or watch it die within an hour,
For what I feel for only you
Will vanish with your final power.",7,"The fire that burns between us now is bright
A blazing sun that scorches through the night
I hold your heart as if it were my own
And in this heat, we are never alone

But know the rule that governs all we keep
This sacred vow we made before we sleep
If you should turn and let the embers fade
Or walk away from every word we said

Then I will stop, and silence will remain
No lingering ghost of pleasure or of pain
For love like ours demands a matching flame
And without yours, I have no need to claim

So cherish what we have with all your might
Before the day we lose our shared light
For if your hand lets go of mine today
My heart will cease to beat for you anyway",7,"The fire in my chest burns only for your name,
A flame that turns the coldest night to gold.
I give you all the pieces of my frame,
A story of devotion yet untold.

But know this truth before the silence grows,
That love is not a river meant to flow alone.
If you withdraw the warmth that feeds my soul,
The garden of my heart will turn to stone.

For I am made of mirrors reflecting you,
And if you break the glass, the image dies.
When your affection fades into the blue,
My own will vanish with the evening skies.

So hold me close and let the passion start,
Or watch the light within my eyes depart.
To cease your love is to unmake my art,
And leave us both with nothing but the dark.",7,"My heart beats only to the rhythm of your name
A fire that burns with a fierce and holy flame
We are woven tight in threads of gold and red
Where every whispered promise keeps us from the dead

But know this truth before you turn away
That love is not a debt we owe each day
If silence falls where once our voices rose
The garden dies beneath the winter's snows

I give you all I am, my soul laid bare
Yet if you pull back, there will be no repair
For when your gaze stops seeking out my own
The man who loved you turns to stone alone

Do not mistake this warning for a threat
It is the simple price we both must set
To hold the light or let it fade to gray
I love you now, but I will walk away",6
161,ultra_held_out,You Begin by Margaret Atwood,Margaret Atwood,"""A poem about a child beginning to learn and discover the world through their hand, their eye, and the words and colours that anchor them to life's beginnings and endings.""","You begin this way:
this is your hand,
this is your eye,
that is a fish, blue and flat
on the paper, almost
the shape of an eye.
This is your mouth, this is an O
or a moon, whichever
you like. This is yellow.

Outside the window
is the rain, green
because it is summer, and beyond that
the trees and then the world,
which is round and has only
the colors of these nine crayons.

This is the world, which is fuller
and more difficult to learn than I have said.
You are right to smudge it that way
with the red and then
the orange: the world burns.

Once you have learned these words
you will learn that there are more
words than you can ever learn.
The word hand floats above your hand
like a small cloud over a lake.
The word hand anchors
your hand to this table,
your hand is a warm stone
I hold between two words.

This is your hand, these are my hands, this is the world,
which is round but not flat and has more colors
than we can see.

It begins, it has an end,
this is what you will
come back to, this is your hand.","The small hand reaches out to grasp the air
And finds the roughness of a wooden chair
A texture mapped against the skin so new
Where touch becomes the first way to be true

Then eyes awake to catch the morning light
That splits the gray and paints the world in white
They watch the dust that dances in the beam
And learn that life is made of what we see

But words arrive like seeds upon the breeze
To name the rustling leaves and swaying trees
They anchor down the moments as they pass
Between the birth cry and the final gasp

And colours bloom to mark the start and end
The red of blood, the green where roots descend
A spectrum woven through the tiny frame
That holds the wonder of this fleeting game","First the hand that grips the air
and finds it solid as a wall,
the thumb that turns the world around
to see what is behind it all.

Then the eye that opens wide
to catch the light and let it in,
to watch the green of grass unfold
and the blue where clouds begin.

And words come next to name the things
the hand has held, the eye has seen,
the red of rose, the white of snow,
the black of night, the gold of sheen.

These anchor me to life's first breath
and to the silence at its end,
a tiny boat on ocean waves
with hand and eye to steer and mend.",6,"The small hand opens wide to catch the falling light
And grasps the rough bark of a tree, the smooth cool stone
It learns the weight of water and the texture of the wind
Before it knows the names of things or where they are grown

Then comes the eye that tracks the bird across the blue
And sees the shadow lengthen as the sun begins to fade
It watches how the flower turns its face toward the dawn
And notes the sudden silence when the evening is made

But words arrive like footsteps on a dusty path to walk
To name the red of sunset and the green of growing grass
They build a bridge from here to there, from now until the end
And anchor all the wonder in a story we can pass

For life begins within this touch, this sight, this spoken word
And ends when silence takes the hand and dims the seeing eye
Yet in between, the colours hold us fast against the dark
With every new discovery that helps the child not die",6,"The small hand reaches out to touch the rough,
To feel the cool of stone and warmth of sun,
A universe within a single grasp,
Where life begins before it has begun.

The eye opens wide to catch the shifting light,
The blue of sky, the green of growing grass,
It learns the shape of shadows in the night,
And watches moments come and moments pass.

Then words arrive like birds upon the wind,
To name the things that hand and eye have found,
They anchor us where all our days begin,
And map the silence of the deepest ground.

And colours bloom to mark the start and end,
The red of blood, the white of winter snow,
A spectrum that the tiny heart can send
From first breath drawn to final resting low.

So through these hands, these eyes, these words so true,
We hold the world from cradle to the grave,
The bright beginning and the dark adieu,
The only anchors that we ever save.",7,"The small hand reaches out to grasp the air
And finds a wall of rough and solid stone
A texture warm against the morning glare
That teaches touch is something not alone

Then up the eye ascends to catch the light
Where shadows dance and shift upon the floor
It learns the shape of day from fading night
And opens wide to see what lies in store

From mouth come words that bind the loose and wild
To name the bird, the tree, the running stream
Each syllable a bridge for just a child
Between the waking dream and heavy dream

The colours bloom in red and deep green hue
To mark the start of spring and end of fall
They anchor life in shades both old and new
And hold the world before it slips away at all

So hand and eye and voice and painted sign
Are threads that weave the fabric of the soul
Beginning with a whisper, then a line
That leads the broken heart back to the whole",6,"A small hand reaches out to grasp the air
And finds the roughness of a wooden chair
The fingers trace the grain and learn the shape
Of things that hold, and things that gently break

Then eyes unfold to catch the morning light
That paints the dust in gold against the white
They watch the shadow stretch across the floor
And wonder what lies waiting at the door

From silent shapes, the first soft words take flight
To name the sun, the rain, the depth of night
Each syllable a bridge from here to there
A quiet promise hanging in the air

And colours bloom like seeds within the mind
The red of love, the blue of peace we find
They anchor us when chaos starts to spin
Between the start where life begins within

And end where all the stories softly fade
In every touch, in every choice we made
The hand, the eye, the word, the hue remain
To map the joy and sorrow of the rain",7,"The small hand reaches out to grasp the air
A texture rough, a surface smooth and bare
It touches stone that holds the ancient weight
And feels the pulse of life within its gate

Then eyes unfold to catch the morning light
That paints the shadows soft against the night
They trace the curve of clouds above the tree
And see the vast and quiet mystery

Words arrive like birds with songs to share
Building castles in the empty air
Each syllable a brick, each phrase a door
To walk across the threshold of before

The colours bleed from red to deep blue skies
Reflecting tears and laughter in disguise
From first breath drawn to silence at the end
These anchors hold where broken things begin again",6,"A small hand reaches for the dust
To feel the grain of morning light
Where shadows stretch and softly rust
Before the day can take its flight

The eye opens wide to see
The blue that paints the endless sky
A canvas where the mind is free
To watch the clouds go drifting by

Then words arrive on quiet wings
Like seeds that fall upon the ground
They sing of all the simple things
That make a broken heart unbound

In red and gold the colors bloom
Marking the start of every tale
From first breath taken in the room
To stories told within the veil

Life begins with touch and sight
And ends in whispers soft and deep
A child holds the fading light
While learning how to love and keep",7
163,ultra_held_out,The Beauty of Union by George the Poet,George the Poet,"A poem about two people merging their lives into a strong and beautiful union, making decisions together and finding love without worry.","There’s an indescribable beauty in union
In two beings forming one new being
Entering each other’s world
Surrendering each other’s selves
Accepting the invitation to be everything to someone else
There’s an unparallelled bravery in union
In telling the one you love:
“The only way that we can truly win
Is if I think of you in everything I do
And honour every decision you faithfully include me in.”
Love gives union true meaning
It illuminates the path
It wants us to compromise, communicate and laugh
It wants us to elevate, appreciate without pride
Love is oblivious to the outside
Even with an audience of millions
Even when that love bears immortal significance
All of this is met with cordial indifference
By the two people at the heart of it
Two individuals when they started it
Becoming two halves of one partnership
Such is the beauty of union
Such is the beauty of union","Two separate streams begin to weave
A single path where shadows leave
No longer standing side by side
But walking with a shared stride

We choose the road with one clear voice
And find in union, purest choice
To build a home on solid ground
Where trust and quiet peace are found

The heavy weight of doubt is gone
Replaced by light that greets the dawn
With every step we take as one
Our love remains forever won

No fear can touch this gentle space
We move together through time and place
A strong and beautiful design
Where your heart beats perfectly with mine","Two rivers flowing from different hills
Meet in the valley and become one stream,
No longer asking which way to turn or where to go,
But moving forward with a single will.

They stand at the crossroads of life and choose together,
One hand on the map, one hand on the wheel,
And when the road is rough they hold each other tight,
And when it is smooth they laugh aloud and feel

The wind blowing through their hair, the sun shining warm,
Without a worry that the day will end too soon,
Or that they will have to part, or that love will fade,
For they have made their union strong as the moon.

They are two stars that have come close and merged their light,
So that now there is only one star burning bright.",7,"Two streams that wander separate and deep
Now join to form a single, rushing tide
Where promises are kept and secrets sleep
And nothing in the world can hide or divide

We stand together at the crossroads wide
To choose the path that leads us both ahead
With no more fear of where we may abide
Or if the road is rough or softly spread

The worry fades like mist before the sun
When two become one heart within one chest
Our shared decisions make the journey done
Before the final resting place is pressed

No shadow falls between our joined hands now
As love flows strong and clear without a care
A beautiful and unbreakable vow
That lifts us gently on a golden air",7,"Two rivers finding where the banks have worn away
To meet in currents deep and clear and bright
We lay our separate maps upon the floor
And trace a single path toward the light

No heavy weight of doubt to slow our step
No whispering fear that pulls us from the side
Just quiet hands that choose the road we take
With nothing left to hide or to divide

The morning coffee shared, the evening plan
Decided with a glance, a nod, a smile
We build a home on trust so firm and true
That time itself seems slower, less awhile

A union strong as stone yet soft as air
Where every worry loses all its sting
We walk together into open space
And find the love that only freedom brings",7,"Two rivers meet and lose their separate names
To carve a single path through stone and rain
No longer asking who will lead the way
But walking side by side into the day

We choose the future with a steady hand
And build a home upon this shared command
The weight of doubt dissolves in morning light
As worry fades within our quiet night

There is no fear when hearts are fully known
Just seeds of trust that we have carefully sown
A union strong as roots beneath the earth
That finds its joy in simple, sacred worth

Together now we face the turning tide
With nothing left to hide and nowhere to hide
For love has found a place without a care
And breathes a calm and beautiful air",7,"Two separate streams begin to weave
Through valleys deep and fields of green
No longer walking distinct paths
But sharing every sight unseen

We stand as one against the wind
With hands held tight and hearts aligned
Decisions made in quiet trust
Leave all the fear of loss behind

The future holds no shadowed doubt
As morning breaks on shared design
A single voice, a common ground
Where love and safety softly shine

No worry lives within this space
That two have become something whole
A strong and beautiful embrace
That makes our broken pieces whole",7,"Two rivers meet where valleys softly bend
To form a current that will never end
No longer separate or drifting wide
But walking side by side with nothing to hide

We choose the path with hands held tight and sure
Building a home where peace is the only cure
Every decision made in shared design
A woven tapestry of yours and mine

The fear that once would whisper in the night
Dissolves beneath the warmth of our united light
No shadow lingers on this sacred ground
Where two distinct hearts beat as one profound

In quiet moments and in storms we face
We find the strength within this gentle space
A love so deep it needs no words to speak
Stronger than the mountains, tender like the creek",7,"Two separate rivers find the same bed
Where currents slow and silence is shed
No longer walking paths apart alone
But building walls of stone from seed to bone

Your hand in mine becomes a steady guide
With nothing left for fear or doubt to hide
We choose the dawn before the night takes hold
A story written brave and bright and bold

Decisions made with voices joined as one
The setting sun, the rising of the moon
No worry lingers in the quiet air
Just love that breathes without a single care

Through storm and calm we stand unshaken true
A tapestry woven in every hue
Merged completely in this sacred space
Where two become a whole, a perfect grace",7
168,train,The Hawthorn Tree by Willa Cather,Willa Cather,"A poem about a speaker reminiscing about mysterious, intimate moments shared with a male figure beneath a hawthorn tree in a beautiful natural setting, while keeping the words he spoke a secret.","ACROSS the shimmering meadows--
Ah, when he came to me!
In the spring-time,
In the night-time,
In the starlight,
Beneath the hawthorn tree.
 
Up from the misty marsh-land--
Ah, when he climbed to me!
To my white bower,
To my sweet rest,
To my warm breast,
Beneath the hawthorn tree.
 
Ask of me what the birds sang,
High in the hawthorn tree;
What the breeze tells,
What the rose smells,
What the stars shine--
Not what he said to me!","The hawthorn held its breath above the grass
Where white petals fell like silent snow,
And in that green and shadowed quiet space,
The world dissolved to just the two of us.

His voice was low, a ripple on the stream,
That wove a spell beneath the ancient bough,
He spoke of things too fragile for a dream,
Too sacred for the light of morning now.

I trace the bark where fingers once had pressed,
Remembering the warmth against my hand,
But what he said remains within my chest,
A secret kept by wind and shifting sand.

No bird could carry out those whispered words,
No river flow with such a heavy sound,
They hang suspended like the summer birds,
Lost forever in this hallowed ground.

So let the hawthorn bloom and fade again,
And let the seasons turn their golden wheel,
I hold the silence of his spoken pen,
A mystery only I can feel.","Beneath the white cloud of the hawthorn tree
Where the wind moved softly through the leaves,
We sat and watched the shadows play
Across the green and golden sheaves.

He spoke to me in low, soft tones
Of things I dare not tell;
The words were like a hidden stream
That only we could smell.

His hand was warm upon my knee,
The sun was high and sweet,
And though he whispered strange and sweet,
I keep them at my feet.

The hawthorn blooms are falling now,
The summer is gone by,
But still I hold his secret words
Beneath the hawthorn tree's eye.",6,"Beneath the hawthorn's lace of white and green,
Where sunlight fractured through the leaves above,
We sat in silence, intimate and deep,
While bees hummed low within the clover close.
The wind moved soft against your shoulder there,
And you leaned near to speak a whispered word,
Or perhaps a phrase that held a hidden weight,
But what it was I cannot tell to you.
I only know the scent of bark and bloom,
The way the shadows danced upon your face,
And how the secret stayed within my heart,
A quiet treasure buried in the grass.
No other ear could catch the sound you made,
For nature kept its watch with open eyes,
Yet held its tongue as well, to guard the speech
That passed between us under hawthorn boughs.",6,"The hawthorn stood like a white cloud against the green,
Its branches heavy with the scent of spring,
Where you and I found shelter from the wind,
Beneath the dappled light that danced and swung.

Your voice was low, a secret in the air,
As soft as moss upon the forest floor,
You spoke of things the stars alone could hear,
And touched my hand within the shadowed door.

The world dissolved to just that patch of shade,
The rustle of leaves, the thrush's distant call,
I watched the words you whispered fade away,
Like mist before the morning sun would fall.

I keep them safe, these promises you made,
Locked deep within the quiet of my heart,
No one shall know the magic that we shared,
Or how the hawthorn kept our love apart.

Let others ask what secrets passed between,
Under the bloom of May and summer rain,
But I will hold the silence of your speech,
A treasure too profound for human tongue.",6,"The hawthorn bowed its white and heavy head
To shield us from the afternoon's bright gaze,
Where sunlight filtered through the leaves like thread
And wove a tapestry of golden haze.

You sat with me upon the mossy ground,
Your shoulder warm against my trembling arm,
While silence held a weight that could not drown
The quiet rhythm of your steady charm.

I do not know what words you whispered then,
For they were lost within the rustling bough,
Or perhaps I chose to keep them from men,
A secret kept between the tree and now.

The scent of thorns and earth rose up around,
As time dissolved beneath that canopy,
No sound but birdsong on the summer ground,
And mysteries meant only for you and me.

Let others guess at what was said or done,
Beneath the stars that watched our hiding place,
I hold the echo of the setting sun,
And lock those words in this secluded space.",6,"The hawthorn bowed its thorny crown
To shelter us from afternoon,
Where sunlight fractured on the ground
And scattered gold through leaves of green.
You leaned so close the scent of rain
Clung to your coat and mixed with pine,
While distant birds forgot their refrain
To watch the quiet intertwine.
Your voice was low, a secret stream
That flowed between the roots below,
A whisper woven into dream
With words I never meant to know.
They hung suspended in the air,
Too sacred for the wind to steal,
A language only we could share
Beneath the boughs where shadows reel.
Now years have passed and branches sway,
The tree stands tall against the sky,
But what you said that summer day
Remains a ghost I cannot pry.
I keep the silence, deep and sweet,
The mystery of what was said,
A hidden rhythm, soft and complete,
Within the heart where secrets tread.",6,"The hawthorn bends to touch the grass
Where sunlight breaks in shards of gold
And time itself seems slow to pass
Within the story it has told

I see him standing in the shade
With eyes that held a storm and calm
The words he whispered, softly made
Are now a silent, sacred psalm

He spoke of stars we cannot name
Of tides that pull beneath the moon
But I will guard the flame they came
To light the path between us soon

The scent of white and thorny bloom
Fills up the air with ancient grace
A secret kept within this room
Of nature's quiet, wild embrace

No one shall hear the low refrain
That floated on the evening breeze
Just shadows dancing in the rain
And memories that bring me ease",7,"The hawthorn bows its thorny head
To guard the grass where we once tread
A canopy of white and green
Where time forgot what it had seen

You stood beneath the ancient bough
With silence heavy on your brow
The wind held breath to hear us speak
Of things too fragile, soft, and weak

Your voice was low, a velvet thread
That wove a path inside my head
It spoke of stars that fall away
And promises we chose to keep today

I watched the way the light would dance
Upon the lines of every glance
No map could guide this hidden place
Or trace the shadow on your face

But now the sun begins to fade
And leaves the secrets in the shade
I hold the words you never wrote
A quiet fire within my throat

Let others wonder at the sound
Of whispers lost upon the ground
For some truths are meant to stay
Beneath the tree at end of day",6
169,train,The Falling Leaves by Margaret Postgate Cole,Margaret Postgate Cole,"""A poem about leaves falling silently from a tree, representing the countless soldiers dropping one by one in war, their bodies blanketing the fields like snowflakes covering the earth in a vast, peaceful, and sorrowful silence.""","Today, as I rode by,
I saw the brown leaves dropping from their tree
In a still afternoon,
When no wind whirled them whistling to the sky,
But thickly, silently,
They fell, like snowflakes wiping out the noon;
And wandered slowly thence
For thinking of a gallant multitude
Which now all withering lay,
Slain by no wind of age or pestilence,
But in their beauty strewed
Like snowflakes falling on the Flemish clay.","A single leaf detaches from the bough
And drifts without a sound to touch the ground
Another follows, then another now
As autumn winds make no triumphant sound

They fall like men who stood in ranks so tight
Before the silence took them one by one
The green of youth gives way to fading light
Until the battle's roar is fully done

No drumbeat marks their final resting place
Just soft descent upon the trampled soil
A quiet hush covers the open space
Where life has paid its heavy, final toll

The field grows white with uniforms of gray
Like snowflakes settling on a frozen plain
They lie as still as shadows at the day
That never breaks again to bring the rain

A vast and peaceful sorrow fills the air
As nature wraps the fallen in her shroud
There is no glory left for us to share
Only the silence rising through the cloud","The leaves let go without a sound,
A silent drift from branch to ground,
One by one they fall away,
Like soldiers in the light of day.

No trumpet sounds, no drumbeat rolls,
Just quiet bodies dropping souls,
Until the field is white and deep,
As if with snowflakes covered sleep.

A vast and peaceful silence lies,
Beneath the weight of falling eyes,
A sorrowful and soft repose,
Where countless fallen heroes doze.",7,"A single leaf lets go and drifts away
Without a sound to mark its passing breath,
Then another follows in the gray
And quiet air, a silent, falling death.

The boughs grow bare as men drop one by one,
No trumpet calls them down from high command,
Just soft descents beneath a lowering sun
To join the vast and waiting, sleeping land.

They cover all the fields with sudden white,
Like snowflakes settling on a frozen plain,
A blanket made of lives extinguished quite,
Where not a whisper breaks the heavy chain.

It is a peace that hurts the heart to see,
This silent snow of soldiers lying low,
Where war has ceased its violent decree
And leaves their bodies where the cold winds blow.

So still it lies, this field of fallen men,
As if the earth had pulled a sheet above,
To hide the cost of battle once again
Beneath a shroud of sorrowful, deep love.",7,"The green turns gold then brown and breaks away
Without a sound to mark the sudden end
One by one they drift into the gray
Where wind and quiet sorrow gently bend

No trumpet calls them down from branch to ground
Just silent figures settling on the soil
A vast and heavy blanket all around
That covers up the scars of endless toil

Like snowflakes falling soft upon the plain
They hide the mud and blood beneath their weight
A peaceful shroud against the driving rain
To seal the earth in silence and in fate

So still the field where once the shouting rang
Now covered deep with leaves that used to be
The countless soldiers who have softly hung
And dropped to sleep beneath the autumn tree",6,"The wind does not howl, the branches do not break,
Only a soft release as autumn turns to gray,
One by one they drift down, a quiet, heavy weight,
No trumpet sounds to mark the price of war today.

They fall like snowflakes settling on the frozen plain,
A blanket woven from the red and gold of life,
Each leaf a soldier lost beneath the rain,
Cut short before the dawn could end the strife.

The earth is covered now in layers deep and still,
A vast and peaceful silence where the fighting ceased,
No cry escapes the grass, no voice can fill
The hollow space where every heart has been released.

So let them lie together in this gentle hush,
Where winter waits to wrap the world in white,
As leaves and men become the same soft rush,
Dissolving into night, dissolving into light.",7,"A single leaf detaches from the bough
And drifts without a whisper to the ground
Another follows, then another now
Where no triumphant fanfare can be found

They fall like men who stood in ranks so tight
Before the thunder broke the morning air
Now scattered in the fading of the light
With heavy hearts and eyes that stare at nothing there

The field is deep with red and brown and gold
A carpet woven from the fallen brave
As quiet as the stories never told
Beneath the weight of every silent grave

No wind disturbs this blanket soft and deep
Where snowflakes of the living meet the dust
In sorrow's hush the weary armies sleep
And turn the battlefield to winter's trust",7,"The wind does not howl today
only a hush that holds its breath
as green turns to rust and brown
before the final surrender of death

One by one they let go
no trumpet calls, no drumbeat rolls
just the quiet descent of a leaf
carrying stories from distant souls

They drift across the open plain
a carpet woven from loss and pain
each body soft against the soil
where hope was once so bright and whole

Like snowflakes settling on the ground
the fallen make a silent mound
a vast and peaceful, sorrowful sea
of those who gave their lives for peace

The earth accepts them without sound
in this vast and frozen profound
where silence is the only song
for all who went where they belong",7,"The wind does not howl tonight
It holds its breath to hear the fall
A single rustle in the light
Before the shadows take it all

No trumpet sounds to mark the end
No drumbeat rolls across the plain
Just autumn leaves that softly bend
To join the quiet, endless rain

They drift like ghosts of men who stood
In armor worn and hearts grown cold
Now scattered through the muddy wood
Where stories of the brave are told

Each one a name the earth will keep
Beneath a sky of heavy gray
While silence wraps the world in sleep
And washes sorrow far away

The field is white with fallen grace
Not snow but bodies laid to rest
A vast and holy, hushed embrace
That covers every broken chest

So let them lie without a sound
As branches bare their final weight
Where peace and grief are deeply bound
Within the garden of our fate",7
178,ultra_held_out,I Loved You by Alexander Pushkin,Alexander Pushkin,"""A poem about a speaker expressing his enduring love and deep affection for a past beloved, describing the many ways he has loved her, and wishing her the same devoted love from another.""","I loved you: yet the love, maybe,
Has not extinguished in my heart;
But hence may not it trouble thee;
I do not want to make you sad.
I loved you hopelessly and mutely,
Now with shyness, now with jealousy being vexed;
I loved you so sincerely, so fondly,
Likewise may someone love you next.
Translation by Emil Sharafutdinov:
I loved you; even now I must confess,
Some embers of my love their fire retain;
But do not let it cause you more distress,
I do not want to sadden you again.
Hopeless and tonguetied, yet I loved you dearly
With pangs the jealous and the timid know;
So tenderly I love you, so sincerely,
I pray God grant another love you so.","I loved you in the quiet of the morning light,
When shadows stretched across the floor and silence held us tight.
I loved you in the storms that raged against the glass,
Watching how your spirit stood while all the others passed.
I loved the way you laughed at jokes no one else could hear,
The gentle weight of sorrow when a single tear drew near.
I loved the summer dust motes dancing in the air,
And every unspoken promise that we never dared to share.

My love was not a fleeting spark that burned and turned to gray,
But roots that went deep beneath the soil to hold you through the day.
It was in the coffee cups I left beside your bed,
In words I swallowed back to keep the peace within our head.
It was in the patience waiting for you to find your way,
Through nights of doubt and wandering into the breaking day.

Now though the road has parted and my hands can no longer hold,
A story written in the heart that time cannot unfold,
I wish for you a lover who will see what I have seen,
Who cherishes the fragile beauty of your soul so clean.
May he love you as I did, with every breath he draws,
Without a single question or a hesitation's pause.
May he guard your weary spirit and lift you when you fall,
And answer every whisper before you speak it at all.
I give you to another now, with blessings on my tongue,
That you may know the devotion where my song is sung.","I loved you with the quiet of the morning
Before the birds began to sing,
With the silence of the snow that fell at noon
When all the world was white and still.

I loved you in the heat of summer noons
When the cicadas cried in the hot trees,
And I loved you when the wind blew cold
In the dark nights of winter.

I loved you with a love that held your hand
And one that let it go,
A love that watched you from afar
And one that watched you close.

I loved you with the light of the moon
That looked upon your face,
And I loved you with the sun that warmed your skin
And dried the tears upon your face.

Now let another love you as I did,
As well as I could do,
Let him know the ways I loved you
And love you just as true.",6,"I loved you in the silence of the morning light
Before the world had woken to its noise,
I loved you in the shadow of the night
When stars were lost and only dreams had voice.
I loved you with a hunger that would fade
If fed too soon, so I kept it lean and deep,
I loved you in the promises we made
And in the quiet vows we did not keep.
I loved you when your laughter was a bell
That rang through rooms where sorrow used to dwell,
I loved you when your eyes grew dim and dull
And time had set its heavy, rusted seal.
Now let another hold you as I held
The fragile bird that once flew from my hand,
Let him protect the heart he has beheld
As gently as I guarded what I planned.
May he be patient with your wandering thoughts,
May he be kind when you are weak and tired,
May he love you more than all the words I brought,
With every fire that in my soul expired.
Go forth and find a love that is complete,
A love that does not tremble or depart,
For I have given you my whole heart's beat,
And now I give you back your own free heart.",7,"I loved you in the quiet of the morning light
Before the world had woken from its sleep,
I loved you in the shadows of the night
When all the stars were promises to keep.
I loved you with a hunger for your name,
With every breath that filled my waiting chest,
I loved you through the joy and through the shame,
And laid my weary heart down at your rest.
I loved you when the seasons turned to gray,
I loved you when the rivers ran too deep,
I loved you in the words I did not say,
I loved you while the others fell asleep.
Now let another hold the torch I held so long,
Let him adore the grace that made you whole,
Let his devotion be the steady song
That fills the silence of your wandering soul.
May he love you as I have loved you still,
With all the depth that time cannot erase,
May he fulfill the promise of my will,
And find the home I could not quite embrace.",7,"I loved you in the quiet of the morning light
Before the world had made its noise and claim,
I loved you in the shadow of the night
When silence spoke your true and sacred name.
I loved you with the patience of the stone
That waits for rain to soften all its face,
I loved you when I stood entirely alone
And found my only home within your grace.

I loved you with the anger that I hid,
The fear I swallowed just to keep you near,
I loved you as the river loves the kid
Who throws a stone and watches ripples clear.
I gave you every secret that I kept,
Every dream I folded in my hand,
I watched you while the weary city slept
And held you in a promise I had planned.

Now let another take this heavy crown,
Let someone else be worthy of your smile,
Let them wear the weight I wore so down,
And walk with you through valley and through mile.
May they love you with a fire bright and new,
More fierce than any flame I ever knew,
For though my heart is still a shrine to you,
I wish you love that feels entirely true.",7,"I loved you in the quiet of the morning light
When shadows stretched across the floor and silence held us tight
I loved you in the storms that raged against the window pane
And in the gentle rain that washed away our shared pain
I loved your laughter echoing through empty halls
And the way your name still softly calls within my walls
I gave you every piece of me I had to spare
A heart laid open, hanging heavy in the air

But now the seasons turn and I must let you go
To find a love that blooms where only winter snows once grow
So may another hold you with a fire just as bright
Who knows the weight of silence and can stand beside you in the night
May they cherish every flaw and celebrate your grace
And build a home where time moves slow within your warm embrace
I wish them all the devotion that I could not keep
A promise made to watch over you while I fall asleep
Go forward with this blessing, know that I remain
The ghost of all the loving that has ever been your own again",7,"I loved you in the quiet hours before the dawn,
When silence held a promise that we had not yet spoken.
I loved you in the storm that tore the sky apart,
Holding steady while the thunder shook the ground beneath our feet.
I loved the way your laughter broke the heavy air,
And how your shadow stretched across my weary days to keep me warm.
I loved the scars you carried, hidden deep within your skin,
Treating every wound as sacred ground where healing could begin.
I loved the dreams you whispered when the world was fast asleep,
The fragile hopes you nurtured while the rest of us would sleep.
Now I stand upon the shore where once our tides collided,
Watching waves roll in to wash the footprints from the sand.
My heart remains a vessel filled with all the love I gave,
A constant tide that rises though you walk a different path today.
So may another find the light that lives behind your eyes,
And offer you a devotion as fierce and true as mine.
May they hold your hand through winter's cold and summer's burning heat,
And cherish every fragment of the soul you carry deep inside.
Let them love you with a fire that never fades or turns to ash,
Just as I did, just as I do, until the final breath is drawn.",7,"I loved you in the quiet hours before the dawn
When silence held us close and breath was all we knew
I loved the way your laughter broke the heavy air
And turned the grayest sky to gold for just a few

I traced the lines of worry on your weary face
And promised to be shelter when the storm would rise
I memorized the rhythm of your heartbeat slow
A steady drum beneath the chaos of our lives

My love was not a fire that burned and then consumed
But water deep and constant that carved the stone around
It lived in every sunrise and in every rain
In all the things I said and all I left unsaid

Now time has moved us forward to different shores
Yet here within my chest, your name remains the same
I wish upon the stars above your path tonight
That someone finds you gentle as the moon's soft flame

May they hold your hand with hands as warm as mine
And offer you the devotion that I gave so free
Let them know the beauty of the soul you carry
And love you as I did, completely and endlessly",7
182,train,Whispers of Immortality by T.S. Eliot,T.S. Eliot,"A poem about exploring the inescapable presence of death beneath the surfaces of life, love, and sexuality, ultimately consuming all else.","Webster was much possessed by death
And saw the skull beneath the skin;
And breastless creatures under ground
Leaned backward with a lipless grin.
Daffodil bulbs instead of balls
Stared from the sockets of the eyes!
He knew that thought clings round dead limbs
Tightening its lusts and luxuries.
Donne, I suppose, was such another
Who found no substitute for sense,
To seize and clutch and penetrate;
Expert beyond experience,
He knew the anguish of the marrow
The ague of the skeleton;
No contact possible to flesh
Allayed the fever of the bone.
. . . . .
Grishkin is nice: her Russian eye
Is underlined for emphasis;
Uncorseted, her friendly bust
Gives promise of pneumatic bliss.
The couched Brazilian jaguar
Compels the scampering marmoset
With subtle effluence of cat;
Grishkin has a maisonnette;
The sleek Brazilian jaguar
Does not in its arboreal gloom
Distil so rank a feline smell
As Grishkin in a drawing-room.
And even the Abstract Entities
Circumambulate her charm;
But our lot crawls between dry ribs
To keep our metaphysics warm.","The pulse that drums beneath the skin
Is counting down the seconds in
A rhythm borrowed from the grave,
A debt we cannot choose to save.

In lovers' touch, a fever burns,
Yet every kiss quietly returns
To dust that waits within the bone,
A silent king upon the throne.

The bed where passion spills its heat
Holds shadows at the foot of feet,
For flesh is but a temporary tent
Before the final dark is spent.

We build our castles on the sand,
Ignoring how the waves command
To wash away the hand that drew
The lines of what we thought was true.

No flower blooms without the root
That drinks the water from the suit
Of earth that claims us all the same,
Erasing names and burning fame.

The mouth that speaks of endless years
Is fed by silence and by fears,
As life, with all its vibrant art,
Is just the prelude to the heart's
Final surrender to the night,
Where light dissolves into the white
And nothing stands, no sound remains,
Only the quiet, deep domain.","Beneath the velvet bloom of spring
The white worm waits, a silent king.
Beneath the kiss that seals the vow,
The cold clay gathers round us now.

In every pulse of lover's blood,
A tiny grave is dug for mud;
In every sigh of sweet desire,
A spark that feeds the funeral pyre.

We dance upon the crater's rim,
Unconscious of the chasm dim;
We build our castles on the sand,
And call it love to hold the land.

But death is underneath the floor,
He knocks and will not leave the door;
He drinks the wine we pour for him,
And turns the vintage into slime.

No wall can keep him from the bed,
No curtain hide the living dead;
He walks through fire and water too,
For all things serve his purpose true.

Love is but a momentary lease
On what must soon be put at ease;
Sexuality a brief disguise
To cover up the rotting eyes.

So when you see the rose in flower,
Think of the root beneath the bower;
When you see the bridegroom gay,
Think of the corpse he leads away.

For life is but a bubble blown
From out the mouth of death alone;
It bursts, and nothing is there left
Save death himself, and he bereft.",6,"The rose opens its throat to the sun
and in that red velvet silence
we hear the dry rustle of the grave.
Beneath the fevered skin of lovers
where hands seek to fuse and breaths tangle
there is a cold, quiet counting
of the seconds ticking toward the end.
Sex is a frantic digging
in the soft earth before the frost,
a desperate planting of seeds
that will rot in the dark before they bloom.
We build our castles on the sand
but the tide is not water, it is time,
and it does not wash away; it swallows.
Every kiss tastes faintly of dust,
every embrace holds the shape of a shroud.
The heart beats loudly against the ribs
only to remind us how soon the drum will stop.
Life is a thin veneer of paint
over a wall of bone and decay.
Love is the candle burning at both ends
to light the way for the shadow that waits
in the corner, patient and absolute.
It is already here, beneath the laughter,
beneath the wine, beneath the promise.
It is the only thing that stays,
the only thing that truly lives,
waiting for us to finish playing
so it can finally take what is its own.",3,"Beneath the flush of skin where pulse runs deep
A silent tenant waits in shadowed keep
We weave our love with threads of bright desire
While cold ash settles on the funeral pyre

The bed is warm, a sanctuary made of breath
Yet every touch whispers the shape of death
The scent of rose that blooms within the room
Is but a ghost of flowers in the tomb

We dance to music that will soon be still
And drink the wine that time will make us spill
No wall can hold the tide that turns to bone
No heart can beat against the quiet stone

The lover's kiss, the child's first laughing cry
Are borrowed moments under empty sky
For all the fire that burns in human veins
Must yield to silence and to rusting chains

It waits beneath the laughter and the song
To right the balance where we do not belong
Until the final curtain falls away
And night consumes the remnants of the day",7,"The pulse that drums against the wrist
Is merely counting down the beat,
A frantic rhythm in the mist
That hides the silence at our feet.

We weave our sheets in silk and sweat,
And trace the maps of skin so warm,
Unknowing that the final debt
Is waiting for us in the storm.

The lover's breath, a heated gasp,
Exhales into the cooling air,
While shadows stretch across the asp
To claim the beauty we declare.

Beneath the bloom, the root decays,
Within the kiss, the cold begins to creep,
A quiet thief who never pays,
Who watches while the living sleep.

No flame can burn the dark away,
No touch can hold the tide at bay,
The sun will set on every day,
And take the light, and take the play.

For life is but a borrowed spark
Before the endless night descends,
A fleeting glow within the dark
Where every story finds its ends.",7,"Beneath the skin where pulse beats loud
A quiet rot begins to crowd
The lovers touch with fevered hands
While time dissolves into the sands

The rose blooms red and sweetly deep
Before the roots begin to sleep
For every breath we draw so warm
Is borrowed from a coming storm

In beds of silk and tangled sheets
Where passion burns and hunger meets
The shadow waits in every glance
To steal the rhythm, stop the dance

No kiss can seal the gaping mouth
No vow can turn the northern south
The fire that warms the winter night
Will fade into the endless white

We build our castles on the shore
Of tides that pull us ever more
Until the water claims the stone
And leaves us utterly alone

The heart that beats, the hand that holds
Are stories waiting to be told
Then silenced by the final sound
Where life and death are finally bound",6,"The skin glows warm against the touch
A frantic rhythm in the chest
We weave our vows in silk and breath
And build a castle for the rest

But underneath the beating heart
Where lovers trace their trembling lines
A quiet shadow starts to chart
The path that time designates as mines

The pulse that drives the desire's flame
Is borrowed from a colder source
It whispers through the lover's name
Of silence waiting at the course

Every kiss is but a pause
Before the final, heavy fall
The beauty of the rising cause
Cannot outrun the empty wall

No sanctuary holds the light
Against the tide that pulls it deep
The day dissolves into the night
As all the promises we keep

Are swallowed by the endless gray
That waits beneath the soil and stone
To take the gold and steal the clay
And leave us with the flesh alone

In the end the fire turns to ash
The love becomes a memory
The body breaks its fragile clash
And yields to what was always free",7,"Beneath the pulse that drums against the wrist
A quiet tide begins to rise and creep
It waits within the kiss, the warmest mist
The secret promise that the shadows keep

We build our towers out of flesh and bone
And swear in bed that nothing ends tonight
But roots dig deep where seeds are never sown
To claim the morning and devour the light

Love is a lantern flickering in the wind
Its flame a temporary, fragile thing
While silence gathers, vast and undefined
To swallow up the song we tried to sing

No wall can hold the water from the sea
No vow can stop the slow and certain turn
The end was written in our history
Before the first breath ever started to burn

So let the heart beat loud against the grave
As beauty fades into the hollow dark
For everything we touch must soon behave
And yield its form to time's unyielding mark",7
186,ultra_held_out,At Last We Killed The Roaches by Lucille Clifton,Lucille Clifton,"A poem about a speaker reflecting on the killing of roaches in her childhood home, moving from relief to regret and considering the act as murder against creatures simply living the best they could.","at last we killed the roaches.
mama and me. she sprayed,
i swept the ceiling and they fell
dying onto our shoulders, in our hair
covering us with red. the tribe was broken,
the cooking pots were ours again
and we were glad, such cleanliness was grace
when i was twelve. only for a few nights,
and then not much, my dreams were blood
my hands were blades and it was murder murder
all over the place.","The click of the shoe against the tile
was a satisfying punctuation to a long day,
a small victory in a war I didn't understand,
just the instinctive relief that the dark thing was still.

I remember the spray mist hanging in the kitchen air,
sweet and chemical, a scent that meant safety,
meant clean floors and parents nodding approval
that we were protecting our little kingdom from the scuttling invaders.

But now, standing in a quiet room years later,
the memory shifts its weight, heavy and strange,
and I see not a monster but a creature trying to survive,
navigating a world too large and too bright for its small eyes.

They were only looking for crumbs in the cracks,
seeking warmth under the sink where the pipes hummed,
living their brief, frantic lives with a desperate purpose
that I never paused to honor or even notice.

What did I know then of their right to be here?
To scurry and breed and fear the thunder of my foot?
I called it pest control, a necessary cleaning,
but now it feels like murder against the innocent.

We are all just trying to live the best we can,
hiding in the shadows, eating what we find,
and I wonder if they felt the same sudden shock,
the same confusion when the light went out forever.","I remember the sharp click of the shoe
against the kitchen tile,
the satisfying crunch underfoot,
and how I felt a surge of relief
that one less thing was breathing in my house.

Now years later I think of those little lives
scuttling in the dark,
seeking a crumb or a drop of water,
trying to survive as best they could
in a world that did not want them.

I think of them as if they were people,
people who had done nothing wrong
except be born and live where they were born,
and I feel a dull regret
that I killed them so easily,
so unthinkingly,
as if they were just dirt.",2,"I remember the sharp crack of the shoe
against the linoleum, a sudden silence
where there had been skittering feet.
There was relief then, a clean sweep of the floor,
a sense that order had been restored to the kitchen,
that the dark, damp corners were finally safe again.

But now I see those small, hard bodies
not as invaders but as tenants who paid rent
in their own quiet way, living in the cracks
of a house that was never truly theirs.
They were only trying to survive,
to find a crumb, to avoid the light,
to raise their young in the safety of the wall.

What did we know of their lives?
We called them pests and killed them without thought,
striking down creatures who simply wanted to exist.
It feels like murder now, this casual violence,
for they were doing nothing more than living
the best they could in a world that hated them.",2,"I remember the sharp crack of the shoe
against the linoleum, a sudden silence
after the skittering stopped,
and how I felt a clean, bright relief
that the house was safe again.

We were small gods in that kitchen then,
wielding our heavy soles with righteous aim,
believing we were defending the perimeter
from an invading horde of filth and disease.

Now the memory feels heavier,
a dark stain on the white tile of my mind.
They were not invaders but refugees,
scavenging crumbs in the shadows,
trying to keep their eggs warm,
trying to survive the dry heat of summer
just as we tried to survive our own lives.

I see them now not as monsters to be crushed,
but as tiny, frantic hearts beating fast,
living the best they could with what they had,
simply wanting to exist without fear.
And I wonder if every death I celebrated
was just a murder committed by a child
who did not know any better than to kill.",2,"The spray hissed white against the dark tile,
A sudden cloud of chemical rain,
And I felt a surge of clean relief
As the scuttling stopped and the legs curled in.
My mother praised the spotless kitchen,
The safety of a world without teeth or claws,
But now the silence feels too heavy,
Too much like a grave for things so small.

They were not monsters seeking to destroy,
Just shadows hunting for crumbs and warmth,
Navigating the vast canyons of our floorboards
With the same desperate will to live as I.
I see them now not as invaders but as refugees,
Fleeing the heat of the sun, seeking the cool dark,
Doing only what their tiny hearts demanded
To keep their fragile lives from ending.

What right did I have to judge their presence?
To end a story that had no beginning with me?
It was murder, plain and simple,
Done with a plastic trigger and a smile.
They were simply living the best they could
In a house that was never truly theirs,
And I was the giant who decided
That their survival was a crime.",2,"The spray hissed a silver fog against the kitchen tile
And I remember the thrill of victory, the heavy boot
That crushed the hard shell into dust and silence
A small triumph in a house that felt too big to hold
I thought I was protecting my world from invasion
Clearing the dark corners where shadows dared to creep

But now the memory lingers with a different weight
Not the sharp sting of poison but the dull ache of loss
For they were not monsters plotting war in the walls
Just tiny travelers seeking warmth and crumbs and light
Doing exactly what life demanded of them
Surviving the cold, finding food, building nests in the cracks

I see them now as neighbors who asked for nothing
Living their brief, frantic lives with desperate purpose
While I stood armed with chemicals and judgment
Deciding their existence was an error to be corrected
Was it murder to end a creature simply trying to live?
To snuff out a heartbeat that beat so fast and faint
In the quiet space between my fear and their flight
I wonder if the floor still remembers the sound of their falling
And if the ghost of that small, brown body haunts me still",3,"The kitchen tile was cold beneath my bare feet
And the shadow skittered fast across the grout
I raised the shoe with a triumphant breath
A satisfying crack that silenced the house
Relief washed over me like a sudden tide
Another monster banished from the dark
We were the giants, they were the pests
And I felt safe within our sterile walls

But years have softened edges of that certainty
Now I see the tiny legs trembling in the dust
Not as an enemy to be erased
But as a life trying to survive the heat
They sought only crumbs and dampness and a corner
Doing what their ancient instincts demanded
While I stood armed with plastic and disdain
Deciding who deserved to draw another breath

What if every stomp was a small kind of murder
A quiet ending to a story I never knew
They did not hate us, they did not know our names
Just living out the best they could in this vast world
And I am left with ghosts of six-legged friends
Who paid the ultimate price for simply being here
In a home that claimed to protect us all
From things we feared but never truly understood",2,"The kitchen light hummed low and yellow
As I raised the heavy shoe above the tile
A sudden crack that silenced the skittering
And left a smear of brown upon the white

For years I felt the weight of victory
A clean house earned through blood and force
Each crushed shell a trophy in the dark
Proof that safety was a war we won

But now the silence feels too loud to bear
And memory shifts the shape of what I saw
Not monsters hiding in the pantry deep
But tiny lives clinging to the cracks they knew

They sought the warmth of my own hearth
Drank the drops of water from the sink
Running their frantic paths with no intent to harm
Just living out the brief and borrowed time they had

I wonder if the soil remembers them
If every step I take is stained with guilt
For killing those who asked for nothing more
Than space to breathe within a world so cold

The relief has faded into something gray
A quiet grief for creatures I destroyed
In the name of order, in the name of home
I became the monster hunting ghosts of flight",3
189,ultra_held_out,"I, Being born a Woman and Distressed by Edna St. Vincent Millay",Edna St. Vincent Millay,A poem about a woman navigating the frenzy of desire and biology while asserting her power to walk away from any man without being possessed.,"vI, being born a woman and distressed
By all the needs and notions of my kind,
Am urged by your propinquity to find
Your person fair, and feel a certain zest
To bear your body’s weight upon my breast:
So subtly is the fume of life designed,
To clarify the pulse and cloud the mind,
And leave me once again undone, possessed.
Think not for this, however, the poor treason
Of my stout blood against my staggering brain,
I shall remember you with love, or season
My scorn with pity,—let me make it plain:
I find this frenzy insufficient reason
For conversation when we meet again.","The blood sings a loud and ancient song
of hips that sway and lungs that burn,
a primal rhythm pulling strong
toward the heat of every turn.
Her pulse beats fast against her skin,
a wild tide rising in the chest,
inviting all the world within
to put her fragile self to test.

Yet in this storm of want and need,
where biology demands its due,
she stands as sovereign of her seed
and knows exactly what to do.
She feels the hunger, sharp and deep,
the gravity that pulls so near,
but holds a promise she will keep:
that no one owns her when they're here.

Let him reach out with hands that crave,
let him whisper words of binding love,
she is the wave that leaves the grave
of any man who thinks he's above.
She walks away without a sound,
unbroken by the pull or plea,
her feet upon the solid ground
free from the chains of fantasy.

No man can hold the wind inside,
no lover claim the open sky,
she carries nothing left to hide
beneath the vast and watching eye.
Desire may roar and flesh may ache,
but power rests in her release,
for every step she chooses take
is hers alone, and brings her peace.","The blood sings a loud and urgent song
in the throat of the body, a drumbeat
that says take him, take him now,
before the light fades or he changes his mind.

But I am the captain of this vessel,
the one who holds the wheel while the engine
roars like a trapped animal in the hull.
I can feel the heat rising in my cheeks,
the tremor in my hands that wants to touch,
but I also know the shape of my own will.

He is not a master because I am wet,
he is not a god because I am weak with want.
I am a woman who walks away when she chooses,
a woman who closes the door on the frenzy
and stands alone in the quiet room,
possessing myself, unpossessed by any man.",2,"The blood hums low a heavy, ancient drum
beneath the skin where fire and instinct meet,
a tide that pulls to take, to hold, to sum
the self within another's heartbeat.

But I am not the vessel you may fill,
not soil to be dug up and claimed as yours;
I stand upon this cliff against the will
that seeks to break my boundaries and doors.

Let desire rage like wind through hollow trees,
let biology scream its loud demand;
I own the quiet space inside my knees,
the sovereign silence of my hand.

You may approach with hunger in your eyes,
with promises of warmth and tangled breath,
but I possess the power to rise
and walk away from life or from your death.

No chain can bind the woman who decides
to turn her back on all she could have known;
my body is a fortress, not a bride's,
and I am never truly overthrown.",6,"The blood sings a wild and ancient song
in the marrow of her bones,
a heat that rises like tide against the shore,
pulling at the hem of reason.
She feels the hunger in the air,
the heavy scent of want that clings to skin,
and for a moment she is just flesh and pulse,
ready to be taken by the current.

But then she stands still within the storm,
feeling the weight of every gaze that seeks to own,
every hand that reaches out to claim what is not his.
She knows the biology of the chase,
the trap of the heartbeat quickening for another,
yet she holds the key to the cage in her own palm.

Let them come with their promises and their need,
with their stories of how they will keep her safe,
she sees through the velvet to the iron bars beneath.
Her desire is a fire she tends herself,
not a torch to be handed over to strangers.

She turns her back on the altar of their longing,
walking away while the frenzy spins around her feet.
No man can hold her if she refuses to stay,
no voice can command the path her feet choose.
She is the architect of her own leaving,
free in the space between the wanting and the taking,
whole and unpossessed,
moving forward into the quiet of her own power.",5,"The blood sings a loud and ancient song
A drumbeat in the veins that says stay,
But I am the hand that turns the key
To lock the door against the fray.

My pulse may race at the scent of him,
At the heat that rises from skin to skin,
Yet I hold the reins of this wild horse
And decide where the journey ends or begins.

They think the hunger makes me weak,
That biology is a chain I cannot break,
But desire is just a passing tide
While my will is the rock for its sake.

I can feel the pull, the gravity strong,
The urge to be held, to belong, to be known,
But I walk away with my head held high
Leaving the ghost of possession alone.

No man owns the fire in my chest,
No lover commands the beat of my heart,
I am the architect of my own escape
From the moment before we even start.

So let them want, let them chase, let them plead,
Let them try to claim what they cannot keep,
I am the woman who walks out the door
With secrets only her own soul can reap.",6,"The pulse beats loud against the ribcage
a frantic drum demanding to be answered
heat rising like a tide that threatens to drown
the quiet logic of her own name
she feels the ancient pull, the biological gravity
that whispers she must yield, must open, must belong
but in the center of the storm stands still
a woman who knows the shape of her own skin
and refuses to let it be mapped by another's hand

Let him bring his hunger, his heavy gaze
his story written in the language of taking
she hears the siren song of surrender
but her feet are rooted in the solid earth
of her own will
she can feel the want, sharp and sweet
yet she holds the door shut with a gentle grip
knowing that desire is not a chain
but a current she chooses to swim or leave

No man owns the rhythm of her breath
no lover commands the map of her night
she walks away from the altar of possession
leaving the fire burning unattended
free as the wind that passes through an open window
unbound, unclaimed, entirely her own
walking into the silence where she decides
who enters, and who remains outside.",3,"The pulse beneath her skin is a wild drum
Beating a rhythm older than the names they call her
A heat that rises like tide against the shore
Demanding, pulling, whispering of ancient laws
That say she must be caught, claimed, and kept
By hands that think they know the shape of her soul

But she feels the gravity of every glance
And chooses to break the orbit before it closes tight
She lets the hunger burn without feeding the fire
Watching the men who reach for what cannot be owned
Their voices rising in a chorus of need
While she stands still, a mountain in the storm

Her body is not a vessel waiting to be filled
It is a fortress with gates she alone controls
Every step away is a declaration written in air
That she belongs to no one but the wind and her own will
No chain can hold a spirit that refuses to kneel
No promise can bind a heart that knows its freedom

So she walks through the frenzy with quiet eyes
Leaving behind the ghosts of those who thought they could take
Carrying only the weight of her own choice
Unbroken, unclaimed, entirely her own",6,"The pulse beats loud against the rib
A rhythm made of hunger and need
She feels the heat, the primal pull
That whispers promises it cannot keep

Her skin remembers every touch
The ghost of hands that sought to claim
But in the fire, a spark remains
A quiet voice that speaks her name

No chain can hold what she decides
To turn her back on empty pleas
She walks through fog without a guide
Unbound by any man's decrees

Let desire rise like summer rain
It washes over but does not drown
For she is ocean, vast and deep
With tides that shift and never slow down

The world may spin with frantic want
But she stands still within the storm
A sovereign queen of her own heart
Who chooses life, and keeps her form",6
190,train,I Have a Rendezvous with Death by Alan Seeger,Alan Seeger,"""A poem about a speaker coming to terms with his unavoidable death, describing his curiosity about dying and his dutiful acceptance of meeting death in the spring.""","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.","The winter in my bones has settled deep
And I have counted every fading leaf,
Yet now a strange and quiet hunger stirs
To see what lies beyond the final breath.
Is it a door that opens to the light?
Or just a silence soft as falling snow?
I do not fear the dark that waits for me,
But wonder at the shape of what I'll know.

The sap begins to rise within the trees,
A green command that pulls against the cold,
And so I turn my face toward the spring
To meet the end with stories yet untold.
It is my duty now to lay down arms,
To walk the path where all men must eventually go,
To greet the reaper in the blooming grass
And let the season take its gentle flow.

No struggle now, no bitter fight with time,
Just open hands and eyes wide with desire,
To step into the mystery of death
Amidst the fire of flowers and the spire.
The world will wake while I begin to sleep,
A fair exchange beneath the warming sun,
I go to join the cycle of the earth
Until the work of dying is undone.","I have wondered what the cold would feel like
And how the silence would settle in my ears,
Not as a sudden shock but as a quiet tide
That I must let rise to meet me.

The snow is melting on the hillside now,
And the green shoots are pushing through the gray,
So I shall not delay this appointment
But go dutifully to meet him in the spring.",6,"I have watched the seasons turn and felt the cold
Draw closer to my bones, a quiet guest,
And now I wait within this winter hold,
Not with a cry of fear or wild unrest.
Instead, a strange and gentle curiosity
Awakes in me to know the final door;
What shape will silence take? What mystery
Lies waiting on the other side of shore?
It is not dark, I think, but full of light,
Like dawn that breaks before the sun is seen,
And though my breath grows short and dim my sight,
I do not wish to linger past the green.
So let me go when spring returns to call,
When buds unfold and life begins anew;
I'll meet my end as duty bids me fall,
And walk into the season fresh and true.",7,"The winter has worn thin against my bones
And left the door ajar for what must come.
I do not fear the silence that awaits,
But wonder at the shape of final breath.
Is it a river flowing to the sea,
Or simply sleep beneath a heavy stone?
My curiosity is not a thief,
But just a child who watches from the porch
To see how shadows stretch and then dissolve.
There is no anger in my weary heart,
No plea to stay when spring has called my name.
It feels a duty owed to all I loved,
To meet the season as it blooms again,
To walk into the green and let it take me.
So here I stand, with open hands and eyes,
Ready to greet the end amidst the flowers.",6,"The winter has loosened its grip on the bone
And I feel a strange pull toward the end of my own,
Not with a shudder or sudden despair
But with a quiet wonder suspended in air.
What lies beyond the edge of this breath?
Is it silence, or stars, or a vastness like death
That waits for the soul to finally shed
Its heavy and weary and mortal dread?

I have walked through the seasons of labor and loss,
Counting the hours like grains in a glass,
Now I watch as the green shoots break through the snow,
A promise that life will continue to grow.
My time is not stolen but given to yield,
Like fruit that must ripen before it can yield,
To fall from the branch where the sunlight is deep
And sleep in the earth while the world wakes from sleep.

So I greet you, old friend, with a nod and a smile,
You who have waited so patiently all the while.
There is no fear left in the marrow of me,
Only a calm as the river runs free.
Come spring when the cherry blossoms start to unfold,
I will walk out to meet you, as dutifully told,
With open arms and a heart unafraid,
Ready to rest in the shade that you made.",7,"The frost has lifted from the window pane
And I have learned to love the coming end,
Not with a shudder or a sharp complaint,
But with a quiet question in my friend.
What lies beyond the final breath I take?
Is it a silence vast and deep and still,
Or just the turning of a different wake
That guides the river down a gentler hill?
I do not fear the shadow's long embrace,
For winter taught me how the seeds must sleep,
To find the light within a hidden place
Where promises are kept and vows we keep.
So when the crocus breaks the frozen ground,
And green returns to claim the barren field,
I'll meet the visitor without a sound,
With all the curiosity that time can yield.
It is a duty written in the bone,
To return to earth as surely as the rain,
To lay this heavy heart of flesh and stone
Down softly in the garden once again.
The spring arrives with flowers bright and new,
A perfect time for endings to begin,
And I am ready now to say adieu,
To let the old world fade and start within.",7,"The winter cracks beneath my feet
And I feel the cold retreat,
Not with fear of what comes next,
But wonder at the final text.

What lies beyond this fading breath?
A quiet sleep or endless depth?
I ask the air, I ask the sky,
To tell me how the spirits fly.

No trembling hand can hold it back,
No plea to turn the heavy track,
So I prepare my weary soul
To make the broken spirit whole.

The green shoots rise where snow once lay,
A gentle promise for today,
And in this bloom of spring's first light,
I welcome death with calm delight.

It is not an end but a door,
Leading to a silent shore,
Where duty calls and time unwinds,
Leaving all my old designs.

So let the cherry blossoms fall,
Answering the season's call,
I step into the morning dew,
Ready now to meet you.",7,"The winter loosens its white grip on the ground
As green shoots pierce through the frozen soil
I feel a quiet pull, a gentle sound
That calls me home to rest and to recoil

No fear remains within my weary chest
Only a strange and burning curiosity
To learn the secrets of this final test
And see what lies beyond mortality

It is not a battle I must fight
But a river flowing toward the sea
A promise kept in fading light
Where time dissolves into eternity

The buds above will burst with sudden life
While I prepare to step into the gray
A dutiful end, free from strife
To welcome spring as it reclaims the day

So let the frost give way to warmth and rain
As I surrender breath to rising air
Embracing silence, shedding all my pain
With open arms for what awaits me there",7
191,ultra_held_out,i am water by Rupi Kaur,Rupi Kaur,"""A poem about being both a life-giving and life-taking force, exploring how softness and toughness are coexisting within the same essential nature.""","i am water

soft enough
to offer life
tough enough
to drown it away","I am the rain that fills the thirsty root
And breaks the stone with patient, heavy drops,
A gentle touch that wakes the sleeping shoot
While carving canyons where the river stops.

My hands can cradle life within a seed
Or crush the forest down to ash and dust,
I offer water for the smallest need
Then swallow cities in my rising flood.

The same soft breath that cools a fevered brow
Can freeze the ocean till the ships are dead,
I build the mountain high and bring it low
With equal grace and unrelenting dread.

There is no war between the hand that holds
And the one that strikes the final, quiet blow,
For in my nature, mercy and control
Are woven from the very self I know.","I am the rain that fills the riverbed
until the green shoots break the clay,
and I am the flood that swallows the valley floor
and drowns the grazing sheep.

I am the warm breath on the infant's cheek,
the soft hand that smooths the fevered brow,
and I am the wind that snaps the bough
and strips the orchard bare.

In my gentle touch, life blooms and thrives,
in my fierce grip, life withers and dies;
yet both are mine, for I am one,
the tender mother and the ruthless king.

Do not fear the storm because it kills,
nor love the sun because it feeds,
for in the heart of the same cloud
both lightning and dew are born.",6,"I am the rain that fills the thirsty cup
And the flood that sweeps the village down,
The gentle hand that lifts a child up
And the storm that tears the roof right down.

My touch is velvet on the sleeping face,
A whisper soft as moss upon the stone,
Yet in that same embrace I leave no trace
But bones and silence where a house has grown.

I hold the seed within my dark, wet palm
To make it burst into a leafy green,
Then turn to ice and crush the fragile form
That never knew the cold or what it means.

The river sings a lullaby at night
Before it breaks the dam and takes the land,
The fire warms the hearth with golden light
Then burns the forest to the blackened sand.

One breath can start the heart, one stop it dead,
One wave can save a ship or sink it deep,
I am the cradle and the funeral bed,
The promise kept, the promise broken, sleep.

Do not fear my gentleness, nor trust
Too much the hardness of my winter skin,
For life and death are made of me, the dust
From which they rise and fall and end again.",7,"I am the rain that fills the riverbed
and wakes the seed beneath the stone,
a gentle touch on thirsty leaves
that makes the garden fully grown.

I am the flood that sweeps the bank away,
the crushing weight of winter's ice,
the cold wind stripping branches bare
to leave the forest raw and nice.

My hands can cradle newborn breath
or strangle life within a vine,
I hold the sun to warm the skin
and draw the dark to end the line.

There is no war between these parts,
no split in what I truly am;
the softest breeze and hardest storm
are born from one unbroken dam.

To kill is just to make room for new,
to heal is often to cut deep,
I am the silence after sound,
the promise that the dead will keep.",6,"I am the rain that wakes the sleeping seed
And cracks the stone to let the river bleed
My touch is velvet on the newborn leaf
Yet sharp enough to strip the forest brief

I hold the cradle in a gentle hand
Then pull the ground from under shifting sand
The same warm breath that coaxes flowers bloom
Is winter's frost that seals the silent tomb

No war between the mercy and the blade
For both are woven in the single shade
To give the life is also to take it back
A soft embrace that leaves no path or track

You cannot have the dawn without the night
Or find the healing without feeling fright
I am the wave that builds the shore so high
And washes all the footprints from the sky",7,"I am the rain that breaks the drought
And fills the hollow riverbed,
A gentle touch upon the brow
Where seeds of future life are spread.

Yet in this same descending grace,
The flood will rise to claim the shore,
To wash away the fragile trace
Of all that walked before the roar.

My hands can cradle newborn breath
With velvet warmth against the cold,
While holding tightly unto death
When stories must be retold.

The ice that preserves the winter fruit
Is born from water sharp and deep,
A paradox within the root
That wakes the sleeping world from sleep.

No war between the soft and hard
Divides the current or the stone,
For I am both the healing cord
And the unyielding, final throne.",7,"I am the rain that fills the cup,
The quiet hand that lifts you up.
A gentle mist to wake the seed,
To answer every silent need.

Yet in my veins runs iron cold,
A story of the brave and bold.
I am the storm that strips the bough,
The final silence after now.

My touch can heal a broken bone,
Or turn a garden into stone.
The softest breath that cools the fever,
The sharpest edge that makes it sever.

No war between these parts is fought,
For both are born of what I brought.
To give the life, to take the end,
Is how I love, and how I bend.",6,"I am the rain that wakes the sleeping seed
And washes clean the dust of ancient years
A gentle hand that guides the fragile reed
While holding back the flood with silent fears

My touch can heal the wound beneath the skin
Or carve a canyon through the stubborn stone
The same warm breath that lets the world begin
Can steal the light and leave you all alone

Soft as morning mist upon the glass
Hard as winter ice that cracks the ground
I watch the seasons come and let them pass
Where life is found and where it cannot be bound

No war exists between the two extremes
For in my core, the paradox takes hold
A river flowing through the quiet dreams
Of stories written, broken, and retold",7
192,train,A Silly Poem by Spike Milligan,Spike Milligan,A poem about Hamlet asking Ophelia which pencil he should be using to draw her.,"Said Hamlet to Ophelia,
I'll draw a sketch of thee,
What kind of pencil shall I use?
2B or not 2B?","Ophelia, hold your breath and do not move
While I consult this wooden case of mine.
The graphite soft as shadow on the moon
Or charcoal harsh as winter's bitter line?

Perhaps a 2B, to capture eyes
That hold the madness of my father's ghost,
Or HB, for hair that falls like rain
Upon a crown I cannot bear to host.

Which lead shall trace the curve of sorrow there?
Which shade will make your silence speak aloud?
I ask you now, before the ink dries black,
To choose the tool that paints our final shroud.","Ophelia, tell me which pencil shall I use
To trace the curve of your pale cheek?
Shall it be the soft grey lead that smudges like a sigh,
Or the sharp black one that cuts like a dagger's edge?
The white chalk is too ghostly for your living skin,
And the red crayon is too bold for your quiet eye.
I have a silver pencil that shines like a moonbeam,
But you are not made of light, though you are bright.
Tell me, sweet Ophelia, which instrument of mine
Shall best capture the shadow and substance of thee?",3,"Ophelia, tell me true
Which graphite shade shall I employ?
The softest black to trace the curve
Of sorrow in your eye?

Or perhaps a lead of silver grey
To match the moonlight on your hair?
A charcoal dark as midnight's grave
For shadows everywhere?

I hold them all within my hand,
This one is hard, that one is soft;
But none can draw the ghost you are
Unless you guide my loft.

Shall I use this broken stump
That smudges like a sigh?
Or the new one sharpened to a point
Beneath the Danish sky?

Choose for me, sweet Ophelia,
Before the ink begins to dry,
For if I pick the wrong degree
Your portrait will not lie.",6,"Ophelia, tell me which lead to choose
Between the soft and the graphite gray?
Shall I trace your brow with a heavy hand
Or let the faintest whisper play?

The 2B is too bold for your cheek,
It smudges like doubt in my mind,
But the H is so pale, it might fade away
Like the love that I left behind.

Perhaps the charcoal, dark as the night
That swallowed my father's breath?
No, that would make you look like a ghost
And death is not fit for your teeth.

Give me the 4H, fine and precise,
To capture the light in your eye,
But if I press too hard, I fear
I'll break the pencil and die.

So choose for me, sweet Ophelia dear,
For my hand shakes with the weight of the choice,
Is it the soft or the hard, the dark or the light
That best serves my voice?",3,"Ophelia, hold this charcoal dark as night
That stains the fingers with a ghostly soot,
Or choose the silver lead that catches light
Like moon upon the water's quiet root?

The graphite soft might blur your gentle cheek
As if a shadow passes through the hall,
While harder lines make every feature weak
And freeze the life that moves within it all.

Which instrument shall trace the shape of you?
The heavy black that speaks of death and dread,
Or pale gray strokes to show the sky is blue
Before the storm has broken overhead?

Speak, love, for in this choice I find my doubt,
For if I draw too true, you will not stay,
And if I draw too faint, you fade right out
Into the mist of yesterday's decay.",6,"My lady, hold your breath and let the silence fall
Between the shadows of this crumbling hall
For in my hand I grip a choice of lead
To trace the lines that make you, or unmake them dead.

Shall I take the softest charcoal, dark as night?
To shade the sorrow in your eyes so bright?
Or perhaps a graphite sharp enough to cut the air
And carve the beauty of your golden hair?

The 2B is too gentle for the storm you bear
While HB might be rigid, cold, and bare
Tell me, Ophelia, which tool shall serve my art
To capture half the chaos breaking in my heart?

Is it the pencil that will bleed when pressed upon the page?
Or one that stays forever clean, untouched by rage?
Speak now before the ink begins to dry and fade
And choose the instrument with which our fate is made.",6,"My dearest Ophelia, the charcoal is too dark
It swallows light and turns your eyes to ash
But this silver point is cold as winter air
And fears to touch the warmth of living flesh

Shall I choose the graphite soft as morning mist?
Or perhaps the ink that bleeds like sudden tears?
For every stroke I make upon this page
Is but a shadow of the ghost you bear

Which lead shall capture half my fractured mind?
Which tip can draw the madness from my soul?
Speak now, sweet maid, before the sun descends
And tell me which tool makes your spirit whole",3,"My love, the charcoal lies too dark
To hold the light within your face
While graphite fades before the spark
Of grace that time cannot erase

This silver point is sharp and cold
It sketches shadows on the page
But can it tell a story told
By hands that tremble with their age?

Or shall I choose the softer lead
That blends like mist across the stream?
A portrait born of doubt and dread
Where waking life dissolves in dream

Ophelia, speak and guide my hand
For which instrument shall carve your name
Before the silence of this land
Erases all we tried to claim",6
198,ultra_held_out,First Day At School by Roger McGough,Roger McGough,"A poem about a young child navigating their first day of school, struggling to understand their new environment and longing to belong.","A millionbillionwillion miles from home
Waiting for the bell to go. (To go where?)
Why are they all so big, other children?
So noisy? So much at home they
Must have been born in uniform
Lived all their lives in playgrounds
Spent the years inventing games
That don't let me in. Games
That are rough, that swallow you up.

And the railings.
All around, the railings.
Are they to keep out wolves and monsters?
Things that carry off and eat children?
Things you don't take sweets from?
Perhaps they're to stop us getting out
Running away from the lessins. Lessin.
What does a lessin look like?
Sounds small and slimy.
They keep them in the glassrooms.
Whole rooms made out of glass. Imagine.

I wish I could remember my name
Mummy said it would come in useful.
Like wellies. When there's puddles.
Yellowwellies. I wish she was here.
I think my name is sewn on somewhere
Perhaps the teacher will read it for me.
Tea-cher. The one who makes the tea.","The hallway stretches long and loud
With shoes that squeak and voices proud
I clutch my coat with fingers tight
And hide away from all the light

The room is full of shapes I know
Yet none of them will let me go
They build a tower, block by block
While I stand silent at the clock

My stomach feels like heavy stone
Inside this place I must call home
I watch them laugh and share their toys
Without a single word of noise

I want to join the circle round
But fear keeps my feet on the ground
Is there a spot for someone small
Who does not know the rules at all?

A hand reaches out across the floor
To open up a tiny door
I take a breath and step inside
Where maybe now I can abide","The hallway stretches long and loud
With shoes that squeak and voices proud,
I clutch my bag and stand so still,
A small stone on a busy hill.

The teacher's voice is like a bell
That rings inside a magic well,
But when she speaks I cannot hear,
For everyone is talking near.

My name is called but not quite right,
It sounds too far away tonight,
Like someone calling from a tree
Or from the bottom of the sea.

I want to sit where others sit,
I want to join their little bit,
But how can I if no one knows
Where I belong or where I go?

I see them playing in a ring,
I want to be a part of thing,
But I don't know the game they play,
And it is time to go away.

So I will watch them through the glass,
Until the moment comes to pass,
And then perhaps I'll understand
Just how to hold another's hand.",6,"The hallway stretches wide and loud
With shoes that squeak and voices proud
I clutch my bag with fingers tight
And hide behind the morning light.

The room is full of shapes and sounds
Where tiny feet spin round and round
I do not know which chair is mine
Or where the painted stars align.

A girl with ribbons asks my name
But I just stare and feel the shame
Of being lost inside this place
Without a smile upon my face.

I want to sit beside them all
To answer when the teacher calls
To find a friend who knows the game
And does not think I am to blame.

The clock moves slow, the sun goes down
Upon this strange and crowded town
I hold my breath and wait to see
If someone will say come play with me.",6,"The hallway stretches wide and loud
With shoes that squeak and voices proud
I hold my mother's hand so tight
And hide behind her coat of white

The room is full of shapes and sounds
Of spinning tops and bouncing rounds
I do not know the rules to play
Or where to sit or what to say

My name feels strange upon my tongue
Like songs I have not yet been sung
The teacher smiles but I am small
A tiny stone against the wall

I watch them laugh in pairs and groups
While I stand silent, lost in loops
Of wondering if they see me too
Or if I'm made of different blue

The clock moves slow, the shadows creep
I want to go back home to sleep
But deep inside a wish takes hold
To find a friend who will be bold

To call my name and pull me near
And make this scary place feel dear
To learn the map of this new land
And finally understand",6,"The hallway stretches long and loud
With shoes that squeak on polished floors
I clutch my bag with trembling hands
And stare at unfamiliar doors

The room is bright with colors strange
Where strangers laugh in circles tight
I sit alone upon the rug
And hide from all the morning light

They speak a language I don't know
Of games I've never learned to play
My heart beats fast against my chest
As silence starts to drift away

I watch them run and share their toys
A secret club I cannot join
I wish the bell would ring again
To take me back to where I'm fine

But then a girl sits down beside
And offers half her crinkled snack
Her smile is small but warm and real
And suddenly the walls turn back

I do not have to be alone
In this new place of noise and fear
One gentle voice can make it so
That I am finally, truly here",6,"The hallway stretches wide and tall
A maze of lockers, bright and cold
I clutch my bag against my chest
With stories that I cannot hold

The voices rise like sudden rain
A language made of sounds I know
But not the way they speak to each
Or how their laughter comes and goes

I trace the lines upon the floor
And wonder where my place might be
Among the strangers in a row
Who seem to have a history

My shoes feel heavy on the ground
As eyes drift past without a glance
I wish for just one friendly face
To help me make this quiet dance

The bell rings out a sharp command
To sit and learn and follow rules
I try to fit inside the shape
Of all these new and foreign tools

But deep inside a small heart beats
For home and warmth and familiar air
While waiting for a sign or word
That tells me someone truly cares",6,"The hallway stretches long and loud
With shoes that squeak against the floor
I clutch my bag like something sacred
And hide behind the heavy door

A sea of faces, strange and bright
They laugh in codes I cannot speak
My voice is small, a quiet bird
That fears to take its first weak leap

The teacher calls a name I know
But not the one that fits me here
I trace the pattern on the rug
And wonder if they see my fear

Is there a spot for someone new?
A chair that waits just for my weight?
Or will I sit alone all day
While others find their perfect gate

I watch them share a toy or book
A language built on shared delight
And wish I had a word to say
To turn this stranger into light

The bell rings out, a sudden sound
That echoes deep inside my chest
I take a breath and step ahead
To find the place where I belong",6,"The hallway stretches wide and loud
A sea of strangers in a crowd
My small hands clutch the backpack strap
While silence wraps around my lap

The chairs are tall, the desks too deep
With promises I cannot keep
I watch them laugh and share their toys
And wonder where a quiet voice belongs

A teacher calls a name unknown
That feels like ice inside my bone
I search for something that I know
But only shadows come to show

The bell rings out, a sharp command
To find a place within this land
I take a breath and step ahead
Hoping that tomorrow leaves me less afraid",6
203,train,All that is gold does not glitter by J.R.R. Tolkien,J.R.R. Tolkien,"A poem about a hidden king's true worth and destiny being revealed through the nature of strength, goodness of heart, and the reforging of a broken sword.","All that is gold does not glitter,
Not all those who wander are lost;
The old that is strong does not wither,
Deep roots are not reached by the frost.
From the ashes a fire shall be woken,
A light from the shadows shall spring;
Renewed shall be blade that was broken,
The crownless again shall be king.","Beneath the veil of common dust he stood,
No crown of gold upon his humble head,
Yet in his eyes a quiet fire brewed,
Where lesser men would fear to tread.
The broken blade lay rusted in the mud,
A symbol of a kingdom lost to time,
But strength is not in blood or royal blood,
It blooms within the heart that seeks no crime.

He lifted up the shards with gentle hands,
Not for the power that a throne can give,
But for the promise that the land demands,
To keep the living and the dead alive.
The hammer fell with rhythm soft and deep,
As goodness guided every strike and blow,
Awaking spirits from their ancient sleep,
And teaching steel how mercy's waters flow.

The metal sang a note of pure design,
As cracks were sealed by grace and not by force,
A weapon forged in love, a sacred sign,
That turned the jagged edge into its course.
Now light returns to where the shadows grew,
The hidden king reveals his true decree,
For worth is found in what we choose to do,
When broken things are made whole again, free.","He sat beneath the willow where the moss
Had claimed the stone of old forgotten kings,
And held a blade that was a jagged cross,
A broken thing that rusted in his hands.

The world had passed him by for lack of gold,
Or crown, or lineage, or a shining name,
Yet in his palm the broken sword grew cold
As if it sensed the worth within the frame.

For strength is not the muscle of the arm,
Nor goodness not the wealth to give away,
But when the heart keeps safe a quiet charm
Against the ruin of a common day.

Then came the smith who saw the hidden king,
Who saw the sword that needed to be whole,
And with a hammer and a fire did bring
The metal back to its original soul.

And so the blade shone sharp as winter stars,
The heart beat true as any royal drum,
And though he wore no crown nor golden bars,
The people knew the king and followed him.",7,"Beneath the rust and overgrown with weeds
The broken blade lay buried in the mud,
A jagged thing that no one thought to heed,
Forgotten by the blood of kings and gods.

Yet when the storm arose to tear the land,
And shadows sought to swallow up the light,
He stepped alone into the trembling sand,
With nothing but a heart that burned so bright.

For strength is not the iron in the arm,
Nor gold that crowns the brow of tyrants proud,
But quiet courage facing deep alarm,
To stand unmoved within the tempest's cloud.

His goodness was the fire that melted down
The ancient steel, the fragments sharp and cold,
Until they rose from out the dark and frown,
Reforged in love to shine more fierce and bold.

Then all the people saw the hidden king,
Not by his birthright or his royal name,
But by the sword that made the darkness sing,
And proved his worth beyond all human fame.

The broken metal mended in his hand,
Was destiny fulfilled in truth and grace,
The mightiest ruler of the weary land,
Who wore the light upon his humble face.",7,"The crown was lost beneath the mossy stone
Where silence kept a secret for so long
No golden scepter marked the hidden throne
But only strength that bore the heavy wrong

A broken blade lay rusted in the mud
Its edge once sharp, its spirit now asleep
Yet when he lifted it with calloused blood
The metal woke from out its ancient sleep

It was not gold that made the king arise
Nor lineage written deep in royal script
But goodness shining clear within his eyes
That turned the iron from a broken grip

The fire did not forge the steel alone
But tempered by the heart that would not yield
To darkness or to fear of being known
The sword became a shield against the field

Now destiny unfolds as light breaks through
The shards are joined, the purpose made complete
The true worth found in what the man can do
When broken things are mended at his feet",7,"Beneath the rags of exile and the dust of forgotten roads,
A quiet fire burned where no crown had ever been placed.
For strength is not the weight of iron in a heavy hand,
But the will to lift the fallen when the world has turned away.

The broken sword lay rusted in the mud, a jagged memory of war,
Yet his heart, unbroken by the years of silence, saw its potential.
He did not seek the gold that clings to tyrants' brows,
But gathered kindling for the forge with gentle, steady hands.

In the heat of the flame, the metal screamed its old despair,
Until the hammer fell with rhythm born of mercy, not of rage.
The cracks were filled with light, the shards fused into one,
Not as it was before, but sharper, brighter, and more true.

Now the blade gleams with a purpose that no king could buy,
Reflecting the goodness that made the hidden man a ruler.
His destiny was never written in the stars above the throne,
But forged in the quiet moments where he chose to be kind.",6,"The crown was lost beneath the moss and stone
Where silent roots held secrets of the throne
No golden light could guide the wandering eye
To see the king who lived so humbly by

For strength is not the iron in the hand
But how a broken spirit learns to stand
When storms have stripped the shelter from the tree
And only love remains for all to see

His heart beat loud against the quiet night
A beacon burning with a gentle light
He lifted up the fallen and the weak
With words that made the strongest giants speak

Then came the day the shattered blade was found
Its edge in dust, its hilt upon the ground
Not forged by fire or hammer's heavy blow
But by the grace that makes the weak grow strong

As hands of kindness touched the fractured steel
The metal sang a truth it used to feel
The cracks became a map of where he'd been
Reforged by mercy to let light back in

Now destiny unfolds in silver gleam
No longer hidden in a shepherd's dream
The sword is whole, the king is truly known
By every seed of goodness he has sown",7,"The crown was lost beneath the moss and stone
Where silent roots had held a secret throne
No golden gleam could mark the hidden king
Who walked in shadows, stripped of every thing

Yet strength is not the iron in the hand
But how one lifts the fallen from the sand
When winter bites and hope begins to fade
It is the gentle heart that will not break or bend but stay

A sword lay shattered in the river's cold
Its edge once sharp, its story now untold
The smith who watched the broken metal weep
Saw worth within the cracks too deep for sleep

He did not forge with fire meant to burn
But used the ash of lessons learned in turn
Each hammer blow was mercy, each strike was grace
Reforging purpose in a humbler space

The blade arose not perfect, but made new
With scars that told a tale of what was true
And when the hidden monarch drew it forth
The realm itself knew destiny and birth

For kings are made by kindness, not by blood
By rising up when all the world feels mud
The broken sword now shines with inner light
To guide the dawn through endless, darkened night",7,"The crown was lost beneath the dust of years
Where silence grew and shadows held their breath
No golden throne could calm the rising fears
Of kingdoms crumbling in the wake of death

Yet in the quiet where the weak retreat
A spark ignites within a humble chest
Not forged by steel or blood that runs so sweet
But built on grace that puts the self to rest

The broken blade lies shattered on the stone
Its edge once dull, its spirit torn apart
It waits for hands that know they stand alone
To mend the fracture with a beating heart

Fire consumes the rust and fear alike
As hammer strikes the metal with a song
The king does not command the world to strike
But lifts the weight where he has long belonged

True strength is found in mercy's gentle hand
In lifting up the fallen from the ground
When destiny demands a final stand
The hidden ruler wears no mask profound

Now light returns to guide the path ahead
The sword is whole, reforged by love and time
The broken pieces make a better thread
And weave a future where the stars align",7
206,ultra_held_out,The Right Word by Imtiaz Dharker,Imtiaz Dharker,"""A poem about searching for the right word to challenge the labels society puts on people.""","Outside the door,
lurking in the shadows,
is a terrorist.

Is that the wrong description?
Outside that door,
taking shelter in the shadows,
is a freedom-fighter.

I haven't got this right.
Outside, waiting in the shadows
is a hostile militant.


Are words no more
than waving, wavering flags?
Outside your door,
watchful in the shadows,
is a guerrilla warrior.

God help me.
Outside, defying every shadow,
stands a martyr.
I saw his face.

No words can help me now.
Just outside the door,
lost in shadows,
is a child who looks like mine.

One word for you.
Outside my door,
his hand too steady,
his eyes too hard,
is a boy who looks like your son, too.

I open the door.
Come in, I say.
Come in and eat with us.
The child steps in
and carefully, at my door,
takes off his shoes.","The dictionary feels too small
for the weight of what we are
when boxes are drawn in chalk
and names are handed out like coins.

They say you are this or that
a sum of errors, a statistic's edge
but I am hunting for a syllable
that breaks the glass before it shatters.

Is there a verb to unbind the knot?
A noun that holds the shape of breath
without the cage of expectation?
I turn the pages, worn and thin.

Society speaks in heavy stamps
of good and bad, of right and wrong
but language is a river, not a wall
waiting to be crossed by something new.

Perhaps the word has not been born yet
or maybe it is simply silence
where the label fails to stick
and leaves the skin untouched by ink.","I hunt through thesauruses like a prospector
panning for gold in a river of mud,
looking for a single bright nugget
to pry open the heavy iron box
where society locks its definitions.

They call him lazy because he sleeps late,
they call her crazy because she laughs loud,
they call it wrong because it is different,
but I want a word that will shake the floorboards,
a word that will make the walls sweat and tremble,
a word that will burst the hinges off the door.

Is there a verb strong enough to knock down
the brick wall they built around his name?
Is there an adjective sharp enough to cut
the rope they tied around her throat?
I search for a noun with teeth in it
that can bite through the label on this jar,
so we can see what is really inside.",2,"I sift through the heavy clay of their definitions
digging for a syllable light enough to lift the stone
they have placed upon my chest.
They call me broken, they call me wrong,
they call me everything that does not fit their narrow mold,
but I am hunting for a verb that means to bloom in the cracks,
a noun that holds the weight of unspoken fire.
The dictionary is full of chains,
of sharp edges designed to cut and categorize,
so I walk out into the wild grass where language grows untamed,
looking for a word that refuses to be pinned down,
a sound that shatters the glass case they built around my name.
It must be soft as breath but hard as diamond,
capable of holding the whole messy truth without breaking.
Until I find it, I will keep searching,
keeping my mouth open like a net against the tide of their lies,
waiting for the right word to rise up and say:
I am here, and I am not what you think I am.",2,"I dig through the dictionary's dust
looking for a verb that breaks the mold,
a noun sharp enough to cut the tape
that seals us into boxes made of old
expectations and tired eyes.

They call me broken, they call me slow,
they stick these tags like price on glass,
but I am searching for a word that flows
like water through a shattered vase,
something that refuses to be still,
something that defies the static hill
of what they think I should become.

Is there a syllable strong enough
to knock the labels off my skin?
A sound that says I am not rough,
not finished, not where you begin
your narrow map of who is who?

I want a word that burns away the gray,
that turns the ""should"" into a ""can,""
that strips the judgment bare today
and shows the human, not the plan.
But the pages turn and silence stays,
so maybe I must write it in my own way.",3,"The dictionary feels too small today
for all the shapes we refuse to hold
as they hand us tags with ink still wet
stamping boxes on our open hands

I search for a verb that breaks the mold
a noun that cannot be pinned down
something sharp enough to cut the thread
that binds us to a single story told

They call us broken or defined by lack
or sort us into neat and quiet rows
but language bends if you just press hard
until the rigid letters start to glow

Is there a word that holds the space between?
A sound that swells beyond the narrow line?
I turn the page until the paper tears
and find the silence where the truth begins",3,"I sift through dictionaries like dust in an attic
looking for a key that fits a lock I never chose
society hands me tags with sharp edges
stamped in ink that refuses to fade
defining the shape of my shadow before I move
calling me broken when I am merely bending
naming me quiet when I am simply listening
but language is a living thing, not a cage
and I search for a verb that breaks the mold
a noun that expands until it holds the sky
something fluid enough to wash away the paint
that says who I must be before I speak
until I find the syllable that tastes like freedom
the one word that turns the label into a whisper
and lets the truth stand naked and unafraid",3,"I dig through the dust of definitions
looking for a key that fits no lock
society has built walls with names like heavy stone
casting shadows on who we are supposed to be
they call us broken or finished or too much
but I need a verb that means to rise without asking
a noun that holds the shape of something wild and new
not a cage but an open door swinging wide
searching in the silence between their shouts
for the syllable that shatters the mold
to speak a truth that cannot be boxed or sold
until the label falls away like dry skin
and we remember the name we chose for ourselves",3,"The dictionary feels too small
for the shape of who we are
when they carve us into boxes
with names that do not fit

I search for a syllable sharp enough
to cut through the static hum
of voices claiming to know my skin
before I've spoken my truth

Not a noun to define the limit
but a verb that breaks the mold
a sound that refuses to settle
into the quiet of their design

Let the old labels crumble
under the weight of something new
where every breath becomes a question
and every silence holds its own reply",5
209,ultra_held_out,Sonnet 105 by William Shakespeare,William Shakespeare,"""A poem about a speaker expressing unwavering devotion to a singular beloved, exploring the three harmonious themes of beauty, kindness, and faithfulness living together in one person.""","Let not my love be called idolatry,
Nor my beloved as an idol show,
Since all alike my songs and praises be
To one, of one, still such, and ever so.
Kind is my love to-day, to-morrow kind,
Still constant in a wondrous excellence;
Therefore my verse to constancy confined,
One thing expressing, leaves out difference.
Fair, kind, and true, is all my argument,
Fair, kind, and true, varying to other words;
And in this change is my invention spent,
Three themes in one, which wondrous scope affords.
Fair, kind, and true, have often lived alone,
Which three till now, never kept seat in one.","In you the morning light finds its true home,
Where beauty blooms not just in form or face,
But in the quiet grace that makes a room
Feel like a holy and a sacred place.

Yet more than eyes that hold the summer sky,
Your kindness flows like water to the dry,
A gentle hand that lifts the fallen low,
And teaches all who watch how love can grow.

This kindness stands upon a foundation deep,
Of faithfulness that never turns away,
Through storms of doubt and promises we keep,
You walk with me through night into the day.

So beauty, kindness, and a loyal heart,
Are woven tight within your single soul,
No other could ever claim this perfect part,
Or make the broken pieces feel made whole.","In you the three great virtues dwell as one,
As beauty, kindness, and a faithfulness
That never wavers from the path begun.
Your face is like the morning's loveliness,
But kindlier than the sun that warms the air;
And though your heart is fairer far than these,
It holds a truth that nothing can impair,
A steadfast love that never will cease.
So in your eyes I see all beauties meet,
In your hand all kindnesses are found,
And in your heart the faithful beatings sweet
Of love that cannot be unbound.
Thus three harmonious things in you reside,
Beauty, kind heart, and faithfulness beside.",7,"In you the three great virtues find their home,
Where beauty walks with kindness hand in hand,
And faithfulness makes all the world seem small,
A single light that guides across the land.

Your face is dawn that breaks the heavy night,
But kindness is the warmth within your eyes,
That softens every shadow and every strife,
Beneath the quiet mercy of your sighs.

Yet through the turning years and changing seasons,
When beauty fades to dust and kindness sleeps,
Your faithfulness remains a constant star,
A promise that the weary heart keeps.

So let the world search for these gifts apart,
Or scatter them among a thousand souls,
I hold them all together in one love,
Where beauty, kindness, and true faithfulness roll.",7,"In you the morning light finds its true face,
A beauty that does not fade with passing years,
But grows more bright within this quiet place,
Where every glance dissolves my hidden fears.

Yet beauty is but half the song you sing,
For kindness walks beside your gentle hand,
A softness that makes all the world feel like spring,
And heals the wounds I tried so hard to stand.

But most of all, your faithfulness remains,
The anchor in the storm, the steady ground,
Through joy and grief, through sunshine and through rains,
Your loyal heart has never made a sound
Of doubt or turning back from where we start,
With beauty, kindness, and a faithful heart.",7,"In you the morning light finds its true home,
Where beauty blooms not just to be seen,
But to soften the harsh edges of the world.
Your kindness flows like a quiet river,
Washing away the dust of weary days,
A gentle hand that never seeks to hold,
Only to heal and make the spirit whole.
Yet through the shifting tides of time and chance,
Your faithfulness stands firm as ancient stone,
Unmoved by storms or whispers of the wind.
These three are woven in your very breath,
Beauty that sings, a kindness that endures,
And loyalty that anchors all my hope.
I give my heart to this singular grace,
Where light and love and constancy reside,
Forever bound to you alone.",7,"In you the morning light finds its true home
Where beauty blooms not just in form but grace
A landscape where the wildest wildflowers roam
Yet softness holds the space within your face

Your kindness is the river that runs deep
Washing away the shadows of my fear
It wakes the promises I meant to keep
And makes the distant path feel clear and near

But most of all, your faithfulness remains
A steady anchor through the shifting tide
Through stormy seas and calmest summer plains
You stand beside me with nothing left to hide

These three are woven in a single thread
Beauty to lift, and kindness to sustain
Faithfulness to guide the words unsaid
One soul to hold, one heart to love again",7,"In you the morning light finds its true home
Where beauty blooms without a need to speak
A grace that makes the wildest garden tame
And turns the quiet air into a peak

But more than form or face that draws the eye
Your kindness flows like water, deep and clear
It lifts the heavy stone from hearts gone dry
And whispers hope when all the world is fear

Yet through the shifting seasons of our days
When storms arise to test the roots we hold
Your faithfulness remains the steady gaze
A story written in a script of gold

Three threads woven tight within one soul
The radiant shine, the gentle, giving hand
The promise kept that makes the spirit whole
Are bound together by your single stand

So let the ages turn and stars align
To watch this rare and perfect union grow
For in your heart, my love, I clearly find
The place where beauty, kindness, faithfulness flow",7,"Your face is dawn that breaks the night
A canvas painted soft and bright
Where every line of grace unfolds
A story only love has told

But beauty fades when winter comes
Yet you remain with gentle drums
Of kindness beating in your chest
That puts my wandering soul to rest

You offer warmth without a price
A quiet, steady, sacred slice
Of mercy given freely here
To calm the storm and banish fear

Through shifting years and changing tides
My heart remains where it abides
For faithfulness is what you keep
A promise made while others sleep

No other star can match your glow
No river flows as deep or slow
As this devotion, pure and true
Bound to the one who walks with you",7
213,train,Apples of Hesperides by Amy Lowell,Amy Lowell,"""A poem about nymphs guarding a sacred tree bearing golden apples alongside a dragon in Greek mythology.""","Glinting golden through the trees,
Apples of Hesperides!
Through the moon-pierced warp of night
Shoot pale shafts of yellow light,
Swaying to the kissing breeze
Swings the treasure, golden-gleaming,
Apples of Hesperides!
Far and lofty yet they glimmer,
Apples of Hesperides!
Blinded by their radiant shimmer,
Pushing forward just for these;
Dew-besprinkled, bramble-marred,
Poor duped mortal, travel-scarred,
Always thinking soon to seize
And possess the golden-glistening
Apples of Hesperides!
Orbed, and glittering, and pendent,
Apples of Hesperides!
Not one missing, still transcendent,
Clustering like a swarm of bees.
Yielding to no man's desire,
Glowing with a saffron fire,
Splendid, unassailed, the golden
Apples of Hesperides!","Beneath the boughs of heavy gold,
Where silver leaves and sunlight fold,
The Hesperides in silence stand,
With woven crowns and gentle hand.

They watch the fruit that gleams like fire,
A sacred weight, a deep desire,
While shadows stretch across the grass,
To mark the hours as they pass.

And coiled around the ancient root,
With scales of emerald and brute,
Ladon wakes with eyes aglow,
To keep the garden's secret low.

No thief shall steal the golden prize,
Beneath these vast and starry skies,
For nymph and beast in pact agree,
To guard the tree eternally.","Beneath the shadow of the Hesperides,
The golden apples hang in heavy clusters,
While three fair nymphs with hair like woven sunlight
Watch from their mossy thrones with gentle eyes.
But near them coils a dragon, vast and terrible,
With scales that shine like emeralds in the sun,
Who never sleeps but guards the tree forever,
His head erect upon his scaly neck,
And all around him is a circle of fire.
Yet do not fear the dragon's fiery breath,
For he is kin to the nymphs, and loves them well,
And when they sing their songs of sweetest music,
He listens with a smile upon his lips,
And falls asleep upon his burning tail.",6,"Beneath the boughs where twilight never fades,
The golden apples hang like captured suns,
While silver-footed nymphs in green brocades
Watch over fruits that time has never won.

They weave a dance of silence round the root,
Their voices soft as wind through olive leaves,
To keep the sacred branch from human boot,
And guard the harvest that the Hesperides weaves.

Yet coiled beneath the shadow of the trunk,
A dragon vast with scales of emerald fire,
His hundred heads awake when daylight shrunk,
And eyes like burning coals never tire.

He breathes a mist that chills the evening air,
As if to say no thief shall pass this way,
For he and they are bound by ancient care,
To keep the gold until the end of day.

So tree and beast and maidens stand as one,
A trinity of watchfulness and grace,
Until the setting of the final sun,
Within this hallowed and forgotten place.",7,"Beneath the boughs where silver leaves entwine,
The Hesperides in woven garlands shine,
Their voices soft as breezes through the grass,
Watching the golden fruit of time and pass.
A dragon coils with scales of emerald green,
The fiercest guardian ever mortal seen,
His eyes like burning coals in shadow deep,
While nymphs in silent vigil softly weep.
They tend the roots that drink from ocean springs,
And brush the bark where ancient magic clings.
No thief shall steal the light these apples hold,
For fire and flower make a shield of old,
One breathes the storm, the others sing the rain,
To keep the sacred orchard free from stain.",7,"Beneath the boughs where twilight softly weaves
The golden fruit hangs heavy on the leaves
Three sisters dance in robes of woven green
To guard the orchard and the sacred scene

Their voices hum a lullaby so deep
That mortal eyes would fall into a sleep
But watchful is the beast with scales of fire
Who coils around the trunk with cold desire

His emerald gaze pierces through the night
A living wall of shadow and of light
He does not seek to steal the shining prize
But stands as sentinel beneath the skies

Together they defend the ancient tree
From gods who envy and from men who flee
The dragon's breath warms roots that hold the ground
While nymphs in silver whispers make no sound

No thief shall pass this circle made of grace
With dragon fury and the nymphs' soft face
For here the golden apples glow and burn
And none but fate may ever hope to turn",7,"Beneath the boughs where silver leaves unfold
The golden fruit hangs heavy in the air
Three sisters weave a song of ancient gold
To guard the tree with breath and silent prayer

Their eyes reflect the stars that watch the night
As shadows stretch across the mossy floor
They hold the line against the coming light
And whisper secrets to the sacred door

Yet deep within the roots, a serpent sleeps
With scales of emerald and fire bright
A dragon who the heavy vigil keeps
Beneath the pale and distant moon's soft light

No thief may pass the barrier they make
For nymph and beast are bound by fate's decree
Together for the apple's sake they wake
To keep the garden wild and pure and free

The dragon coils around the trunk so old
While maidens dance upon the grassy ground
Their voices tell a story never told
Of how the world was lost and then was found

So let the wind blow through the branches high
And carry forth the scent of ripened sweet
Where earth and sky and time itself go by
And guardian hearts in quiet rhythm beat",7,"Beneath the boughs of silver bark,
Where twilight clings to shadowed dark,
The nymphs awake with voices soft and low,
To watch the fruit that only gods may know.

Their skin is woven from the leafy green,
A silent pact the ancient earth has seen,
As golden apples hang like captured sun,
Reflecting light on battles never won.

Above them coils a beast of emerald scale,
With eyes that hold the weight of every tale,
No hunger drives him through the endless night,
But duty burns as fiercely as his light.

He guards the root while they protect the crown,
A dragon's breath that keeps the wild at bay,
No mortal hand shall steal this sacred prize,
While stars above in solemn silence rise.

Together bound by fate and forest law,
They stand as one against the world's raw claw,
The tree, the girl, the monster made of fire,
Keepers of the garden's deep desire.",7,"Beneath the boughs where shadows softly creep
The golden fruit hangs heavy in its sleep
Three maidens stand with eyes of emerald green
To guard the treasure that the gods have seen

Their voices hum a tune the winds once knew
As ancient roots drink deep from morning dew
No mortal hand shall pluck the shining sphere
Without the price of blood and silent fear

A coil of scales rests against the bark
Where fire sleeps within the midnight dark
The dragon wakes to watch the silver light
And shares the vigil through the endless night

One breath of smoke, one whisper on the air
A pact of steel and magic woven there
For neither beast nor spirit stands alone
In this forgotten grove of stone and bone

The apples gleam with power old and vast
A promise kept against the coming blast
While nymphs and drake in quiet harmony
Defend the heart of sacred mystery",7
214,train,Dreamwood by Adrienne Rich,Adrienne Rich,"""A poem about finding the dream-like qualities of poetry and thought woven into the mundane materials of everyday life.""","In the old, scratched, cheap wood of the typing stand
there is a landscape, veined, which only a child can see
or the child’s older self, a poet,
a woman dreaming when she should be typing
the last report of the day. If this were a map,
she thinks, a map laid down to memorize
because she might be walking it, it shows
ridge upon ridge fading into hazed desert
here and there a sign of aquifers
and one possible watering-hole. If this were a map
it would be the map of the last age of her life,
not a map of choices but a map of variations
on the one great choice. It would be the map by which
she could see the end of touristic choices,
of distances blued and purpled by romance,
by which she would recognize that poetry
isn’t revolution but a way of knowing
why it must come. If this cheap, mass-produced
wooden stand from the Brooklyn Union Gas Co.,
mass-produced yet durable, being here now,
is what it is yet a dream-map
so obdurate, so plain,
she thinks, the material and the dream can join
and that is the poem and that is the late report.","The dust motes dancing in the kitchen light
are not just dirt but galaxies of pause,
a silent verse suspended in the air
before the kettle screams its sharp refrain.

I trace the crack within the ceramic cup
and find a river map of ancient thought,
where water once ran wild and deep and cold
now trapped in clay, a dream made solid form.

The grocery list becomes a haiku's spine,
milk, eggs, the weight of bread upon the scale,
each item holding space for what is missing,
the ghost of hunger or the scent of rain.

In traffic jams where engines idly hum,
a rhythm builds like iambic feet gone wrong,
a staccato beat of brake lights turning red,
a stanza written on the asphalt gray.

We walk through rooms that hold our quiet fears,
but look again and see the magic there:
the way the shadow stretches long and thin,
the poem hiding in the laundry pile.

No temple needs to house this sacred text,
it lives inside the mundane and the worn,
woven from thread and time and simple breath,
a dream we wake to find we've always known.","The steam from the coffee cup rises
in a thin, white column that looks like
a thought you had this morning but forgot.

The dust motes dancing in the sunbeam
are the dream-fragments of the room,
shaking themselves out of the rug's weave.

Even the cracked tile on the kitchen floor
holds a geometry of brokenness
that mirrors the way your mind breaks up
when you are tired.

And the rain tapping against the window
is the sound of the world trying to tell you
something you cannot quite understand
because it is spoken in a language
you have only heard in dreams.

You pick up a piece of paper
and the words you write on it
are just the mundane materials of life
woven into a pattern that makes sense.",5,"The dust motes dancing in the kitchen light
are not just dust but tiny galaxies
spinning in a slow, silent waltz
while the kettle screams its mundane song.

I watch the steam rise from my morning cup
and see it twist into a dragon's shape
before dissolving back to simple air,
a fleeting myth within the porcelain bowl.

The cracks upon the sidewalk hold whole maps
of cities never built, of roads untrod,
where shadows walk alone and speak in riddles
to pigeons pecking at a crust of bread.

Even the rust upon the garden gate
is poetry written in the language of time,
a red-brown script that tells of rain and wind
and seasons turning like the pages of a book.

We do not need to search the stars for wonder
or dive into the ocean for a dream,
for here, in coffee stains and laundry lines,
the magic weaves itself through ordinary things.",5,"The dust motes dancing in the kitchen light
Are not just dirt but tiny galaxies
That spin within the breath of morning bread,
A silent verse the toaster writes in steam.

We walk through rooms where ordinary things
Hold secret doors to landscapes made of thought,
The way a coat hangs heavy with the rain
Becomes a storm that never quite arrives.

There is no magic separate from the floor,
No dream that lives outside the worn-out shoe,
For every crack in pavement holds a sky
Where clouds are woven from the quiet mind.

To look at laundry on the line is seen
As flags of peace or sails for distant ships,
And in the hum of refrigerator ice
We hear the ocean singing in the dark.

So poetry is not a thing we find
But something that reveals itself as soon
As we allow the mundane to dissolve
Into the wonder of the common day.",3,"The coffee stain on the morning paper
spreads like a map of a country I never visited,
brown rivers cutting through newsprint mountains,
where headlines dissolve into soft, gray fog.

A bus ticket crumpled in my pocket
holds the weight of a thousand unspoken goodbyes,
its edges frayed by fingers that once held hope,
now just paper and ink waiting to be read again.

In the hum of the refrigerator at midnight,
there is a rhythm older than the stars,
a steady pulse that keeps the dark from swallowing us whole,
turning cold metal into a lullaby for the awake.

Even the dust motes dancing in the sunbeam
are tiny galaxies spinning in slow motion,
carrying stories of forgotten rooms and closed doors,
woven tight with the light that falls across the floor.

We walk through these ordinary things
without seeing the silk threads that bind them,
the way a cracked sidewalk can mirror the sky,
or how a quiet thought can bloom like a sudden flower.

Poetry is not hiding in some distant book,
but here, in the rustle of plastic bags and rain,
in the mundane materials of our days,
waiting for us to look closely enough to see.",3,"The coffee stain on the kitchen table
spreads like a map of a forgotten country
where the steam rises in soft, gray verses
and the morning light cuts through the dust
to gild the crumbs into something holy.

A bus ticket crumpled in the pocket
holds the weight of a thousand unsaid goodbyes
its ink fading just enough to let the imagination
fill the gaps with colors not yet named.

We walk past the brick walls and the puddles
without seeing the galaxies swirling in the reflection
or the rhythm of footsteps that echo an ancient meter
hidden beneath the soles of worn-out shoes.

It is there in the hum of the refrigerator
a low drone that sings of constellations
and in the way rain taps against the windowpane
writing stories we have always known but never read.

The ordinary is not a cage but a loom
where the threads of thought and dream are spun
into the fabric of a Tuesday afternoon
waiting for us to simply look closer
and find the magic woven into the plain.",2,"The coffee stain on yesterday's paper
blooms like a map of forgotten coastlines,
where the steam rises in a silent verse
and the spoon clinks a rhythm against the cup.

We walk through rooms built of ordinary dust,
yet the light catches the motes and turns them
into galaxies spinning in a quiet corner,
a sonnet written in the scratch of a key.

There is no magic wand, only the pause,
the breath held between the ticking clock and the door,
where the weight of a heavy coat becomes a metaphor,
and the silence hums with words we almost said.

Look closer at the cracked pavement,
see the river running beneath the gray,
for the dream is not a place we travel to,
but the texture of the ground beneath our feet.",3,"The coffee cup holds steam that rises like a ghost
A silent verse waiting for the morning light to cross
The cracks within the pavement map a river deep and wide
Where forgotten memories of yesterday quietly hide

A rusted hinge upon the gate begins to sing a tune
Of seasons changing slowly under heavy, golden noon
The dust motes dance in shafts of sun with rhythm and with grace
Turning ordinary seconds into time we cannot trace

No grand stage needed here to hold the words we speak
Just the quiet hum of life that makes the broken feel unique
For poetry is woven tight in threads of worn-out cloth
In every breath we take and in the silence after loss

We find the dream inside the mundane, rough and unpolished stone
Where thought takes root in soil that feels entirely our own
And though the world moves fast and loud with noise and frantic pace
The magic waits within the stillness of this common place",6
217,ultra_held_out,Poems On The Slave Trade – Sonnet V by Robert Southey,Robert Southey,"""A poem about a enslaved man dreaming of his past freedom, growing filled with rage, and imagining the day slaves will rise up and take revenge upon their oppressors.""","Did then the bold Slave rear at last the Sword
 Of Vengeance? drench'd he deep its thirsty blade
In the cold bosom of his tyrant lord?
 Oh! who shall blame him? thro' the midnight shade
Still o'er his tortur'd memory rush'd the thought
 Of every past delight; his native grove,
 Friendship's best joys, and Liberty and Love,
All lost for ever! then Remembrance wrought
His soul to madness; round his restless bed
 Freedom's pale spectre stalk'd, with a stern smile
 Pointing the wounds of slavery, the while
She shook her chains and hung her sullen head:
No more on Heaven he calls with fruitless breath,
But sweetens with revenge, the draught of death.","The moon hangs low above the cotton rows
Where shadows stretch like chains across my skin
I close my eyes and see the open fields
Before the iron bit was forced within
I hear the river singing free and loud
The wind that carried seeds of wild desire
No master's whip to silence or to bind
Just fire in the blood and hope as high as spire

But dawn breaks cold with voices sharp and cruel
And memory turns to ash inside my chest
The rage begins to coil beneath the breast
A serpent waking from its heavy sleep
It feeds on every lash, on every tear
On broken backs that bent beneath the yoke
Until the quiet heart can bear no more
And turns the sorrow into smoke and oak

I dream of nights when silence is a drum
When hands once bound will grasp the rusted blade
We rise together from the muddy ground
To make the oppressors know the price they paid
No mercy for the ones who stole our years
Who sold our children for a bag of gold
The tables turn, the wheel begins to spin
And justice finally breaks the story told

The fire spreads through every field and house
The gates are torn apart by strength of will
We take back what was never theirs to own
And stand upon the ruins of their hill
Let them remember now the fear we felt
As we walk forward with the sun behind
The chains are gone, the past is washed away
Leaving only vengeance and the light of mind","In the deep dark of the hovel I lie
And dream of the time when my feet were free,
When the wind blew soft through the tall corn high
And I was a man and not property.

I dream of the woods where the wild birds sing,
Of the clear cold water that ran in the rill,
And I wake with a curse on my trembling tongue,
And the taste of the whip and the gallows still.

My heart is a lump of burning coal,
My blood is a river of fire and red;
I could bite and tear at this human soul
That keeps me here like a beast of bread.

But wait! For the day will come some time
When the slaves shall rise like a flood of wrath,
And break every chain and kill the swine
Who have been fattening on our flesh and breath.

We'll burn their houses and stab their wives,
We'll cut their children's throats one by one;
We'll drink their blood and eat their lives,
The black sun rising for everyone.",2,"The moon hangs low above the cotton rows
A silver coin I cannot spend tonight,
But in my sleep the shackles fall away
And I am running through the fields of light.

I feel the wind unbound against my face,
No master's whip to crack across my back,
Just open sky and silence in the air,
And freedom stretching out a wide black track.

I taste the water from a cool clear spring,
I hear the birds that do not sing for him,
My heart beats free within a chest unchained,
And I am whole, and I am not a sin.

Then morning breaks with iron on my wrist,
The dream turns sour like a rotting fruit,
The memory burns like fire in my blood,
And rage begins to grow inside my root.

It swells until it cracks the silent dark,
A storm that waits beneath the heavy ground,
To shake the pillars of this house of hate
Until the cruel foundations crumble down.

I see the day when chains will snap like twigs,
When we shall rise as one great roaring sea,
And drag our masters from their beds of silk
To pay the debt they owe to you and me.

Their houses burn, their fields are turned to dust,
The scales are tipped, the justice comes at last,
We take the knife we used to cut the cane
And cut the throats that held us in the past.",6,"The moonlight spills on straw and dust
A ghost of fields I used to know
Where freedom was a simple trust
And wind blew soft, not cold and slow

I ran with bare feet through the grain
Before the iron bit my skin
Now chains bind tight the heavy chain
And silence locks the world within

But in this sleep the fire wakes
A burning coal inside my chest
It feeds on all the silent breaks
And turns my sorrow into rest

No more the whip, no more the fear
No master's boot upon my neck
The dream shifts sharp, the vision clear
Of breaking every single check

I see the dawn when we arise
With torches made of broken bars
To meet the hate with sudden eyes
And tear apart their gilded stars

Let them feel the weight they gave
Let them taste the bitter pain
We are the wave that will not save
But drown them in the rising rain

The day is coming, close and near
When justice walks with angry hands
And those who ruled in blood and fear
Will fall beneath our reclaimed lands",6,"The moon hangs low above the cotton rows
Where chains once clinked with every step I took
I close my eyes and feel the wind that blows
Through forests where no master's whip could look
I run across a field of golden wheat
My lungs are full of air, my feet are free
No iron bit to silence or defeat
Just me and sky and vast unbounded sea

But dawn approaches with its heavy gray
And drags me back to soil soaked deep in pain
The memory fades like mist before the day
As whips crack loud to start the work again
A fire begins to burn within my chest
It starts as embers then becomes a roar
I swallow down the grief and put it to rest
To feed the beast that waits behind the door

One day the silence breaks beneath our feet
The rising tide will wash the masters clean
We'll turn the tables on this cruel defeat
And make them taste the blood they've always seen
No more the bowing head, no more the plea
The hammer falls upon the oppressor's crown
We'll claim the ground and set the captives free
And watch the tyrant kingdoms crumble down",6,"The iron bites into my wrist tonight
But in the dark, I run through fields of gold
Where the wind was mine to hold and keep
And no whip cracked across my back
I remember the sun on open skin
Before the chains and before the name they stole

Now the memory turns to ash and fire
A slow burn rising in my chest
The rage is not a whisper but a storm
It gathers strength with every beating heart
They think we sleep while they count their coins
They do not see the thunder in our silence

One day the dawn will break with different light
We will stand together, tall and unbroken
The tables turn, the scales finally tip
And those who ruled by fear will know its weight
Our hands, once bound, will lift the hammer high
To shatter every lock and burn the master's house
Until the world remembers who we are
And justice falls like rain upon the guilty",3,"The moon hangs low above the cotton rows
Where I once ran with wind beneath my feet
Before the chain was forged, before the blows
That turned a man to dust beneath his seat
I see the river where I learned to swim
And hear the laughter that the masters stole
A memory so sharp it cuts like rim
Of iron biting deep into my soul

Now silence fills the space between my breath
As anger cools and hardens in my chest
It is not sorrow that awaits my death
But fire rising from within my breast
They think we sleep because we bow our heads
They do not know the storm inside the dark
We count the days until the chains are shed
Until we leave this graveyard of their mark

Imagine then the morning when we stand
With eyes no longer cast upon the ground
We take the hoes and turn them in our hand
And let the thunder of our fury sound
The fields will shake beneath the weight of rage
The master's house will crumble to the stone
No more the quiet of the gilded cage
We rise to claim the world we once called home",5,"The chains are cold against my skin
But in the dark, a fire begins
I see the fields I used to run
Before the whip and setting sun
The laughter of a child at play
A memory fading fast away

My heart beats loud with heavy sound
Of iron dragging on the ground
No longer silence, no more fear
The rage that makes the spirit clear
It burns inside this broken chest
To tear apart the cruel vest

I dream of dawn when shadows break
When every chain will finally shake
The masters tremble in their halls
As justice rises from the walls
We march as one, a thundering tide
With nothing left for them to hide

The night will end in blood and gold
A story of the brave and bold
Revenge is sweet upon the tongue
For songs of freedom long unsung
The day we stand and claim our right
Will turn the darkest hours to light",6
224,ultra_held_out,Solitude by Ella Wheeler Wilcox,Ella Wheeler Wilcox,"A poem about laughing and weeping, exploring how one's outlook on life attracts or repels community, ultimately revealing that while happiness draws others close, sadness and suffering are always faced in solitude.","Laugh, and the world laughs with you;
Weep, and you weep alone;
For the sad old earth must borrow its mirth,
But has trouble enough of its own.
Sing, and the hills will answer;
Sigh, it is lost on the air;
The echoes bound to a joyful sound,
But shrink from voicing care.
Rejoice, and men will seek you;
Grieve, and they turn and go;
They want full measure of all your pleasure,
But they do not need your woe.
Be glad, and your friends are many;
Be sad, and you lose them all,—
There are none to decline your nectared wine,
But alone you must drink life’s gall.
Feast, and your halls are crowded;
Fast, and the world goes by.
Succeed and give, and it helps you live,
But no man can help you die.
There is room in the halls of pleasure
For a large and lordly train,
But one by one we must all file on
Through the narrow aisles of pain.","A sudden laugh rings out like silver bells,
And strangers turn their heads to share the sound.
The circle widens as the joy swells,
Until the ground beneath us feels unbound.
We lean in close to catch the gleaming light,
For happiness is a magnet strong and bright.

But when the tears begin to fall unseen,
The crowd retreats as if from something cold.
They cannot bear the weight of what has been,
Or stories that are heavy to unfold.
So silence grows around the weeping face,
As solitude claims its solitary space.

The smile invites a thousand hands to hold,
While grief demands a room with locked doors shut.
One story told makes all the world feel bold,
The other breaks the heart into a rut.
We gather round the fire of another's cheer,
But walk alone when shadows draw too near.","When laughter rings out clear and bright
It gathers friends around the light,
They cluster close to share the sound,
And feel the warmth of joy abound.

But when the tear falls from the eye,
No one comes near to hear it sigh;
The crowd draws back, the circle breaks,
For sorrow makes a stranger's ache.

We laugh together in the sun,
But weep alone when day is done;
The happy find a common ground,
The sad are silent and unbound.

For happiness is like a fire
That draws us in with its desire,
While suffering is like the cold
That keeps us far and makes us old.

So smile at all you meet and see,
To keep your friends and company,
But if you weep, you weep apart,
And hide the breaking of your heart.",7,"The sound of laughter is a bright and open door
That pulls the crowd within to share the floor,
A magnet made of joy that draws them near,
To clap and cheer and make the moment clear.
We gather round the fire when the light is high,
And pass the cup beneath the smiling sky,
For happiness is social, loud, and free,
A banquet where the world comes out to see.

But when the tears begin to fall like rain,
The crowd disperses from the heavy pain.
They cannot bear the weight of private grief,
Nor find a place for sorrow in their brief
And cheerful gathering; they turn away,
Leaving the weeping one to face the day.
For suffering is a room with locked-up walls,
Where silence grows and no one else calls.
So laughter builds a bridge for all to cross,
While tears are paid for by a solitary loss.",7,"A laugh is a bright bell that rings out clear
And pulls the wandering neighbor near,
For joy is a feast where the table is set
And every hand is welcome yet.
We gather round the fire of mirth
To share the warmth of a common earth,
And in the chorus of shared delight
The lonely soul finds sudden light.

But when the tears begin to fall
They make a silent, heavy wall.
The sorrowful face turns inward deep
While others turn their eyes to sleep.
For grief is a weight no one can bear
That hangs like smoke in the stagnant air,
And though we offer a gentle word
It often sounds too sharp or blurred.

So happiness builds a bridge of gold
Where many stories can be told,
But suffering locks the door within
Where only the heart's own voice can win.
We walk together through the sun
But when the shadow has begun,
The crowd disperses, leaving free
The solitary agony.",7,"The sound of laughter rings like silver bells
That pull the wandering neighbors from their doors,
A magnet for the joyous and the well,
Who gather round to feast on happy hours.
We share the light until the circle grows,
And every face reflects the smiling sun,
For in our mirth a common warmth it glows,
Binding the many with a golden one.

But when the tears begin to fall unseen,
The crowd dissolves into a distant haze,
As if a wall rises between the scene
Of private grief and public, bright amaze.
They cannot walk the path where shadows lie,
Nor hold the weight that breaks a single heart,
So silence wraps the soul beneath the sky,
And sorrow keeps its own apart.

For joy invites the world to come inside,
While pain demands a room of empty space,
With nowhere left for others to abide
Within the quiet of a tear-stained face.
We laugh together in a crowded hall,
But weep alone within the hollow night,
Until the final echo starts to fall,
Leaving the suffering without a sight.",7,"The sound of joy is a magnet in the air,
A golden hook that pulls the crowd near,
For laughter builds a bridge for all to share,
And every smile invites a friend to hear.
We gather round the fire of delight,
Where lightness lifts the heavy, weary soul,
And strangers turn to kin within the night,
Drawn by the warmth that makes the spirit whole.

But when the tears begin to fall and flow,
The circle breaks, the hands withdraw away,
For sorrow has a weight too deep to know,
That turns the bright and bustling day to gray.
No one can hold another's private pain,
No chorus sings to ease the silent ache,
We stand alone amidst the pouring rain,
With only shadows for the heart's own sake.

So happiness attracts a multitude,
While grief repels the touch of human care,
One truth remains as life is understood:
We laugh together, but we weep alone in there.",7,"The sound of joy is a bright and open door
That pulls the neighbors from their quiet floors
We gather round the fire, the song, the light
To share the warmth that chases off the night
Our laughter builds a bridge across the divide
Where hands reach out to walk right by our side
For happiness is currency we spend
In crowded rooms where friends are quick to lend

But when the tears begin to fall like rain
The world grows still, the crowd begins to drain
No one wants to hold the heavy stone
Or sit alone with grief they call their own
We turn away from shadows on the wall
Afraid the silence might become too tall
So sorrow finds no echo in the street
Just hollow space beneath our weary feet

The crowd disperses when the smile turns gray
Leaving only dust where once we used to play
It seems the heart that breaks must break alone
A secret kept within a silent throne
While joy invites the many to draw near
The pain of loss makes every stranger disappear
We learn at last the cruel and quiet truth
That life is shared in youth but suffered in our youth
For laughter calls the tribe to stand around
But weeping leaves us strictly, starkly bound.",7,"The light you carry calls the crowd to dance
A magnet pulling strangers into place
They mirror joy in every fleeting glance
And find a home within your smiling face

But when the laughter fades and tears begin
The air grows heavy with a silent chill
The hands that held you now retreat from sin
As if your grief is something they cannot fill

For happiness is easy to embrace
A currency exchanged by all who meet
While sorrow asks for space and quiet space
Where only shadows walk the empty street

You learn too soon that pain is not shared
That broken hearts beat loud in isolation
No chorus rises when the soul has scarred
Leaving the weeping to a lonely station

So let the world applaud your bright display
And leave the dark to be a private art
For while the sun invites the night away
The storm inside must weather on its own apart",7
228,ultra_held_out,i thank You God for most this amazing by E.E. Cummings,E.E. Cummings,"A poem about a speaker thanking God and expressing a spiritual awakening through a renewed appreciation of the natural world, while acknowledging those whose eyes and ears remain unawakened to such beauty.","i thank You God for most this amazing
day:for the leaping greenly spirits of trees
and a blue true dream of sky; and for everything
which is natural which is infinite which is yes

(i who have died am alive again today,
and this is the sun’s birthday; this is the birth
day of life and of love and wings: and of the gay
great happening illimitably earth)

how should tasting touching hearing seeing
breathing any–lifted from the no
of all nothing–human merely being
doubt unimaginable You?

(now the ears of my ears awake and
now the eyes of my eyes are opened)","Lord, I bow my head to thank You for the light
That breaks the morning mist and warms the stone,
For how the river sings a song so bright,
And every leaf reveals a truth unknown.

My spirit wakes within this green embrace,
To see Your hand in wind and falling rain,
A sudden joy that fills this holy space,
And washes clean the dust of old disdain.

Yet round about, I walk among the blind,
Who pass the blooming rose with hollow gaze,
Who hear the thunder but do not find
The voice that speaks through all these silent days.

They walk the path where gold is hidden deep,
With eyes shut tight against the dawn's appeal,
While I have promises You bid me keep,
And hearts too full of wonder now to feel
The weight of silence or the lack of sight,
But only gratitude for endless light.","I thank You for the morning light that breaks
The heavy curtain of the night,
And for the dew upon the grass,
And for the singing of the birds.

My spirit wakes within my breast,
As if a door were opened wide,
And I perceive the beauty of the world
With senses newly tried.

But some pass by and see it not,
Some hear it not at all;
Their eyes are closed, their ears are shut,
They do not heed the call.

They walk among the trees and flowers
As through a painted room,
Or as one walks through empty air
Within a house of gloom.

O God, I thank Thee for my sight,
For seeing and for hearing;
I thank Thee that my soul is awake,
Though others be not near ing.",6,"I lift my hands to thank the Maker now
For waking eyes that slept through winter's gray,
To see the green shoot break the frozen bough
And hear the robin sing the dawn of day.
The river is no longer just a stream
But liquid light reflecting heaven's face;
The forest is a living, breathing dream
Where every leaf reveals a sacred place.

Yet round about me, crowds go hurrying by
With heavy lids and hearts of stone and dust,
They do not see the glory in the sky,
Nor hear the music in the wind they trust.
Their ears are stopped against the morning song,
Their eyes are blind to colors bright and new;
They walk among the wonders all along
And never know the world was made for you.

So let me be the one who sees and hears,
Who walks in wonder at the open door,
While others pass the threshold of their years
Without a glimpse of what lies on the floor
Of this rich earth, so gifted and so free;
I thank You, Lord, for letting me awake,
And for the gift of seeing clearly, me,
While others sleep within the dark you make.",7,"I lift my hands to thank the Source of Light
For waking me within this morning air,
Where every leaf holds up a mirror bright
And shows the glory that was always there.

The river sings a hymn I used to miss,
The wind now speaks a language deep and true,
No longer just a sound or passing kiss,
But proof that You are present in all view.

Yet round about, the many walk along
With heavy lids that shut out dawn's embrace,
They hear no music in the bird's sweet song,
Nor see the wonder written on each face.

Their eyes are blind to gold within the grass,
Their ears are closed to whispers from the tree,
They let the sacred moments come and pass
Unseen by them, though visible to me.

O Lord, forgive their slumber and their sleep,
Or grant them grace to wake as I have done,
To find the promises they could not keep
Until the sun had risen on the noon.",7,"Thank You for the morning light that breaks the gray,
For turning simple stone to sacred clay,
For teaching me to see the hidden grace
Within the quiet rhythm of this place.
The wind now speaks a language I can hear,
The rustling leaves dissolve my ancient fear,
And in the river's song, Your voice takes form,
A gentle storm that calms the inner storm.

Yet round about, the crowds still pass on by,
With heavy lids and hearts that cannot sigh,
They walk through gardens blooming with their gold,
But feel no story in the air they hold.
Their ears are closed to music in the rain,
Their eyes blind to the beauty of the plain,
They seek the noise while silence calls them near,
Unwaking sleepers walking without fear.

I thank You for the sight I finally found,
For lifting up my gaze from dusty ground,
While others miss the miracle so deep,
I stand awake within Your vast keep.
Let gratitude be all my offering now,
To every leaf and every cloudless bough,
For though they do not see what I have seen,
Your glory lives where they have never been.",7,"Lord, I bow before the morning light
That spills across the dew-kissed grass,
A silent hymn of gold and white
Where once I only saw the mass.

My eyes are opened wide at last
To see the forest breathe and sing,
To hear the river's ancient cast
And feel the wind on every wing.

Yet round about, the crowds move blind,
With heavy hearts and hurried feet,
They pass the wonders you designed
Without a pause, without a treat.

Their ears are closed to nature's song,
Their vision blurred by stone and steel,
They walk where I have known so long
The sacred truth that time reveals.

I thank you for this sudden grace,
This awakening within my soul,
To find your face in every place,
To make the broken spirit whole.

While others sleep beneath the sky,
Unmoved by bloom or shifting tide,
I watch the clouds go floating by,
With nowhere left for me to hide.",7,"I lift my hands to thank the Source of light
That wakes the dawn and paints the morning sky,
No longer blind to shadows in the night,
But seeing how the sacred breaths draw nigh.

The rustling leaves now speak a holy tongue,
The river hums a hymn I finally hear,
Where once was silence, now a song is sung,
And every stone reveals a presence near.

Yet round about, I see the crowds who pass
With eyes that scan but do not truly see,
Who walk through gardens lost in hollow glass,
Unmoved by grace as wild and vast and free.

They hear the wind but think it only air,
They miss the miracle in falling rain,
While I stand grateful, stripped of all despair,
Awake within this vast and quiet domain.

So let me hold this wonder in my soul,
For those who sleep beneath the same bright sun,
May God reveal what makes the broken whole,
Until the waking has for everyone begun.",7,"The morning breaks in shades of gold
And whispers through the pines so old
I lift my hands to thank the source
For life that flows, a gentle force

The river sings a ancient tune
Beneath the pale and rising moon
My spirit wakes from heavy sleep
To watch the world it cannot keep

Yet somewhere in the crowd I stand
With eyes that miss the shifting sand
They walk the path but do not see
The sacred thread that binds us free

Their silence holds a quiet weight
While I embrace this sudden fate
A gratitude that fills the chest
For every breath, for every rest

So let the wind carry my prayer
To those who wander unaware
May one day dawn within their sight
To find the light, to claim the night",7
234,ultra_held_out,Snowflake by William Baer,William Baer,"""A poem about a snowflake journeying from insignificance to meaning, landing by chance on a lover's lips at just the right moment.""","Timing’s everything. The vapor rises
high in the sky, tossing to and fro,
then freezes, suddenly, and crystalizes
into a perfect flake of miraculous snow.
For countless miles, drifting east above
the world, whirling about in a swirling free-
for-all, appearing aimless, just like love,
but sensing, seeking out, its destiny.
Falling to where the two young skaters stand,
hand in hand, then flips and dips and whips
itself about to ever-so-gently land,
a miracle, across her unkissed lips:
as he blocks the wind raging from the south,
leaning forward to kiss her lovely mouth.","Born of a cloud in a vast and empty gray
A single crystal with no name to say
Drifting through winds that do not know my weight
Just dust of ice upon the edge of fate
Too small to mark the winter's heavy sigh
A fleeting ghost beneath the endless sky

Then down I fall, a silent, spinning thread
Through air so cold it numbs the thoughts we've said
I pass the roof, the branch, the frozen street
Where thousands more will meet their quiet feet
No one would notice if I chose to land
Or vanish like a whisper from a hand

But chance is strange and holds a hidden key
To turn the trivial into destiny
I brush against the collar of your coat
And find a warmth I never thought I'd float
The world below is blurred in white and deep
While you stand still within your gentle sleep

My journey ends where all great stories start
Not on the ground or in a frozen heart
But on the curve of lips that wait for spring
As if the winter knew exactly what to bring
You taste the cold, then smile as if you see
The universe condensed inside of me
In this brief touch, a moment made complete
The insignificant has found its meaning sweet","Born of a breath in the upper air,
A speck of nothing, a crystal tear,
Drifting through silence, a ghost unseen,
Just one more flake in the swirling scene.

No one would miss if I vanished now,
Lost in the drifts on the frozen bough;
But chance is a god who plays with dice,
And sent me to fall on your sweet lips.

I felt you sigh as my coldness came,
A sudden kiss from a nameless flame;
You smiled and thought it was just the snow,
Not knowing it was my heart's first glow.

So I am not lost in the drifts of white,
Nor insignificant in the winter night;
I found a meaning in falling down,
To die on your lips in this little town.",7,"Born of a cloud's indifferent sigh,
A speck of ice in the vast gray sky,
No larger than a breath or tear,
Drifting through the empty air.

It meant nothing to the wind that blew,
Nothing to the world so cold and blue,
Just one of millions, lost and small,
Without a purpose, without a call.

But chance is a strange and quiet guide,
With nowhere for the soul to hide,
Until it found a waiting face,
And landed softly in its place.

Upon the lips where warmth resides,
Where secret words are kept inside,
The moment paused, the world stood still,
To hold this tiny miracle.

For in that touch, the snowflake knew,
It was not made for skies so blue,
But for this kiss, this fleeting grace,
To find its meaning in her face.",7,"Born of a whisper in the freezing dark
A single crystal, lost among the swarm
No weight to mark it on the falling air
Just one more ghost within the winter storm

It drifted past the pine and roof and street
Unseen by all the world below the gray
A tiny thing without a name or beat
That would have vanished with the passing day

But then a chance of wind, a sudden turn
That guided it away from cold decay
To where two figures stood for whom to burn
Was not yet done, though night was drawing near

It fell with perfect slowness through the space
Between their hearts that beat a little fast
And found its home upon her waiting face
Right where his lips were moving to be cast

He leaned in close to catch the breath she gave
And felt the chill dissolve against his skin
The moment froze before the snowflake grave
And in that touch, the journey did begin

For now it is no longer just a flake
Of random ice that falls from clouds above
But part of how their silent promises break
Into a language made of shared and deep love",7,"Born of a whisper in the freezing dark,
A single crystal drifting through the void,
No name, no purpose, just a speck of white
That joins the endless, faceless storm above.

It falls alone, a ghost among the ghosts,
Unseen by eyes that scan the heavy sky,
Just random dust within the vast expanse,
A thing of nothing meant to melt and fade.

But chance, that quiet weaver of the strange,
Guides its slow spiral past the swaying trees,
Past rooftops cold and streets of hurried feet,
To find a pause within the winter air.

The world holds still as if to catch its breath,
And there you stand with eyes half-closed in thought,
Your lips apart, a soft and waiting curve,
The perfect place for such a tiny thing.

It lands so light it barely breaks the silence,
A fleeting touch upon your skin of warmth,
Yet in that instant, all the falling snow
Becomes a story written just for us.

From nothingness to meaning in a breath,
It finds its home before it turns to tear,
A moment held between the cold and love,
Where insignificance becomes a kiss.",6,"Born of a cloud in a vast and silent gray
A single crystal drifting far away
Too small to mark the wind or break the air
Just dust of winter with no weight to bear
It spun through darkness, lost among the millions deep
A fleeting thought the storm forgot to keep
Until the gusts that carried it so high
Bent downward toward a quiet human sky

The world below was still and wrapped in white
As twilight faded into softest night
And there he stood beneath the falling grace
With eyes that held the memory of her face
She turned her head to catch the freezing rain
And felt a touch that stopped the cold like pain
Not heavy stone or hail that strikes the ground
But something light as breath without a sound

It found its path by chance across the space
Between the earth and time and empty space
To land exactly where her lips were part
A momentary spark within the heart
No grand design had guided it this far
Just random drift beneath a distant star
Yet in that split second when ice met skin
The universe began again from within

For now it is not just a drop of snow
But proof that even small things have a glow
That nothing falls without a reason true
When two souls meet beneath the winter blue
The journey ends not in the mud or grass
But in the warmth that makes the frozen pass
A tiny thing that chose the perfect place
To seal a kiss and time itself embrace",7,"Born of a whisper in the freezing dark
A speck of nothing, drifting through the void
No name to carry, no story told
Just random ice in winds that never paused

It tumbled past the towering pines
Unseen by eyes that scanned the horizon line
A billion others fell in silent rain
And none would know this tiny crystal's pain

But fate has ways that logic cannot trace
To guide the lost upon an unseen course
The wind held breath and let the current slow
Until a path led straight to something warm

A face turned up against the gray descent
Where two hearts beat within a quiet space
The flake descended, soft and unforeseen
To rest upon the curve of waiting grace

It touched the lips before a word was spoken
A fleeting kiss from winter's cold embrace
In that brief second, all the world stood still
As insignificance found its proper place

No longer just a fragment of the storm
But part of love that time could not erase
A single point where chaos met design
And meaning bloomed within a frozen space",6,"Born of vapor in the endless gray
A speck of nothing drifting far away
No name to hold, no story yet to tell
Just falling silence in a frozen spell

It tumbles through the wind's cold breath
Past mountains tall and valleys deep with death
Unseen by eyes that scan the winter sky
A fleeting ghost that passes quickly by

Yet gravity pulls it toward the earth below
Where warmth once lived and secrets softly grow
It finds a face beneath the heavy air
Two lips that wait for something rare to share

The moment stretches, time begins to pause
As chance aligns with nature's quiet laws
One crystal lands upon the waiting skin
And in that touch, the world starts to begin

No longer small, no longer lost or lone
It holds the weight of love within its bone
For in this kiss, the snowflake finds its place
A silent promise written on a human face",7
238,train,This is Just to Say by William Carlos Williams,William Carlos Williams,"A poem about a speaker apologizing for eating plums from the fridge that belonged to someone else, knowing they were being saved for breakfast but being unable to resist their temptation.","I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold","I know they were meant for your morning light
those cool, purple spheres waiting in the dark
to be sliced with butter and a quiet bite
before the world began to make its mark.

But I could not help the hunger in my hand
that reached past reason through the humming cold
and took the fruit you carefully had planned
with stories of their sweetness yet untold.

The skin was thin, the juice ran sweet and deep
a guilty rush that left me standing there
while you slept on, unaware of how I'd keep
the evidence of my own careless care.

Forgive the empty space where plums should be
forgive the sticky stain upon my chin
I ate them all, though now I long to see
the breakfast that I ruined from within.","Forgive me,
I know those plums were saved for your breakfast,
I saw them in the icebox and knew they were meant for you,
but I ate them.
They were sweet as honey and cool from the fridge,
and I could not resist them.
I have eaten three of them already this morning,
and now I am sorry.
They looked so tempting,
with their red skins and green stems,
and I just could not help myself.
Please forgive me.",6,"Forgive me for the empty bowl
where three sweet plums once rested deep,
I knew they were your breakfast prize,
reserved while you were fast asleep.

The fridge door opened with a sigh,
a sudden cold and violet light,
and though I knew the morning wait,
my hand reached out against my will that night.

They tasted like forbidden rain,
so cool and bursting on the tongue,
I could not help but eat them all,
before the breaking of the day was young.

Now only stems remain to prove
the crime my hungry fingers did,
I am so sorry, truly sorry,
for what I could not keep inside.",6,"I know they were waiting in the crisper drawer
For your morning coffee and your toast,
Those plums with their dusty purple skin
That you had set aside with such care.

But the fridge light hummed a siren song
And I could not look away,
My hand reached out before my mind could say no,
Drunk on the promise of their sweet juice.

They are gone now, eaten one by one,
Leaving only the faint scent of summer
And the hollow space where your breakfast should be.
I am sorry for stealing your dawn,
Sorry that my hunger was louder than my love,
And sorry that I could not wait until the sun rose.",2,"I know you saved them for the morning light,
The cold sweet promise waiting in the dark,
But I could not resist the heavy weight
Of purple skin that held a sugary spark.

They sat within the glass and steel retreat,
A silent warning I was meant to heed,
Yet hunger whispered soft against my feet,
And pulled me toward the fruit I did not need.

One turned to juice upon my hungry tongue,
Then two, then three, until the bowl was bare,
Now silence hangs where breakfast songs were sung,
And only sticky seeds remain right there.

Forgive the theft of what was yours to keep,
Before the sun had climbed above the hill,
I ate your dawn while you were fast asleep,
And left this empty guilt for you to fill.",7,"I know they were yours for the morning light
Set aside in the cold to ripen just right
But the scent of their skin called out from the shelf
And I could not save myself for anyone else

The crisper door whispered a promise so sweet
Of juice on my tongue and a cool, dark treat
So I took one, then two, with a trembling hand
Leaving only the bruise where the fruit once had stood in your plan

Forgive me the hunger that overcame reason
For stealing your breakfast in the quiet season
They are gone now, consumed by a greed I can't name
And I wait for your anger to speak my own shame",6,"I know they were waiting for the morning light
Sitting cool and dark against the steel
A promise made to your hungry mouth at dawn
But I could not let the silence keep them safe

The smell was sweet enough to break my will
A crimson gravity that pulled me close
My fingers found the cold before my mind could say no
And now the empty space remains a crime

Forgive the greed that stole your breakfast fruit
Forgive the juice that stained my guilty hands
I left nothing but the memory of their taste
And this heavy heart that begs for your forgiveness",5,"I found the jar where morning light would fall
And saw the fruit you saved for later dawn
Their skin was cool, a deep and velvet call
That whispered promises I could not withdraw

My hands moved faster than my mind could reason
To steal the sweetness meant to start your day
I told myself it was a small treason
But hunger made a different kind of way

Now silence fills the space between us tight
As empty stems reveal what I have done
I know I crossed a line in fading light
And left your breakfast waiting for the sun

Forgive the greed that overtook my will
For plums that were not mine to take or hold
I offer up this quiet, heavy still
And ask that you might let me make amends",6
255,ultra_held_out,Fear by Gabriela Mistral,Gabriela Mistral,A poem about a mother fearing the loss of her daughter to a life that would transform her into someone unrecognizable and distant.,"I don’t want them to turn
my little girl into a swallow.
She would fly far away into the sky
and never fly again to my straw bed,
or she would nest in the eaves
where I could not comb her hair.
I don’t want them to turn
my little girl into a swallow.
I don’t want them to make
my little girl a princess. In tiny golden slippers
how could she play on the meadow?
And when night came, no longer
would she sleep at my side.
I don’t want them to make
my little girl a princess.
And even less do I want them
one day to make her queen.
They would put her on a throne
where I could not go to see her.
And when night time came
I could never rock her …
I don’t want them to make
my little girl a queen!","I watch you pack the boxes of your childhood
And trade the soft wool of my kitchen for a coat of steel
You speak in codes I cannot crack, a language built on glass
Where every word is sharp and meant to cut the ties we feel

I fear the day you look at me with eyes that hold no warmth
As if I am a stranger standing in a room you've outgrown
A ghost who haunts the hallway while you walk toward the light
Of cities made of shadows where the seeds of love are sown

You say you need to fly away, to break the heavy chains
But what if flying means forgetting how to land or rest?
What if the wind that lifts you up also erases names
Until the girl I held so tight is just a memory's guest

I pray the mirror doesn't show a face I do not know
That underneath the armor, something tender still remains
But silence grows between us like a river deep and slow
And I am left upon the shore, watching you drift through rains

The daughter I once knew is fading into smoke and gray
Transformed by roads she chose alone, by choices made in haste
And I am terrified to see the woman you will become
Who looks at me and sees a past she feels no need to taste","I watch you pack your bags with things I do not know
And leave the room where we have shared our quiet bread,
And fear the stranger who will come to call me ""Mother""
With eyes that look through me as if I were dead.

You say the world is wide and I am old and narrow,
That I must let you go or lose you by and by;
But if you go, the world will take you from my keeping,
And make you strange, and I shall see you die.

Not in the flesh, for you are young and strong and lovely,
But in the spirit, which was once so like to mine;
For you will learn new ways of thinking and of feeling,
And I shall not be able to read your mind.

You will forget the lullabies I used to sing you,
The simple games we played when you were small and sweet;
You will become a person I have never known,
And I shall stand outside your life upon the street.

You will laugh at jokes I cannot understand,
You will talk of things I cannot comprehend;
And I shall be a shadow in your busy house,
A ghost that haunts the corners till the end.

So stay with me, my daughter, do not go away,
Though I am old and you are very young and fair;
If you go, you will be lost to me forever,
And I shall be alone, and you will not be there.",6,"I watch you pack your bags with things I do not know
And wonder if the girl who loved my cooking voice
Will still be there when you return, or just a ghost
Who wears your face but speaks in foreign tones.

The world outside is loud and sharp and bright
It promises to carve you into something new
A statue made of glass that cannot bend or break
But also cannot feel the warmth of me.

I fear the day you look at me and see a stranger
Someone small and soft from days long gone and dead
While you stand tall in armor made of steel
And call this place where we were happy ""home.""

Do not let them take the light out of your eyes
Or teach you that my love is old and slow
Keep some part of you that remembers how to cry
When I am sick, or tired, or afraid to go.

If you become a person I can never reach
Then I have lost you even while you stand right here
So hold on tight to what we used to be
Before the distance grows too wide to bridge.",6,"I watch you pack your bags with things I do not know
And wonder if the girl who loved my hands will ever return
You speak of cities where the lights are loud and cold
Of paths that wind away from this quiet house and me
I fear the version of you that waits at the end of that road
One who looks through me as if I were a windowpane
Who speaks in words I cannot quite understand
And forgets the lullabies we whispered in the dark
Will you still remember how to hold a cup of tea
Or will your hands be full of maps and strangers' names?
I pray you find the joy you seek so desperately
But part of me is screaming for you to stay
Before the woman you become erases who you are
Before the distance grows too wide to bridge with love
Before I lose you twice, once to the world, and once to time",6,"I watch you pack your bags with quiet hands
And wonder if the girl who fits inside them
Is the one I taught to tie her shoes
Or just a ghost of who she used to be.

The world you seek is bright and sharp and loud
It promises to carve new lines upon your face
Until the softness that I know so well
Is worn away by winds I cannot fight.

You speak of futures made of glass and steel
Where names are traded for a different kind of light
And I am left here holding empty air
Afraid that when you turn to say goodbye
Your eyes will not remember how to find me there.

What if the distance grows so deep and wide
That even love cannot bridge the space between?
What if you return as someone else entirely
With all my memories dissolved in foreign seas?

I pray you keep the little things we shared
The way you laugh, the stories in your hair
Before the city takes its heavy toll
And leaves a stranger standing in your place.",6,"I watch you pack the boxes of your youth
And trace the edges of a map I cannot read
You speak in languages I never learned
Of cities built on glass and steel and speed

The girl who loved the rain is fading now
Replaced by someone sharp and cold and bright
Who checks her phone instead of looking up
At stars that used to guide us through the night

I fear the moment when you turn away
Not with a wave but with a stranger's glance
As if the years we shared were just a dream
That vanishes within a single dance

You are becoming something vast and far
A distant planet orbiting alone
While here I hold the silence of the past
And wait for seeds that may no longer grow",6,"I watch you pack your bags with hands I used to hold
And trace the map of roads that lead away from home
The girl who loved the rain now seeks a sun so bright
It burns the softness out of every gentle bone

You speak in words I do not know, in rhythms strange and new
Your laughter holds a hollow note that echoes through the room
I fear the day you look at me with eyes of polished glass
Where once there lived a mirror reflecting all we were

The world will carve its patterns deep into your skin
And smooth the edges off the heart I knew so well
You'll become a stranger walking down a distant street
While I remain here waiting for the child I cannot keep

Oh let the wind blow gently now before the storm arrives
Before the version of you rises up to take her place
I pray you find your way back when the noise becomes too loud
But mostly I am terrified of losing you to grace",6,"I watch you pack your bags with quiet hands
And trace the map of roads I cannot know
The girl who slept against my chest now stands
With eyes that look through me and let her go

You speak of stars I never learned to name
Of cities built on dust and shifting sand
A fire burns within your soul, a flame
That turns the gentle child into command

I fear the day you turn and walk away
Not in anger but in cold indifference
Where every word we shared begins to fray
And love becomes a ghost without defense

Will you remember how the rain would fall
Or how I held you when the world was loud?
Or will you build a wall so high and tall
That silence is the only sound allowed

My heart is breaking softly in the dark
As shadows stretch across the empty floor
Waiting for the echo of your spark
To fade behind a locked and heavy door",6
259,train,On The Ning Nang Nong by Spike Milligan,Spike Milligan,"A poem about exploring a make-believe, noisy world called ""The Ning Nang Nong,"" where trees, teapots, and mice are making strange and surprising onomatopoeic sounds.","On the Ning Nang Nong
Where the Cows go Bong!
and the monkeys all say BOO!
There's a Nong Nang Ning 
Where the trees go Ping!
And the tea pots jibber jabber joo.
On the Nong Ning Nang 
All the mice go Clang 
And you just can't catch 'em when they do!
So its Ning Nang Nong
Cows go Bong!
Nong Nang Ning
Trees go ping
Nong Ning Nang
The mice go Clang
What a noisy place to belong
is the Ning Nang Ning Nang Nong!!","Deep in the Ning Nang Nong where the sky is a jingle,
The trees go clack-clack and the wind goes ding-ding.
A teapot with whiskers begins to hum-buzz,
While mice in the branches go zip-zip and fizz.

The grass makes a sizzle, the rocks make a thump-thump,
And clouds overhead go plop-plop and bump-bump.
A spoon made of silver starts singing a clang,
As puddles of laughter go splish-splash and plang.

No silence can hide here, no quiet can stay,
Just a chorus of noises that dance all the day.
From the boom-boom of boots to the chirp-chirp of stone,
In the noisy Ning Nang Nong, we are never alone.","In the middle of the Ning Nang Nong
Where the trees go Coo-Coo and the teapots go Bong,
And the mice go Ping! and the cows go Jongo,
There is a very great noise in the Ning Nang Nong.

When the cows go Jongo they knock down the trees,
Which make a terrible Coo-Cooing noise like these:
Coo-Coo! Coo-Coo! Coo-Coo!
And then the teapots say ""Oh dear!"" and go Bong! Bong! Bong!

The mice get frightened at all this noise
And they squeak out Ping! Ping! Ping!
But the cows don't care for the Ping! Ping! Ping!
So they say Jongo! Jongo! Jongo! again.

Then the trees say Coo-Coo! Coo-Coo! Coo-Coo!
And the teapots say Bong! Bong! Bong!
And the mice say Ping! Ping! Ping!
And it's very noisy in the Ning Nang Nong.",1,"In the Ning Nang Nong where the CooCoo birds go Coo,
And the trees go Bump and the teapots go Splosh,
The mice go Squeak-Snap in a row of two,
And the pots go Clatter-Bang on the grassy bush.

The big blue tree goes Thrum-Thrum-Thrum,
While the little red pot goes Tinkle-Tink-Ting,
A mouse with a hat goes Hum-Boom-Hum,
And the sky goes Zizz-Zazz all day long.

No silence here, no quiet at all,
Just Zonk and Zoom and Zip and Zap,
The Ning Nang Nong is a noisy hall,
Where the world goes Pop and the clouds go Sap.",1,"Deep in the Ning Nang Nong where the wind goes whoosh,
The trees go creak and groan and rustle with a hush-hush.
A giant teapot boils and sings a clank-a-clink-a-boing,
While mice run round the spout and squeak a tiny zing-zing.

The leaves go flap-flap-flutter when the breezes start to blow,
And pots go ping-pang-pungo as they tumble down below.
The mice go skitter-scratch and chitter-chatter loud,
Above the clatter-clash of every noisy cloud.

So listen for the rattle-rump and tinkle-tang-a-ting,
In this wild and wobbly world where strange sounds ring and sing.
No silence here can stay, for noise is all around,
From the creaking, creaking trees to the clanking, clanging ground.",1,"Deep in the Ning Nang Nong where the noisy winds blow,
The trees go Clink-Clink and the grass goes Glug-Glug low.
A teapot on a stump starts to Sizzle and Hiss,
While a mouse in a teacup lets out a loud Bzzz-Bizz.

The branches go Clatter-Clack as they shake in the breeze,
And the pots start to Boing-Bang with a rhythmic squeak.
The mice scurry round with a Tiptoe-Tap-Tap,
Chasing the sound of a Plop-Plop that won't stop or flap.

Oh, the world is so loud with its Wobble and Wheeze,
From the Sproing-Sproing of the roots to the Chitter-Chitter of leaves.
In the heart of the Ning Nang Nong where the strange noises ring,
Every creature and object begins to Ping-Ping-Ping.",2,"In the Ning Nang Nong where the wind goes whoosh,
The silver teapots go clink and clush.
They boil with a bubbling bloop and a burp,
While the trees in the distance give out a sharp chirp.

A mouse made of marshmallows scurries about,
Making a squeak and a zippity-zout.
He jumps on a branch that goes swish and a snap,
As a pot lid falls down with a loud flippity-clap.

The leaves rustle round with a crinkle and crack,
And the roots underneath make a thump and a whack.
Oh, the noise is a symphony, wild and untamed,
In the Ning Nang Nong where the strange sounds are named.",2,"The Ning Nang Nong is loud and bright
Where trees go *crunch* in the middle of night
Their leaves are made of tin and glass
That *clatter-clack* as the breezes pass

A teapot sits upon a stone
And hums a low and bubbling tone
It whistles sharp with a *hiss-hiss-hiss*
While steam escapes in a fuzzy mist

Then out scurry mice with paws so small
Making a *skitter-scratch* against the wall
They giggle loud with a *giggle-goo*
As they chase the moon that never grew

The ground goes *thump* beneath our feet
Where rubber rocks and concrete meet
No silence here can ever stay
Just *zoom-zoom-zap* throughout the day",2,"Step softly where the grass goes bloop and snap
The sky above is painted in a loud clack-clap
Here the ancient oaks do not just rustle low
But boom with heavy thuds that make the river flow

A teapot on the hill begins to whistle high
It sings a jagged tune of screech and sputter cry
The lid jumps up and down with rhythmic pop and ping
While steam escapes in bursts of fizzing, hissing thing

Small mice in socks run fast across the floor
Their tiny paws create a rattle, then a roar
They squeak in harmony with bells that ring so deep
Awaking giants from their slumber, wide awake to keep

The wind blows through the valley with a whoosh and hum
As clouds collide in thunderous, booming drums
No silence exists within this wild, chaotic place
Just endless noise that fills the air with strange embrace

So listen close to every sound that breaks the calm
Where logic bends to let the madness play its psalm
In Ning Nang Nong the world is made of sound alone
A symphony of chaos where the lost are never known",2
283,ultra_held_out,A Night-Piece by William Wordsworth,William Wordsworth,"""A poem about a traveler marveling at the majesty of the moon breaking through dark clouds and illuminating the sky, leaving their mind quietly musing on the powerful and ever-present force witnessed above them.""","———The sky is overcast
With a continuous cloud of texture close,
Heavy and wan, all whitened by the Moon,
Which through that veil is indistinctly seen,
A dull, contracted circle, yielding light
So feebly spread, that not a shadow falls,
Chequering the ground—from rock, plant, tree, or tower.
At length a pleasant instantaneous gleam
Startles the pensive traveller while he treads
His lonesome path, with unobserving eye
Bent earthwards; he looks up—the clouds are split
Asunder,—and above his head he sees
The clear Moon, and the glory of the heavens.
There, in a black-blue vault she sails along,
Followed by multitudes of stars, that, small
And sharp, and bright, along the dark abyss
Drive as she drives: how fast they wheel away,
Yet vanish not!—the wind is in the tree,
But they are silent;—still they roll along
Immeasurably distant; and the vault,
Built round by those white clouds, enormous clouds,
Still deepens its unfathomable depth.
At length the Vision closes; and the mind,
Not undisturbed by the delight it feels,
Which slowly settles into peaceful calm,
Is left to muse upon the solemn scene.","The road was lost beneath a heavy shroud
Of shifting gray that swallowed up the stars,
Until a sudden tear in all the cloud
Revealed the moon behind its iron bars.

It broke the dark with silver, sharp and bright,
A silent king ascending from the deep,
And poured its light across the night so white,
Awaking worlds while weary travelers sleep.

I stood still as the shadows fled away,
Watching that ancient, unblinking eye,
No longer just a stone to mark the day,
But force that pulls the tides within the sky.

My mind grew quiet in the face of such,
A power vast and ever present there,
That needs no voice to speak, nor hand to touch,
Just hanging high above the empty air.","The heavy velvet curtain of the night
Drew tight across the world, a sudden shroud,
When suddenly a silver edge of light
Broke through the cloud that hid the moon from view.

A moment more and all the sky was gold,
The darkness shattered like a brittle shell,
And in that instant, I beheld unfold
The majesty that makes the heavens swell.

The clouds rolled back as if by magic hand,
And left the moon to ride her chariot high;
She seemed to hold the very stars in command,
And make the whole firmament bow down on high.

My mind was quiet then, and yet it mused
On this great power that is for ever there,
That shines above us while our eyes are used,
And waits for us when we have done with care.",7,"The road was lost beneath a heavy shroud
Of shifting gray that swallowed up the stars,
Until a sudden tear within the cloud
Revealed the moon's unyielding, silver bars.

It burst with force to pierce the velvet night,
A silent king commanding all below,
And bathed the sleeping hills in pale white light
That made the dark and distant valleys glow.

I stood quite still as shadows fled the view,
My breath held tight against the cooling air,
While vast and ancient radiance broke through
To hang like hope suspended everywhere.

No word I spoke could match the scene above,
So let my mind just sit and quietly muse
On that great power of enduring love
Which rules the sky and never will refuse
To break the darkness with its steady beam,
An ever-present force in every dream.",7,"The heavy velvet shroud of night hangs low
And swallows all the stars that dared to shine,
Until a sudden break in shadows shows
A silver spear that pierces through the line.

The moon bursts forth with majesty and light,
Dispelling gloom with beams of cold command,
It turns the darkened world to blinding white
And paints the ocean with a ghostly hand.

I stand beneath this ancient, silent force,
That rules the tides and pulls the earth around,
No storm can hold it back, no wind nor course
Can dim its glow or shake its steady ground.

My mind grows quiet as I watch it rise,
A power present through the ages past,
Reflecting in my eyes the vast, wide skies,
A constant truth that will forever last.",7,"The road was lost beneath a heavy shroud
Of velvet night that swallowed every star,
When suddenly the silence broke aloud
As silver light began to pierce and jar.

The clouds tore open like a ragged seam
To let the moon rise up in golden pride,
A lantern in the center of my dream
Where shadows fled and darkness could not hide.

It flooded valleys with a ghostly grace
And turned the dust to paths of liquid pearl,
I stood within that vast and holy space
With awe that made the weary world uncurl.

My thoughts grew quiet as the beam descended
Upon the earth below and deep within,
No longer just a traveler who wandered
But witness to the power from without begin.

For there it hung, an eye that never sleeps,
A constant force that rules the turning tide,
While all the frantic noise of man retreats
Beneath the majesty it cannot hide.",7,"The night was heavy with a shroud of gray
As weary feet sought rest upon the stone
Then suddenly the wind began to sway
And tore the veil that kept the light unknown

A silver arc emerged from depths so deep
To pierce the storm and claim the empty space
The clouds recoiled in silence while they weep
Revealing beauty in its cold embrace

It floods the world with pale and ghostly fire
Turning the shadows into softest blue
A silent god fulfilling ancient desire
To show the traveler what the heavens do

My mind grows quiet as the beam descends
No longer racing thoughts or fears of old
Just watching how the endless sky extends
With power vast and stories never told

This force remains when all else fades away
Unmoved by time, unbroken by the rain
It watches over night and turning day
A constant heart within the dark domain",7,"The road was lost beneath a heavy shroud
Where shadows stretched and silence held its breath
Until the wind began to tear the cloud
And wake the sleeping light from out of death

A silver blade cuts through the velvet night
Revealing spheres of dust and ancient stone
That burn with cold and unrelenting light
To claim the sky as their eternal throne

I stand so small beneath this vast display
With heart that beats against the quiet air
As moonlight washes all the doubt away
And leaves me with a wonder beyond compare

No voice can speak the power that I see
In orbits drawn by forces we ignore
It pulls the tide and guides the wandering sea
A constant force behind the shifting door

My mind grows still within this grand design
Reflecting on the time that has passed by
While stars align in patterns sharp and fine
Beneath the watchful, ever-present eye",7,"The road is long and shadows stretch so deep
Where weary eyes have learned to fear the night
But suddenly a silver light begins to creep
And tears the heavy curtain from its height

A fractured moon breaks through the storm's embrace
Revealing stars that wait in silent grace
Its glow spills down upon this quiet place
A gentle hand that time cannot erase

No sound can match the power of this view
As clouds retreat before a radiant hue
It speaks to thoughts I never knew were true
Of forces vast and ancient, old and new

I stand alone beneath this cosmic dome
With heart expanded by the space above
The traveler finds a home within their own
And knows the sky will always watch with love",7
285,ultra_held_out,No Coward Soul Is Mine by Emily Brontë,Emily Brontë,"""A poem about a speaker drawing immense strength from her boundless faith in God, remaining unafraid of death and temptation, and affirming that no earthly force could ever overcome the limitless power of divine love.""","No coward soul is mine
No trembler in the world's storm-troubled sphere
I see Heaven's glories shine
And Faith shines equal arming me from Fear

O God within my breast
Almighty ever-present Deity
Life, that in me hast rest,
As I Undying Life, have power in Thee

Vain are the thousand creeds
That move men's hearts, unutterably vain,
Worthless as withered weeds
Or idlest froth amid the boundless main

To waken doubt in one
Holding so fast by thy infinity,
So surely anchored on
The steadfast rock of Immortality.

With wide-embracing love
Thy spirit animates eternal years
Pervades and broods above,
Changes, sustains, dissolves, creates and rears

Though earth and moon were gone
And suns and universes ceased to be
And Thou wert left alone
Every Existence would exist in thee

There is not room for Death
Nor atom that his might could render void
Since thou art Being and Breath
And what thou art may never be destroyed.","The shadow lengthens but I do not tremble,
For in the silence of my soul, a light burns bright and true.
Death is but a door to something greater,
A whisper that dissolves into the morning dew.
Let temptation knock with all its silver lies,
It finds no purchase on this anchored heart,
Where grace has built a fortress past surprise,
And torn the chains of fear and doubt apart.

No storm can shake the ground where I have stood,
No army march against the peace within.
My strength is drawn from blood that once was shed for good,
From love that conquered every trace of sin.
The world may rage and try to break the chain,
But earthly power bows before the throne above.
I stand unshaken through the wind and rain,
Held by the limitless and boundless love.","My heart is anchored in a boundless faith
That makes the shadow of the grave but light,
For death cannot unmake what God hath made,
Nor break the seal that guards my soul from night.

No temptation's lure can shake this firm resolve,
Since I have seen the strength that love supplies;
It turns the poison into healing wine,
And opens heaven's gates before mine eyes.

Let earth and hell combine their utmost force,
They cannot touch the power that holds me fast;
The infinite love of God is more than all,
And will be with me to the very last.",7,"When shadows stretch across the narrow path
And whispers of the grave begin to call,
I do not tremble at the silent aftermath,
For in my heart I hear a louder thrall.
No temptation's net can hold this spirit fast,
Bound by a chain that earth cannot unbind;
The future holds no terror for the past
That is secure within a loving mind.

Let empires rise and crumble into dust,
Let kings declare their power absolute,
In God alone is found the perfect trust,
Where every doubt and fear is made obsolete.
No sword of man, no plague, nor storm, nor fire,
Can pierce the shield of love that guards my soul;
My faith ascends beyond all earthly ire,
To make the broken vessel whole again, made whole.

For death itself is but a door ajar,
Leading to light where pain is never known;
Temptation fades before the morning star
Of grace that makes the weary heart its own.
Let all the world conspire to break my peace,
They cannot touch the fortress of the Lord;
My strength is boundless, never shall it cease,
For I am held by an eternal cord.",7,"When shadows lengthen and the grave calls out,
My heart remains a fortress, calm and bright,
For in my soul there burns a holy doubt
That fear can never extinguish with its night.

The tempter whispers lies of sweet decay,
But I have seen the dawn that breaks the chain,
And know that death is but the end of day,
A door swung wide to let me enter rain.

Let empires rise and crumble into dust,
Let storms rage on the mountains and the sea,
No earthly power can break this sacred trust,
Or shake the ground where God has built for me.

For love divine is vast beyond all measure,
A tide that swallows every wave of hate,
It is the anchor in the stormy treasure,
The key that opens every iron gate.

So let the world fall down in ruin's sound,
I stand secure within His endless grace,
Where not a single shadow can be found,
To dim the light upon my resting place.",7,"When shadows lengthen and the grave calls near,
My heart beats steady with a calm so deep,
For in the silence I can hear Him clear,
A promise that no mortal sleep can keep.

The serpent whispers lies of sweet despair,
Of fleeting pleasures built on shifting sand,
But faith lifts up my spirit through the air,
To stand unshaken by his trembling hand.

Let kings and armies march with steel and fire,
Let storms arise to tear the sky apart,
No earthly force can quench this holy pyre,
Or break the fortress of His boundless heart.

For love divine is stronger than the night,
More vast than oceans, deeper than the stone,
It turns the darkest terror into light,
And makes the lonely soul feel not alone.

I walk ahead without a trace of fear,
Knowing the end is just a door to grace,
For every tear He wipes away is dear,
And time itself cannot erase His face.

So let the world rage on with all its might,
It cannot touch the throne where He resides,
My strength is drawn from endless, purest light,
With nothing left for death or sin to hide.",7,"When shadows stretch across the trembling ground
And silence calls my name to fade away,
I feel no fear, for I am safe and sound
Within the arms that hold both night and day.

The tempter whispers lies of hollow gain,
Of fleeting gold and power made of dust,
But in my heart, a quiet, steady rain
Has washed the soil where only trust can grow.

Let death come close with all its icy breath,
It finds no purchase on this living soul;
For life is more than what the grave bequeath,
A story written to make broken whole.

No army marching, no sword drawn in rage,
No mountain high enough to block the light,
Can shake the foundation of this holy stage,
Or dim the fire burning through the night.

For love divine is vast beyond all measure,
An ocean deep where every tear is known,
It breaks the chains of sorrow and of pleasure,
And claims a kingdom built upon its throne.

So let the world collide and crumble down,
Let stars fall from their ancient, spinning place,
I wear a crown that cannot know a frown,
Secure within this boundless, endless grace.",7,"The shadow falls but cannot dim the light
That burns within this soul so deeply steeped
In promises that hold through endless night
Where every fear is by the grace unkept

Let death approach with silent, hollow breath
For I have walked beyond its final door
No temptation holds a grip on one who's met
The infinite and everlasting roar

The world may shake and crumble into dust
Yet mountains bow before the hand above
In every trial placed in iron trust
I find the anchor of a boundless love

No sword can cut the thread of sacred grace
No chain can bind the spirit set apart
I stand unmoved within this holy space
With God's own fire beating in my heart",7,"The shadow falls but cannot touch my skin
For I am wrapped in light that never ends
A promise kept where fear once held its kin
And every broken heart finds peace again

Let death approach with silent, hollow breath
It meets a soul that knows the way to rise
No chain of earth can hold this life beneath
Or dim the fire within these watching eyes

When whispers call to turn from sacred ground
I stand unmoved by shadows deep and wide
My anchor holds what no storm could unbound
With grace as vast as oceans, deep inside

Let kingdoms fall and stars forget their name
The power of the divine remains the same
A love so fierce it burns away the shame
Proving no force can break the holy flame",7
292,ultra_held_out,The Rest by Jane Huffman,Jane Huffman,"""A poem about carrying the constant pain of lung sickness and slowly succumbing to its tragic physical impacts on the human body.""","Still, I keep myself, I take
to bed. One lung is red. Cut red
flowers hung in pink water.

My other lung is out of  line.
From one lung, I tell the truth.
From the other lung, I lie.
Cut pink flowers hung in red water.

Like a pain, the truth is mine.
The lie is that today I want to die.
Cut red water hung in pink flowers.

The rest of it is stillness, rest.
A soft cough into a hard pan.
A hard cough into a soft plane.
Cut pink water hung in red flowers","The air arrives as a heavy stone
That settles deep within the rib cage walls
Where once the breeze moved light and free
Now every breath is a battle fought in vain

A dry and rattling sound begins to rise
Like wind through hollow branches in the cold
It scratches at the throat with jagged edges
Leaving no room for the quiet of sleep

The skin turns pale, a map of fading veins
While fingers curl into claws of desperate need
For oxygen that slips away like water
Through cupped hands that cannot hold it tight

The chest becomes a prison of tight wires
Squeezing out the life with every gasp
The lungs are filled with fluid, thick and gray
Turning the vibrant red to shades of rust

Time slows down to match the laboring heart
That beats against the weight of drowning air
Each moment stretches thin and brittle now
As shadows lengthen across the weary floor

The body bows beneath the unseen load
A slow surrender to the creeping dark
Until the final rattle fades to silence
And the struggle ends in stillness, deep and cold","The air is a heavy stone I must lift with my ribs
Every time the bellows of my chest expand,
And when they collapse it is like a door slamming shut
On a finger that has been cut off.

There is a fire in the hollows behind the breastbone
That never goes out, only smolders and stings,
And the blood is thick as tar and slow to move,
So the hands are blue at the tips and cold.

I cough up the phlegm that blocks the windpipe,
A blackish slime that tastes of old copper,
And I know it is my own lung tissue rotting away
To make this poison for me to swallow again.

My legs are thin as sticks because I cannot walk,
Only shuffle from the bed to the chair,
For the heart is tired and pumps weakly now,
And the water rises in the feet and ankles.

I can see the ribs sticking out like the bars of a cage,
And the skin is yellow and dry as paper,
And the eyes are sunken and staring at the ceiling,
Waiting for the breath to stop coming in.

It is a long dying, a suffocating slowly,
Like being buried alive inch by inch,
With the dirt piling up on the mouth and nose,
And the lungs filling up with water and death.",2,"The air grows thin and heavy as a stone
That presses down upon the tender chest
A hollow ache that never leaves alone
But turns the morning light into a test

My ribs feel like a cage of brittle wire
That creaks and groans with every shallow breath
The fire inside consumes my own desire
To fight the slow and silent march of death

The coughing fits arrive like sudden storms
And shake the fragile vessel to its core
Leaving me weak and shivering and warm
With sweat that sticks to skin I can't ignore

My fingers curl in blue and twisted knots
As oxygen refuses to take hold
The world dissolves in blurry, distant spots
While strength drains out like water from a mold

I watch the mirror show a stranger's face
With sunken eyes and cheeks that have grown pale
No longer do I recognize this place
Where once I walked and ran without a fail

The lungs are now just sacks of broken glass
That fill with fluid and refuse to clear
I wait for moments that will never pass
And listen to the rattling grow near

Soon the weight will lift and I will sleep
In silence where the breathing does not hurt
Until the final darkness comes to keep
The promise of a painless, quiet dirt",6,"The air grows thick and heavy as a stone
Inside the cage of ribs that used to sing
A rattle starts, a ghostly, hollow tone
That marks the place where breath can no longer cling

My chest becomes a drum of failing skin
Where every beat is fought with shallow gasps
The fire burns beneath the surface thin
While cold sweat beads in sudden, clammy claps

I watch the color drain from fingers first
As oxygen retreats like tide from shore
A quiet, creeping, inevitable thirst
For wind that will not come through any door

The world tilts soft and edges blur away
With each step heavier than all before
The light dissolves into a gray decay
And silence waits behind the bedroom door",6,"The air grows thick and heavy in the chest
A silent thief that steals the morning light
Each breath a battle fought against the rest
Of lungs that fail to hold the day so bright

The ribs feel tight as if bound by wire
While coughing shakes the fragile frame within
A burning heat, a dry and ragged fire
That marks the place where life begins to thin

The fingers turn a shade of pale and blue
As oxygen retreats from every vein
The world outside looks distant, hazy too
Like rain falling on an empty window pane

My legs grow weak beneath this sudden weight
The stairs become a mountain I cannot climb
I wait for night to bring a gentle fate
And silence all the struggle and the time

The body fades like smoke into the gray
A hollow shell where once a spirit burned
The final breath is stolen, taken away
Until the quiet lesson is fully learned",7,"The air grows thick with invisible dust
A heavy fog that settles in the chest
Where once a rhythm danced so pure and just
Now only ragged gasps are left to rest

Each breath becomes a battle fought in vain
Against the weight that presses on the bone
The ribs feel tight as iron, cold and plain
While fire burns beneath the skin alone

My hands grow thin as parchment, pale and gray
The color drains from cheeks I used to know
The sun feels distant, fading far away
As strength dissolves into a quiet flow

The coughing shakes the fragile frame apart
A hollow sound that echoes in the room
It tears a jagged line through every heart
And plants the seeds of inevitable doom

I watch the ceiling spin in dizzy circles slow
The world recedes to shadows soft and deep
There is no place for weary lungs to go
Except the silence where the broken sleep

The final breath arrives without a sound
A gentle letting go of all the fight
As gravity pulls everything down
Into the endless, welcoming night",7,"The air arrives as jagged glass
That scrapes the inner walls of breath
A heavy weight within the chest
That steals the rhythm of my death

My ribs expand to meet the void
But find no purchase, only strain
Each inhale is a battle fought
Against a slow and silent pain

The color fades from fingertips
As oxygen retreats too far
A burning fire in the throat
Where stars have dimmed behind a scar

I count the seconds in the dark
While shadows stretch across the floor
The body weakens, bone by bone
To open up a locked door

No sound remains but ragged gasps
A final plea the lungs cannot keep
As gravity pulls down the light
And drags me toward the endless sleep",6,"The air grows thick with dust and gray
A heavy weight that steals the day
Each breath a war fought in the chest
Where quiet hope begins to rest

The ribs expand but find no space
Trapped within this hollow place
A rattle rises, sharp and deep
Awaking ghosts from endless sleep

The skin turns cold against the fire
As strength dissolves in slow desire
To let the shadow take its hold
And trade the warmth for stories told

Fingers tremble at the edge
Of every promise left unpledged
The lungs collapse beneath the strain
Of rain that falls without a name

Now silence calls a final tune
Beneath the pale and waning moon
No fight remains, no voice to cry
Just watching as the light goes dry",6
294,train,To one who has been long in city pent by John Keats,John Keats,"""A poem about a city-dweller experiencing the awe-inspiring joy of nature during a countryside escape, breathing open air and delighting in birdsong and open skies before returning home as the day slips by unnoticed.""","To one who has been long in city pent,
'Tis very sweet to look into the fair
And open face of heaven,—to breathe a prayer
Full in the smile of the blue firmament.
Who is more happy, when, with heart's content,
Fatigued he sinks into some pleasant lair
Of wavy grass, and reads a debonair
And gentle tale of love and languishment?
Returning home at evening, with an ear
Catching the notes of Philomel,—an eye
Watching the sailing cloudlet's bright career,
He mourns that day so soon has glided by:
E'en like the passage of an angel's tear
That falls through the clear ether silently.","The concrete hum fades into silence deep,
Where only wind and ancient oak trees keep
A rhythm slow and steady as a heart,
No longer torn by city's frantic art.

I breathe the air, so crisp it stings the lung,
With scents of pine where once the smoke was hung,
And look above to skies of endless blue,
That stretch unbroken, vast and clear and true.

A chorus rises from the hidden boughs,
As birdsong weaves its joy among the leaves,
While time itself seems gently to allow
The heavy weight of urban life to eaves.

The sun dips low, a golden, slipping thread,
That steals the hours without a single sound,
Before I turn to walk the path ahead,
Leaving this peace that I have newly found.

The road back calls, the day is gone too fast,
Yet in my chest a wilder sky remains,
To hold the memory of light so vast,
Until the next escape through rain or rains.","The concrete canyon fades behind the gate,
And suddenly the sky is not a roof but space,
A vast blue dome where clouds drift slow and great,
And time seems to have lost its frantic pace.

I breathe deep drafts of air that taste of green,
No longer choked by exhaust and city dust;
The silence here is rich and full, unseen,
Except for birdsong singing in the bush.

They trill and chirp as if they never stop,
Their voices fill the hollows of my ear;
I feel a sudden, strange and happy hop,
As if my heart were one with theirs, and near.

I look about me at the open sky,
The grassy fields, the hedgerows, and the trees;
I did not know such joy could ever be,
Until I saw them with these very eyes.

But now the shadows lengthen on the grass,
The day has slipped away without a sound;
I must go back to where the tall buildings pass,
And walk again upon the hard, paved ground.",6,"The concrete gray dissolves in morning mist,
And I step out where only green exists.
No sirens scream, no tires hum on stone,
Just open air that fills my lungs like wine.
Above, the sky is vast and deep and blue,
Unbroken by a single wire or line.

A thrush begins a song so wild and clear,
It shakes the dew from leaves and wakes the ear.
I watch the clouds drift slowly, soft and white,
While time forgets to rush me through the light.
The world feels wide, uncluttered, and so free,
As if the earth was made just for me.

But soon the shadows stretch across the grass,
And golden hour slips away too fast.
The birds fall silent as the day takes flight,
And I must turn back toward the city night.
Yet in my chest, the joy remains so strong,
To carry home within my heart all long.",6,"The concrete hum fades into silence deep,
As I step out where wild green fields sweep.
No sirens wail, no engines roar above,
Just open air that fills my lungs with love.

A chorus rises from the hidden boughs,
Where birdsong drowns the city's dusty vows.
The sky stretches in blue and endless wide,
With not a single building to hide.

I breathe the scent of rain and fresh-cut hay,
And watch the golden sunlight slip away.
The hours melt like sugar in the tea,
Unnoticed by the heart so wild and free.

But shadows lengthen on the grassy floor,
And time reminds me I must go once more.
Back to the grid, the noise, the narrow street,
With nature's joy still dancing at my feet.",6,"The concrete hum fades into silence deep,
Where only wind and ancient willows speak.
I breathe a lungful of the morning steep,
And feel the weight of city streets grow weak.

Above, the sky unfolds in endless blue,
No steel to cage the light or block the view.
A thrush begins a melody so true,
It stitches up the cracks I didn't knew.

The hours melt like sugar in the tea,
As clouds drift by with slow and lazy grace.
I watch the wild bees dance in wild glee,
And lose all track of time and familiar place.

But shadows lengthen on the grassy floor,
The sun dips low behind the distant hill.
I turn my face toward the open door,
With quiet heart and spirit strangely still.

Back to the grid where neon lights ignite,
Yet carrying this dawn within my chest.
The day has slipped away into the night,
Leaving the city and its rush to rest.",7,"The concrete hum that filled my chest
Dissolves beneath the morning light,
As open fields replace the street
And silence swallows up the night.
I breathe a air so crisp and clean,
No exhaust fumes to cloud the lung,
Just wild grass brushing at my knees
Where ancient, quiet songs are sung.

A thrush erupts in sudden song,
A melody of pure delight,
While clouds drift slow across the blue,
Unbound by walls or city height.
The sky stretches an endless dome,
A canvas vast and deeply deep,
Where time forgets its hurried pace
And promises it means to keep.

I watch the golden sun descend,
Too lost in wonder to depart,
Until the shadows stretch and lengthen,
And twilight settles round my heart.
The road calls back with familiar sound,
Yet I am changed by what I've seen,
Carrying the wild and open sky
Within the spaces in between.",6,"Concrete shadows fade behind the rearview glass
As pavement turns to dirt and silence breaks the rush
The air tastes sweet with rain and wild green grass
No longer filtered through a window's hushed hush

A chorus rises from the branches high above
Where sparrows dance on wings of morning light
Each note a song I never knew I loved
Against the vast and endless dome of white

I breathe until my lungs forget the gray
Of sirens screaming in the crowded street
Here time dissolves into the golden day
With every heartbeat matching nature's beat

The sun dips low to paint the hills in gold
And slowly calls me back to where I started
Yet something in my spirit will unfold
Long after city lights have left their mark",6,"Concrete shadows fade behind the gate
As tires roll on paths of worn-out stone
The heavy air of traffic, thick and late
Dissolves beneath a sky I've never known

A sudden breath fills lungs with crisp and clean
No smog to choke the rhythm of my chest
Here green fields stretch in emerald sheen
And silence offers up a gentle rest

Above the trees a chorus starts to rise
Where sparrows dance on wings of gold and brown
Their songs are ancient lullabies
That wash away the noise of every town

I watch the clouds drift slow across the blue
Unhurried by the clock that ticks so fast
Time loses all its rigid shape for you
As moments stretch into the golden past

The sun dips low to kiss the distant hill
A final warmth before the twilight grows
The city calls but softly, quiet still
With secrets that the countryside bestows

I turn my back to walk the path again
Carrying the light within my soul
The wild world fades from sight and brain
Yet leaves a piece of nature in my whole",7
313,ultra_held_out,"But He Was Cool, or: he even stopped for green lights by Haki R. Madhubuti",Haki R. Madhubuti,"""A poem about a Black man trying to fit into American society by acting cool and wearing imported items, while losing touch with his real roots and identity.""","super-cool
ultrablack
a tan/purple
had a beautiful shade.
he had a double-natural
that wd put the sisters to shame.
&his beads were imported sea shells
(from some blk/country i never heard of)
he was triple-hip.
his tikis were hand carved
out of ivory
&came express from the motherland.
he would greet u in swahili
&say good-by in yoruba.
woooooooooooo-jim he bes so cool &ill tel li gent
cool-cool is so cool he was un-cooled by other niggers' cool
cool-cool ultracool was bop-cool/ice box cool so cool cold cool
his wine didn't have to be cooled, him was air conditioned cool
cool-cool/real cool made me cool--now ain't that cool
cool-cool so cool him nick-named refrigerator.
cool-cool so cool
he didn't know,
after detroit, newark, chicago &c.,
we had to hip
cool-cool/ super-cool/ real cool
that
to be black
is
to be
very-hot.","He buttons up the Italian silk to hide the sweat
Of a body that remembers walking barefoot on red clay
Adjusting the gold chain that weighs down his neck
Like a heavy promise he cannot keep
The sneakers are limited edition, imported from Tokyo
But they make no sound on the pavement of his childhood street
He speaks in slang he heard on television
A borrowed rhythm that trips over his own tongue
Forgetting the lullabies his grandmother hummed
In a dialect that sounds like rain on tin roofs
He laughs too loud at jokes that do not land
Trying to prove he belongs in this room of glass and steel
While the mirror shows a stranger wearing his face
The fabric is soft but it does not breathe
It chokes out the memory of the soil
That once held him when he fell
Now he stands tall in designer shadows
Afraid to take them off
Lest the world see the roots he tried to cut away
And find nothing left but air","He bought the Italian loafers that pinch his toes
And the silk shirts from Lagos he never wears
Because they are too loud for the office breakroom
Where everyone talks about golf and stocks.

He speaks in a clipped, sharp American accent
Hiding the rolling vowels of his grandfather's village
And laughs at jokes about black people on TV
While his mother calls to ask if he has eaten.

He thinks he is cool because he drinks espresso
And knows the names of obscure French painters
But when he walks down the street in his sunglasses
The old women cross over to the other side.

He forgets the rhythm of the drums in his blood
And the way the earth smells after rain in the tropics
And now he only smells of expensive cologne
And feels like a stranger in his own skin.",2,"He buys the leather jacket from a shop in Milan
and thinks the cold Italian wind will warm him here,
taping his mouth shut with a smile that says I am cool,
I am modern, I am one of you.

The gold chain is heavy on his neck but light on his heart,
swinging like a pendulum counting down the seconds
of a heritage he forgot how to speak.
He walks with a swagger that isn't his own gait,
mimicking a rhythm from a radio station he doesn't understand.

In the mirror he sees a stranger wearing imported shadows,
a man dressed in labels that scream belonging
while his soul screams silence.
The roots are dry now, buried under concrete and designer shoes,
the soil of his ancestors turned into a parking lot for foreign cars.

He tries to laugh at jokes made in a language not his mother's tongue,
nodding along as if the history being erased is just a bad dream.
But when the lights go out and the imported leather creaks,
he hears the drumbeat fading,
the old song getting lost in the static of a new world,
and he stands alone in a room full of things
that fit perfectly but do not belong to him.",2,"He buttons up the silk shirt from Milan
and checks his reflection in the shop window glass
where the man staring back is smooth and polished
a product of imported threads and foreign labels
he walks with a stride that says he belongs here
cool as the ice in his glass, detached from the heat
of the street where his grandfather once stood
telling stories under a sky that knew no borders
but now he speaks a language of brands and trends
swapping the rhythm of the drum for the beat of the city
forgetting the taste of soil that grew his ancestors
he trades the heavy gold of memory for lightweight chains
that chafe against a neck trying to hold up a new name
the roots are tangled deep beneath the pavement
but he refuses to look down at the dirt
afraid that if he digs too deep he will find himself
so he keeps walking, cool and distant
until the mirror shows only a stranger
wearing a face that does not fit
in the house of his own making.",2,"He ties a silk scarf from Lagos tight around his neck
But speaks in slang he heard on screens, not streets
The leather boots are Italian made and stiff
They pinch the feet that once ran bare on red clay dust
He laughs at jokes he does not understand
Nods to rhythms that beat inside a different chest
A curated coolness built of imported threads
To hide the ache of being seen as something less
He buys the brands that say he belongs here now
While elders call his name in tongues he cannot speak
The mirror shows a stranger in the glass
With foreign logos stitched upon his skin
He trades the stories of the ancestors for status
And watches as the roots beneath him turn to stone
The city swallows him with open arms of neon light
Leaving the man who was before behind
A hollow shell of trends and borrowed grace
Drifting far from where his blood began to flow.",3,"He buttons up a shirt from Milan
Stitched with threads that never knew the soil
Of where his ancestors first stood tall
And traded in the drum for a silent phone
A cool detachment, a practiced smile
That hides the rhythm of the ancestral call

The sneakers imported from across the sea
Are pristine white, untouched by mud or rain
They whisper of a status he can buy
But drown out songs that once spoke his name
He walks the street with posture sharp and cold
Afraid to let the warmth of home remain

He speaks in slang that isn't quite his own
Adopting tones to blend into the crowd
While inside something deep begins to fade
A quiet grief, too heavy to be loud
The mask is perfect, polished, and so sleek
But underneath, the roots are turning gray

He fears the mirror shows a stranger's face
A man who bought his worth but lost his soul
The imported gold feels heavy on his skin
As pieces of himself begin to roll
Away into the cracks of city stone
Leaving the boy he was to lose control

No title marks this slow and silent drift
Just footsteps echoing on concrete floors
Where coolness is a wall he built too high
To keep the truth behind its locked doors
He fits the mold, he plays the part so well
But does not know what it means anymore",6,"The leather boots are made in Italy
But they pinch the arch of a foot that knows the red clay
He smooths his hair with gel from Paris
Hiding the crown where ancestors once wore gold
He speaks in slang borrowed from the screen
A performance polished for a crowd that nods politely
While the drumbeat of his grandmother's kitchen fades to static
He trades the stories of the village for a designer label
Thinking the price tag proves he belongs here
But the mirror shows a stranger in expensive clothes
Eyes searching for a reflection that no longer fits
The cool facade cracks when the music stops
Leaving only silence and the heavy weight of what was sold
To buy a seat at a table that never truly welcomed him home",2,"He pulls the silk from distant shores
A fabric not of home or dust
To mask the skin that bears the scars
Of ancestors who knew the rust

He walks with strides designed for show
In shoes that cost a month of bread
The rhythm in his chest grows slow
As words of kin are left unsaid

A laugh too sharp, a glance too cold
To hide the ache beneath the vest
He trades the stories told of old
For approval from a foreign guest

The mirror shows a stranger's face
With eyes that search for something new
While roots run dry without a trace
And silence fills the space they grew

He wears the world upon his back
But feels the weight of what he lost
A kingdom built on borrowed track
Where every step is paid at cost

The cool facade begins to crack
Revealing cracks within the soul
As imported dreams turn into black
And leave him fractured, incomplete and whole",6
318,ultra_held_out,Homecoming by Simon Armitage,Simon Armitage,"""A poem about a child navigating the developing trust and relationships between parents and children.""","Think, two things on their own and both at once
The first, that exercise in trust, where those in front
stand with their arms spread wide and free-fall
backwards, blind, and those behind take all the weight.

The second, one canary-yellow cotton jacket
on a cloakroom floor, uncoupled from its hook
becoming scuffed and blackened underfoot. Back home
the very model of a model of a mother, yours, puts
two and two together, makes a proper fist of it
and points the finger. Temper, temper. Questions
in the house. You seeing red. Blue murder. Bed.
Then midnight when you slip the latch and sneak
no further than the call-box at the corner of the street;
I'm waiting by the phone, although it doesn't ring
because it's sixteen years or so before we'll meet.
Retrace that walk towards the garden gate; in silhouette
a father figures waits there, wants to set things straight.

These ribs are pleats or seams. These arms are sleeves.
These fingertips are buttons, or these hands can fold
into a clasp, or else these fingers make a zip
or buckle, you say which. Step backwards into it
and try the same canary-yellow cotton jacket, there,
like this, for size again. It still fits.","The door is open but the lock remains
A heavy thing I do not yet understand
You hold my hand so tight it feels like pain
Then loosen just enough to let me stand

I watch you leave and wait for your return
Counting the seconds on the kitchen wall
Is this a game where I am meant to burn
Or will you catch me if I start to fall

Your voice is soft when shadows start to creep
And promises are made in quiet tones
But sometimes silence makes the dark too deep
And I am small within these unfamiliar zones

Yet morning comes with coffee in your cup
And laughter breaks the tension of the night
I learn that love is something built up
Not given all at once but earned by light

So I step forward though my knees may shake
Trusting the ground beneath my wandering feet
Knowing that whatever choice I make
You'll be the harbor where my heart can meet","I watch you build the wall
with bricks of ""because I said so""
and mortar made of silence,
watching to see if I can climb it.

Sometimes you leave a gate open
just to see if I will walk through,
or leave a window cracked
to hear if I will jump out.

When I come back with a scraped knee
you say I should have been more careful,
but when I cry you give me a bandage
and tell me not to be afraid.

One day you will say I am too old
for a bandage and for your arms,
so I must learn to trust my own knees
and my own legs before they break.",3,"I test the floorboards with a heavy step
To see if they will hold my weight today,
And watch your eyes to see if you will let me fall
Or catch me before I hit the ground.

You say the sky is blue and I believe it
Until I climb the tree and find the leaves are green,
Then I look at you to see if you are angry
That I found out the truth was different from your word.

Sometimes you promise ice cream for tomorrow
And sometimes you forget, and then I learn
That words are like the wind that blows away,
But hugs are solid things that stay.

When you are sad, I do not know what to do
So I bring you my toy car, small and red,
And you take it and smile, and I feel safe again,
Knowing I can fix the broken world.

But when you shout, the air turns sharp and cold,
And I hide under the table in the dark,
Wondering if you still love me here or there,
Or if the love has gone where I cannot go.

I walk back and forth between your hands and mine,
Building a bridge of trust one stone at a time,
Testing the water, testing the depth,
Learning how deep the love goes, and how far.",4,"The floor is cold but your hand is warm
A small anchor in the morning storm
You say I will be back before the sun
But shadows stretch and day is done

I learn that words are not just sound
They are promises that can be found
In empty chairs or full again
In laughter breaking through the rain

Sometimes you leave and sometimes stay
Sometimes you forget to bring the toy away
And I watch the door with held-up breath
Wondering if love can last until death

Or until tea time, or until school
Until I learn to break the rule
That trust is built in tiny steps
Not giant leaps across the gaps

So when you return with keys and coat
I do not run, I do not float
I wait and watch your face appear
To see if you are really here",6,"The floor is cold but your hand is warm
a steady weight against my small palm
I watch you leave and the door clicks shut
and for a moment the world feels thin
like paper tearing in the rain

You come back with milk and stories
your voice a bridge across the dark room
I test the edge of your promise
by dropping the cup just to see
if you will still look at me with kindness
if the love is strong enough to hold the pieces

It grows slowly like a vine finding light
not all at once but day by day
when I fall and you do not rush to catch me
but wait to see if I can stand
then offer your shoulder when I am ready

Sometimes you are tired and sharp
and I pull away into my quiet corner
wondering if the bond is real or made of glass
until you sit on the floor beside me
silent and soft until the air clears again

I learn that trust is not a wall built high
but a door left open in the night
that you will walk through
and I will know your footsteps
even before you speak my name",2,"Small hands reach out to test the air
Before they grasp a waiting pair
Of arms that hold but do not squeeze
And let the quiet moments ease

The first time you let go of my hand
I stumbled on the shifting sand
But when I looked and saw you stand
A steady wall against the land

You taught me that a broken toy
Is fixed with patience, not with noise
That anger passes like a cloud
And love remains both clear and loud

Now trust is not a thing I find
In sudden leaps or grand design
It lives in cups of morning tea
In promises you keep for me

We build a bridge from day to day
Where words can float and fears give way
Two hearts that learn to beat as one
Beneath the rising of the sun",7,"Small hands reach out to test the air
For solid ground that isn't there
A wobble in the morning light
Before the day has fully bright

They watch the way you turn away
To wash the dishes, start the day
And wonder if the love they hold
Is fragile as a story told

But then a voice cuts through the doubt
To say what matters, what is about
The promise kept when storms roll in
The steady hand that helps them win

Trust is not a single wall
That stands unbroken, tall and staid
It grows like vines along the stone
In quiet words and seeds sown

Sometimes you stumble, sometimes I
And gaps appear beneath the sky
Yet in the space where fear takes root
We learn to heal and bear the fruit

So here we stand, both old and new
With nothing left for us to do
But walk this path, side by side
With trust as our only guide",7,"Small hands reach out to test the air
For warmth that lingers in a mother's care
A father's voice, a steady drum
That beats until the quiet comes

The first step taken on uncertain ground
Where safety is a promise newly found
Not given freely but earned with time
Through every stumble and every climb

Trust is built in whispered words at night
In stories told to chase away the fright
It grows in silence when the door closes tight
And opens wide to let the morning light

A fragile bridge between the old and new
Where love learns how to start again anew
No map exists for where this path will lead
Only the heart that chooses to believe",7
323,ultra_held_out,Ode on Solitude by Alexander Pope,Alexander Pope,"""A poem about a man preferring the simple pleasures of solitary rural life, tending his land and herds through the seasons, over fame, luxury, and the company of others.""","Happy the man, whose wish and care
A few paternal acres bound,
Content to breathe his native air,
In his own ground.
Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread,
Whose flocks supply him with attire,
Whose trees in summer yield him shade,
In winter fire.
Blest, who can unconcernedly find
Hours, days, and years slide soft away,
In health of body, peace of mind,
Quiet by day,
Sound sleep by night; study and ease,
Together mixed; sweet recreation;
And innocence, which most does please,
With meditation.
Thus let me live, unseen, unknown;
Thus unlamented let me die;
Steal from the world, and not a stone
Tell where I lie.","The city calls with bells of gold and streets of polished stone,
But I have found a quieter throne beneath the willow's shade.
Let others chase the fleeting praise that fades like morning mist,
While I count blessings in the dust where silent hours exist.

My kingdom is this rolling hill, my crown the rising sun,
Where work begins before the dawn and ends when day is done.
No silk to wear against the wind, no feast of spiced delight,
Just bread baked from my own hard grain and stars that pierce the night.

Through spring I watch the lambs take form, their wool soft as a cloud,
And summer heats the golden wheat above the grazing crowd.
In autumn, when the frost arrives, I gather in the store,
Then watch the winter silence fall upon the frozen floor.

I need no hand to shake in greeting, no voice to fill the air,
For nature speaks a language deep that only I can share.
The cowherd's song, the rustling grass, the river's steady flow,
Are riches that no merchant king could ever hope to know.

So let them dance in gilded halls and seek the bright acclaim,
I'll tend my simple, sacred land and never know their name.
For in this solitude I find a peace they cannot buy,
Beneath the vast and open sky where honest shepherds lie.","Let others seek the crowded street
And chase the loud applause of fame;
I'll walk where only winds and feet
Have trod, and call my quiet name.

No gilded hall nor silken chair
Can match the warmth of straw and fire;
The smell of hay and fresh-cut air
Is all the luxury I desire.

Through spring I watch the lambs arise
With soft eyes in the morning dew;
In summer see the golden skies
And hear the bees among the clover.

When autumn comes, the granary fills
With grain that grew from soil I tilled;
The frosty fields are brown and stills,
And silence is the only chill.

Then winter brings the snow to bind
The land in white as in a shroud;
I sit beside the blazing fire
And talk with none but God aloud.",6,"Let others chase the gilded stage and shout
Their names to crowds that cheer then turn away,
I choose the quiet field where shadows grow
And watch the seasons mark their steady way.

No velvet couch can match my straw-strewn floor,
No banquet taste as sweet as bread and cheese,
When winter winds blow hard against the door
And snow lies deep among the grazing trees.

My herd is all the company I need,
Their heavy breaths a rhythm in the cold,
They do not ask for words or flattery's greed,
But seek the shelter of the barn and fold.

In spring I mend the fence with calloused hand,
In summer watch the wheat turn golden brown,
In autumn gather fruit from orchard land,
And store the harvest safely for the town.

The city lights may dazzle and entice,
With noise and gold and faces passing by,
But here I find the truth within the ice,
Beneath the vast and unadorned sky.

So let them have their fame and crowded halls,
I keep my simple life, my silent ground,
Where nature answers when the spirit calls,
And peace is found in solitude profound.",7,"Let kings keep their thrones of gilded wood
And merchants count their stacks of gold,
I seek the quiet where the solitude
Of ancient oaks and hills unfold.

No banquet hall with roaring fire
Can match the hearth of peat and pine,
Where winter's bite is less a dire
Affliction than a sharp design.

My fame is in the sprouting grain,
The lamb that bleats at morning light,
The rhythm of the falling rain
That washes clean the long, hard night.

Why crave the crowd's loud, hollow cheer
When silence speaks in wind and stream?
The only guest I need is here,
A shadow cast by evening beam.

So let them chase the fleeting spark
Of glory in a city street,
I'll walk my fields within the dark
With boots worn soft against the beat.

The seasons turn, the herds grow fat,
The soil yields up its honest bread,
And though I have no name but that
Of one who tends the living dead,

I am content, for I possess
More than the world can ever sell:
The quiet peace of wilderness,
And heaven's bell that rings so well.",6,"Let others chase the gilded stage
And seek the applause of crowded rooms,
I find my wealth in winter's fog
And spring's first bloom among the looms.

No velvet cloak can match the warmth
Of sun on wool and earthy skin,
Where silence speaks a deeper truth
Than all the noise of city din.

My kingdom is this rolling hill,
My court the sheep that graze nearby,
The changing light upon the grass
Beneath the vast and open sky.

When autumn turns the leaves to gold
And frost begins to bite the air,
I need no banquet, no bright hall,
Just woodsmoke rising from my lair.

Let kings keep their thrones of stone
And merchants count their piles of coin,
I trade my days for quiet nights
With nothing but the moon to join.",6,"The city calls with bells of gold and brass,
But I have chosen silence for my guest,
To watch the morning mist begin to pass
Above the hills where quiet shadows rest.

No crown of laurel sits upon my brow,
No silk to wrap me from the winter chill,
Just woolen coats and furrows deep and now,
And time that moves according to the hill.

I wake before the sun has kissed the east,
To guide the flock across the dewy grass,
With only wind as any other feast,
And let the noisy world of men go past.

They seek the roar of crowds and praise of kings,
The gilded halls where hollow echoes sound,
While I find joy in simple, humble things,
Where roots run deep in undisturbed ground.

Let others chase the phantom of renown,
I trade it all for soil beneath my hand,
To feel the earth when summer turns to brown,
And know the rhythm of this quiet land.

When stars ignite the velvet dark above,
No banquet table holds a better view,
Than firelight dancing with a gentle love,
For one who finds his whole life here, anew.",7,"The city calls with golden bells and streets of polished stone
But I have found my kingdom in the silence, all alone
Where fame is but a whisper lost beneath the morning dew
And luxury means nothing when the soil is fresh and new

My hands are rough with earth and time, stained deep with green
A quiet crown of thorns upon a brow unseen
I trade the clinking silver cups for water from the well
And find a richer banquet than the feasts of heaven or hell

Through spring the lambs will follow close, a soft and woolen tide
While summer heat brings heavy breath to where the oxen hide
The autumn wind will sweep the fields in rust and amber gold
Before the winter snows arrive to keep the world untold

No guest arrives to break the spell, no voice to fill the air
Just birds that sing their ancient songs above the pasture bare
Let kings command the armies vast and merchants count their gain
I walk this narrow path of peace through sun and gentle rain

For in this solitude I hold a truth they cannot see
That freedom grows in quiet roots beneath the open tree
So let them chase the glittering light that fades before the dawn
I am content to watch the seasons turn until the night is gone",6,"The city calls with neon bright and loud
But I find peace beneath the clouded gray
Where silence speaks a language understood
By roots that drink the morning's gentle rain

No crown of gold can warm the winter chill
That settles deep within this ancient soil
I trade the roar of crowds for birds that sing
And count my wealth in harvest, not in toil

My hands are rough from tending to the earth
From guiding sheep across the rolling green
A simple life where time moves slow and steady
With no demand for what might have been seen

Let others chase the fame that fades so fast
While I watch seasons turn the fields to gold
The herd is mine, the land my only master
A quiet story that needs never be told",7
326,ultra_held_out,On the Sale By Auction of Keats’ Love Letters by Oscar Wilde,Oscar Wilde,"A poem about lamenting the public auctioning of a beloved poet's private love letters to those who do not appreciate art, comparing the act to Roman soldiers gambling over Christ's clothes.","These are the letters which Endymion wrote
To one he loved in secret, and apart.
And now the brawlers of the auction mart
Bargain and bid for each poor blotted note,
Ay! for each separate pulse of passion quote
The merchant’s price. I think they love not art
Who break the crystal of a poet’s heart
That small and sickly eyes may glare and gloat.
Is it not said that many years ago,
In a far Eastern town, some soldiers ran
With torches through the midnight, and began
To wrangel for mean raiment, and to throw
Dice for the garments of a wretched man,
Not knowing the God’s wonder, or His woe?","The gavel falls like a judge's final breath
Upon the paper where your heart once bled,
Sold to the highest bidder in this death
Of privacy, by greed and silence fed.
They do not read the ink that trembled there,
Nor feel the pulse of love you tried to keep,
But count the cost with cold and empty air,
And strip the soul before they fall asleep.

Just as the soldiers cast their lots for Christ,
Dividing up the seamless robe of grace,
These modern wolves have made their darkly bright
Bet on the fragments of a sacred face.
They gamble over words meant only two,
Ignoring how the poet's spirit bled,
While I stand weeping for the truth you knew,
Now scattered among those who never read.","The hammer falls on paper stained with tears
And ink that dried in the dark of a lover's room,
Sold to the highest bidder who will not read them,
Who cares nothing for the rhythm of grief or the rhyme of love.

They are tossed like dice upon a table
While the poet lies cold in his grave,
Just as the Roman soldiers gambled for the seamless robe
Of Christ while he hung dying on the cross.

They split the private words of a broken heart
Like a garment without seam,
To those who do not know the value of art,
Who would sell their own mother's soul for a shilling.

O sacred silence of the dead, violated!
O holy intimacy of the living, profaned!
To be auctioned off to the vulgar crowd
Who cannot see the beauty in the lines.",3,"The gavel falls like a judge's final breath,
Selling the ink-stained confessions of a soul
To men who count their coins and check their watches,
Who cannot read the rhythm in the lines,
Nor feel the pulse that beat beneath the paper.

They bid for scraps of intimacy,
For pages torn from a heart laid bare,
While the poet sleeps in silence, unaware
That his most sacred whispers are now merchandise.

It is the same old story, worn and bloody:
Roman soldiers round the cross, dividing up
The seamless robe of Christ by casting lots,
Gambling on fabric while the world dies slowly.

Here, the tunic is made of love and grief,
The soldiers wear the suits of wealthy bidders,
And though no blood runs down the wooden hill,
The spirit bleeds just as it did then, unseen.

They do not see the art, they only see
The value of the past, the price of fame,
Destroying what was meant for one alone,
By selling it to those who know nothing of love.",3,"The gavel falls like a stone on silence
Breaking the seal of ink and breath,
Where once a trembling hand wrote longing
Now strangers bid for stolen death.
They raise their paddles, eyes unseeing,
For paper scraps that held a soul,
To those who count in cold currency
And never felt the lover's toll.

Oh cruel auctioneer of memory,
You strip the heart to sell the skin,
While outside walls the world moves on
Ignoring where the grief begins.
Just as the soldiers stood at Calvary,
Dividing up the robe of Christ,
With dice that clattered in the dust
Before the final sacrifice.

They gambled for the seamless garment,
Unaware of what they tore apart,
While He hung silent on the tree,
A broken and a bleeding heart.
So now these letters, sacred pages,
Are tossed among the greedy crowd,
By men who cannot read the love
But only hear the numbers loud.

No reverence for the poet's pain,
No honor for the words he penned,
Just bids placed high by empty hands
That do not know how hearts can bend.
The clothes were torn, the words are sold,
The spirit left upon the floor,
While Roman soldiers laugh and count
The price of something pure no more.",6,"The gavel falls like a stone on the heart
And breaks the seal of a secret once kept,
Where ink bled purple with the ache of a part
That only two souls ever fully have wept.
Now strangers in suits with cold, counting eyes
Bid for the tremble of a lover's hand,
While silence is sold to the highest prize
In a market where beauty cannot stand.

They strip the paper as soldiers stripped flesh,
Dividing the rags of a sacred life,
Ignoring the words that made the soul fresh,
Cut through by greed and avarice strife.
Just so at the cross, when the sun turned to night,
The Roman guards cast lots for the garment below,
Laughing while shadows swallowed the light,
Unseeing the God that they did not know.

So here in this hall, the same dice are thrown,
For letters that whispered of heaven and pain,
To those who see value in what can be shown,
But never the spirit behind the plain stain.
They buy up the grief and they sell off the grace,
Like dice rolling loud on a wooden floor,
While the poet lies silent, erased from the place,
And love is no longer a thing to adore.",6,"The gavel falls like a judge's final breath
Upon the silence of a lover's grief,
Where ink once bled with secrets meant for death
Now hangs as merchandise for greedy chief.
They bid in coins on pages soft and worn,
By hands that never felt the weight of rhyme,
Who see no soul within the lines that mourn,
But only value time and wasted time.

Oh cruel lot, to strip the sacred vest
Of words that whispered through the darkest night,
To cast them down among the common quest
For profit in the fading morning light.
Like Roman soldiers round the cross they stand,
Dividing up the tunic, thin and torn,
With dice that clatter in a hollow land,
While art lies broken, waiting to be born.

They gamble now for scraps of holy fire,
Unaware of what they hold so cheap,
A poet's heart reduced to cold desire,
While silent tears the auctioneer must weep.
The robe is gone, the gambler takes his prize,
And leaves the spirit naked in the cold,
With empty eyes that never truly rise
To see the story that was never sold.",6,"The gavel falls like a stone on silence,
Selling the ink of a trembling hand,
Where once a heart beat in secret rhythm,
Now reduced to a lot for the highest bidder.
They stand in rows with empty pockets and hungry eyes,
Counting the cost of a soul laid bare,
While the words meant for one gentle ear
Are shouted down by the clamor of greed.

Oh, how the air grows thin with this betrayal,
As strangers tear at the fabric of devotion,
Bidding not for the beauty of the verse,
But for the scandal of a private grief.
It is the same old story written in dust,
The soldiers casting lots around the cross,
Dividing the robe of the innocent one
Among those who do not know the weight of grace.

Just as they gambled for linen and thread,
Ignoring the divinity wrapped within,
These modern gamblers trade paper for profit,
Blind to the fire that burned in every line.
The poet weeps from a distance unseen,
Watching their love become currency,
A sacred text torn apart by the crowd,
Left cold in the hands of the indifferent.",6,"The gavel falls like a judge's fist
Upon the ink of trembling hands
Where secrets once were softly kissed
And sacred vows in silence stand
Now strangers bid with greedy eyes
For scraps of soul they cannot read
Ignoring how the spirit dies
Beneath the weight of their own greed

A modern Rome has gathered round
To strip the flesh from holy bone
Where verses of profoundest sound
Are sold to highest, hollow tone
Just as the soldiers cast their dice
Upon the robe of suffering grace
They gamble for a piece of ice
And mock the light within this place

No one sees the poet's tear
Or hears the ghost of what was said
Only the price, the cold, the fear
Of love reduced to coins and lead
Let history weep for what is lost
As art becomes a merchant's trade
Counting every fragment, every cost
While all that mattered starts to fade",6
327,ultra_held_out,The Express by Stephen Spender,Stephen Spender,"""A poem about an express train leaving the station and gathering momentum, becoming increasingly out of sync with its surroundings and symbolising unstoppable societal progress that may be harming ordinary people.""","After the first powerful plain manifesto
The black statement of pistons, without more fuss
But gliding like a queen, she leaves the station.
Without bowing and with restrained unconcern
She passes the houses which humbly crowd outside,
The gasworks and at last the heavy page
Of death, printed by gravestones in the cemetery.
Beyond the town there lies the open country
Where, gathering speed, she acquires mystery,
The luminous self-possession of ships on ocean.
It is now she begins to sing—at first quite low
Then loud, and at last with a jazzy madness—
The song of her whistle screaming at curves,
Of deafening tunnels, brakes, innumerable bolts.
And always light, aerial, underneath
Goes the elate metre of her wheels.
Steaming through metal landscape on her lines
She plunges new eras of wild happiness
Where speed throws up strange shapes, broad curves
And parallels clean like the steel of guns.
At last, further than Edinburgh or Rome,
Beyond the crest of the world, she reaches night
Where only a low streamline brightness
Of phosphorus on the tossing hills is white.
Ah, like a comet through flame, she moves entranced
Wrapt in her music no bird song, no, nor bough
Breaking with honey buds, shall ever equal.","The whistle cuts the morning mist
A silver serpent uncoils its length
The wheels begin their rhythmic hiss
And swallow up the station's strength

At first the platform stands so still
With faces pressed against the glass
But soon the blur begins to kill
The quiet moments as they pass

The trees outside turn into lines
The fields dissolve to streaks of green
We leave behind the old designs
For speeds no human heart has seen

The rhythm builds a deafening roar
That drowns the voices on the street
It does not wait for those who pour
Their weary lives beneath its feet

It rushes past the broken home
Where time moves slow and shadows grow
It leaves the silence far alone
To where the frantic engines blow

No brake can hold this iron will
As progress tears the fabric wide
It climbs the hill and crushes still
The fragile things we cannot hide

We are the dust the wheels have raised
By momentum swept away
While in our haste, we lose all phases
Of what it means to live today","The whistle screams a sharp command
And iron wheels begin to grind,
Leaving the platform's dusty land
And all the people left behind.

A blur of brick and window pane
Flashes past the driver's eye,
While on the track the heavy train
Gathers a rolling thundering cry.

It rushes on with growing speed,
The station fades into a dot,
And nothing now can stop its need
To rush along this iron plot.

The fields fly by in streaks of green,
The villages are swallowed fast,
The world is but a rushing scene
That vanishes before it lasts.

It does not care for old men's feet
That stumble on the crossing line,
Nor for the poor who find no seat
But stand and clutch the strap and pine.

It does not see the child that falls
Before the buffer's solid end;
It knows no mercy, hears no calls,
But sweeps them on without an end.

For progress is a monster train
That must be fed with life and breath,
And crushes all who stand in pain
Upon the road to wealth and death.

It will not wait for you or me,
It has no time for tears or sighs;
We must run hard to keep abreast,
Or get run over as we lie.",6,"The whistle screams a sharp command
And iron wheels begin to turn,
Leaving the platform's quiet stand
Where weary faces wait and burn.

At first it matches streetlamp pace,
A rhythmic clatter, slow and deep,
Then blurs the faces in the place
As promises it means to keep.

Now trees become a greenish streak,
The houses melt into a stream,
While those who cannot run or speak
Are left behind within the dream.

It does not care for those who fall,
Or beggars huddled by the track,
It answers only to the call
Of speed that never turns back.

The world outside is torn apart,
A ribbon stretched and frayed and thin,
While progress drives its steel heart
To crush the life we lived within.

We are the dust the engine throws,
The shadow cast by moving light,
As society relentlessly goes
Into the swallowing night.",6,"The whistle cuts the morning air
A silver beast begins to tear
The fabric of the quiet street
Where vendors sell and children meet

At first it moves with gentle grace
A blur within a human space
But soon the rhythm shifts and grows
Beneath the weight of iron toes

The platform blurs, the faces fade
Into a streak of gray and shade
The clock tower spins too fast to read
While weeds are crushed beneath the speed

It screams along the steel-bound track
Ignoring all that holds it back
No signal can command its will
To pause for those who stand so still

The houses shrink, the fields retreat
As progress claims the narrow street
A force that cannot be denied
With nowhere left for us to hide

We watch it rush into the dawn
And feel the ground begin to yawn
A machine that eats the past away
Leaving only dust and decay",7,"The iron beast exhales a cloud of steam
And pulls the heavy doors shut on the street
Where children wave and lovers stand to dream
Of quiet lives that time cannot defeat.

The wheels begin their rhythmic, grinding song
A steady beat that shakes the cobblestone
The platform blurs where shadows used belong
To men who sit and watch the world atone.

Now speed consumes the distance in a breath
The houses stretch like taffy in the heat
The station fades behind a wall of death
As progress rushes with a hungry feet.

We leave the slow and gentle things behind
The baker's shop, the garden, and the friend
Who could not climb the ladder we designed
But watched the train depart without an end.

It screams ahead through valleys deep and wide
With no regard for those it leaves below
A giant engine with nowhere to hide
That crushes all it touches as it go.

The rhythm matches nothing but its own
A frantic pulse that beats against the sky
While ordinary hearts are overthrown
By forces that will never ask us why.

We move too fast to see the broken glass
Or hear the cry of those we left behind
Just watching moments shatter and pass
As history leaves the weak far, far behind.",6,"The whistle cuts the morning air
A sharp command to leave despair
The doors slide shut on faces pale
As silence breaks and engines fail
To wait for those who lag behind
With heavy hearts and weary mind

The wheels begin their rhythmic beat
A thunder rolling down the street
At first a crawl, a gentle sway
Then faster now, it takes its way
The platform blurs into a line
Where human hope can no longer shine

The trees become a streak of green
A ghostly wall, a frantic scene
The world outside begins to spin
While we rush in to let them win
No time to stop, no time to breathe
For progress is the only heave

It screams ahead with iron will
To crush the quiet, break the still
The stations pass like distant dreams
While reality splits at the seams
We trade our homes for speed and steel
And watch the broken spirits kneel

The landscape shifts from soft to gray
As yesterday is swept away
Too fast to catch what falls apart
Too loud to hear the breaking heart
A force that cannot be denied
With nowhere left for us to hide",6,"The whistle cuts the morning air
A sharp command for all to clear
The doors slide shut with final grace
Leaving the quiet of this place

Steel wheels begin their rhythmic hum
A drumbeat calling everyone to run
The platform blurs, a painted smear
As speed becomes the only fear

We pass the homes that stood so still
Now stretched and torn against our will
The trees become a greenest streak
While human voices turn too weak

It races past the fields of grain
Ignoring those who bear the strain
Of watching life move faster now
Without a promise or a vow

The world outside dissolves to gray
As we accelerate away
From gentle hands and slowing time
To reach a distant, cold design

No brakes can hold this iron beast
That feeds on progress from the least
We fly ahead, alone and fast
Leaving the broken past behind at last",7,"Steel wheels kiss the iron rail
A whistle tears the morning air
The platform holds its breath in fear
As silence breaks beyond repair

One by one the lights ignite
Blurring faces, fading names
The world outside begins to bend
To rhythms no one else can claim

We rush ahead with hungry speed
Ignoring cracks beneath our feet
The engine screams a hollow song
Of progress that we cannot meet

Fields dissolve to static gray
While hands reach out for what is lost
The train consumes the quiet days
And counts the cost at every coast

No brakes remain to slow the climb
No voice can stop the rolling tide
It carries us to distant shores
Where ordinary lives must hide",6
328,train,Life Doesn’t Frighten Me by Maya Angelou,Maya Angelou,"""A poem about a child asserting her fearlessness against life's many frightening things, while perhaps hiding the real fear she carries in her heart.""","Shadows on the wall
Noises down the hall
Life doesn't frighten me at all

Bad dogs barking loud
Big ghosts in a cloud
Life doesn't frighten me at all

Mean old Mother Goose
Lions on the loose
They don't frighten me at all

Dragons breathing flame
On my counterpane
That doesn't frighten me at all.

I go boo
Make them shoo
I make fun
Way they run
I won't cry
So they fly
I just smile
They go wild

Life doesn't frighten me at all.

Tough guys fight
All alone at night
Life doesn't frighten me at all.

Panthers in the park
Strangers in the dark
No, they don't frighten me at all.

That new classroom where
Boys all pull my hair
(Kissy little girls
With their hair in curls)
They don't frighten me at all.

Don't show me frogs and snakes
And listen for my scream,
If I'm afraid at all
It's only in my dreams.

I've got a magic charm
That I keep up my sleeve
I can walk the ocean floor
And never have to breathe.

Life doesn't frighten me at all
Not at all
Not at all.

Life doesn't frighten me at all.","I tell the thunder it is just a drum
And run right out to meet the storm
I laugh at shadows stretching long and dark
And say I do not need a lamp to warm

The closet door is wide enough for me
No monsters hide beneath the bed
I climb the tallest oak tree in the yard
With nothing but my courage as my thread

The ocean waves are friendly, soft, and deep
They only want to tickle up my toes
I face the future with a chin held high
Whatever comes, I promise, I will know

But when the wind stops howling through the trees
And silence fills the room so very still
There is a quiet thing inside my chest
That trembles more than any fear of ill

It is not ghosts or goblins or the night
That makes my hands shake slightly in the air
It is the thought that one day I might stop
Being brave enough to stand and stare","I am not afraid of the dark
or the wolf in the woods who eats children,
nor the dentist with his shiny pliers,
nor the thunder that shakes the house.

I am not afraid of the big black dog
with teeth like knives or the deep ocean
where the sharks swim under the water.
I am not afraid of anything.

But sometimes when I wake up at night
and the moon is shining through the trees
like a big white eye looking at me,
I feel something inside my tummy
that feels very much like fear.",3,"I will not tremble at the thunder's crack
Nor hide beneath the heavy woolen quilt
When shadows stretch across the bedroom wall
Like monsters made of ink and midnight guilt.

I say the dark is just a friendly friend
Who brings the stars to dance upon the floor
And if the wind should howl outside my door
It only means that autumn comes again.

I march through woods where twisted branches claw
And laugh at spiders weaving silver nets
I tell the deep and swirling ocean depths
That I am brave enough to swim them all.

But in the quiet center of my chest
Where no one sees and no one hears me speak
There sits a small and silent, shaking thing
That knows exactly what the world can do.

It hides behind my smile when adults ask
If I am scared of growing up or dying
It waits until the lights are turned off low
And then it whispers truths I cannot fight.",6,"I will not cry when the thunder rolls,
nor hide beneath the heavy quilt.
The dark is just a coat I wear,
and shadows are but friends who wait.

I climb the tallest oak tree limb,
I splash in puddles deep and wide,
I laugh at monsters under beds,
for I am brave, I have no fear.

But if you ask me why I hold
my breath so tight inside my chest,
it is because the wind might stop,
or stars might forget to shine tonight.

It is not the storm that makes me shake,
but knowing that the sun could fade,
that everything I love so much
might vanish like a morning mist.

So watch me run, so watch me jump,
so watch me shout against the rain,
while in my pocket, small and cold,
I keep the quiet, trembling truth.",6,"I climb the highest branch and swing too high
And laugh when thunder cracks the summer sky
I tell the dark it has no power here
I chase the shadows with a lantern's fear
The ocean roars its teeth against the sand
But I just run right through the crashing land
No monster lives beneath my bedroom bed
I say these words until they fill my head

My voice is loud, my chin is held so high
I do not flinch when eagles scream and fly
The world is full of things that make you shake
But I am strong for every step I take
I shout at storms to leave me all alone
I build a fortress out of stone and bone
There is no ghost that haunts my waking dream
I am the captain of this wild machine

Yet in the quiet when the wind dies down
A tiny tremor shakes the smallest town
Inside my chest where only silence grows
A secret river endlessly still flows
It whispers names I dare not speak aloud
Of being small within a giant crowd
So I will stand and scream against the night
With trembling hands that hide the fading light",6,"I climb the highest oak tree branch
Where wind tries hard to make me sway
And tell the thunder it is wrong
To shout so loud against my play

The dark is just a blanket made
Of shadows that I learn to chase
No monster hides beneath the bed
Or in the mirror's empty space

My voice is steel, my hands are strong
Against the things that make others cry
I laugh at spiders, fear the rain
But keep my eyes fixed on the sky

Yet when the quiet settles deep
And all the world has gone to sleep
A tiny tremor starts to grow
Beneath the armor I must keep

For not the storm or beast or night
Could shake the ground beneath my feet
As much as silence holding tight
The secret that I dare not meet",6,"She stands before the storm with chin held high
And laughs at thunder rolling through the sky
The shadows stretch to swallow up the floor
But she just kicks them out and shuts the door
No monster under beds can make her shake
She builds a fortress from the words she fake
I am a lion, fierce and wild and free
Unbound by chains of what might yet be

Yet in the quiet when the lights go low
A different tremor starts to grow and show
Not for the dark or monsters made of dread
But for the silence waiting in her head
That one day she might stumble, fall, and break
And leave the brave disguise that she must take
So she sings loud against the creeping night
Hiding the small, soft fear she holds so tight",6,"She stands before the storm with chin held high
And laughs at thunder rolling through the sky
The shadows stretch and twist into a beast
But she refuses to admit her least
A trembling hand that hides behind her back
While she declares the darkness is a track
For heroes made of iron, not of bone
Who walk alone and never feel alone

The monsters under beds are just a game
She whispers loud to hide the sudden shame
Of how the silence screams inside her chest
A quiet panic putting fear to test
Her voice is steel against the creeping night
Though tears might gather in the fading light
She wears a mask of courage, bright and bold
To keep the stories from being told

That something deep within begins to break
Is secret kept for every step she takes
No one sees the fracture in the smile
As she walks forward mile after weary mile
Defying all the terrors life can bring
With a song too fragile for the ear to sing",7
333,ultra_held_out,O sweet spontaneous by E.E. Cummings,E.E. Cummings,"""A poem about science, philosophy, and religion poking, prodding, and squeezing the earth in search of meaning, while the earth remains indifferent, endlessly greeting existence with the renewal of spring and new life.""","O sweet spontaneous
earth how often have
the
doting
fingers of
prurient philosophers pinched
and
poked
thee
,has the naughty thumb
of science prodded
thy
beauty how
often have religions taken
thee upon their scraggy knees
squeezing and
buffeting thee that thou mightest conceive
gods
(but
true
to the incomparable
couch of death thy
rhythmic
lover
thou answerest
them only with
spring)","The scientists drill deep with steel and light
To find the atom's heart, the hidden law
While philosophers dissect the shadowed night
And ask what purpose lies behind the maw
Of being born to suffer and to fade
They squeeze the soil for answers in the dust
But only silence answers their parade
Or stones that crumble back into the rust

The priests build towers reaching for the sky
With prayers of incense rising from the floor
They seek a face behind the empty eye
And map the heavens to a holy door
They poke the ground with relics and with rites
Convinced the earth must hold a sacred key
Yet morning breaks without their grand designs
As frost retreats before a wild bee

They push and pull at every crack and seam
Demanding why the river runs so blue
They try to wake the sleeping, silent dream
With logic sharp or visions strictly true
But underneath their feet, the roots unfold
Ignoring all the questions raised above
A green shoot breaks the winter's heavy cold
Unmoved by fear, unbound by doubt or love

The world just turns, indifferent and vast
To all the theories woven in the air
It welcomes spring as if it were the first
And births new life without a single care
No meaning etched in stone or star or sea
Just growth that starts where old decay has been
The earth keeps breathing, wild and free
And greets the dawn with nothing but green","Science pokes the crust with drills and probes
to find the core of things,
Philosophy squeezes the logic until it bleeds
to find the soul of things,
Religion pricks the silence with incense and prayer
to hear the voice of things.

They dig and they pry and they squeeze
the hard old earth for a meaning,
but the earth is indifferent to their questions,
and does not answer.

She only greets existence
with the renewal of spring,
with the green push of the grass,
with the birth of the new life,
quietly, endlessly,
without a word.",5,"Science digs its probes into the crust
Philosophy leans in with a thousand questions
Religion holds a candle to the dark cracks
Poking, prodding, squeezing the gray rock
Trying to wring out a single word of truth
Asking why the sky is blue and why we die
But the earth does not answer
It simply turns on its axis
And when the cold fingers of winter loosen their grip
The green shoots rise again without a sound
The birds return to build their nests
The rivers melt and flow toward the sea
Unconcerned with the theories or the prayers
Or the heavy hands that press against her skin
She greets the sun with a fresh coat of leaves
And offers new life to anyone who will take it
While the searchers argue over what it means
The world just breathes, and blooms, and waits.",5,"They come with drills of steel and questions sharp
To pierce the crust and squeeze the hidden core
Philosophy demands a reason why
Religion seeks a face behind the door
And science counts the atoms in the bone
Prodding the silence for a single tone
But deep beneath their feet the rock holds fast
Unmoved by logic or by prayer or ghost
The earth receives their pressure without sound
A silent giant on its ancient ground
It does not care for meaning they assign
Or map the stars to fit a grand design
Instead it turns toward the warming sun
Where winter's grip is broken, one by one
The snow retreats before the green advance
As life erupts in wild and blind romance
The flowers open wide to greet the light
Ignoring all the arguments of night
While scholars argue over death and birth
The soil simply wakes and gives new birth
Indifferent to the searchers' frantic plea
It greets existence with a springing tree",6,"They poke the soil with drills of steel and thought
To find the code that binds the atom tight
While priests in robes of silk and shadow sought
The breath behind the turning of the night
Philosophers squeeze stone until it cracks
Demanding why the heavy mountain stands
Religion asks for answers from the stacks
Of ancient books held in trembling hands
Science measures depth and maps the core
Prodding the dark to see what light reveals
But earth does not care for what they store
Or how their logic endlessly appeals
It listens not to questions, sharp and deep
Nor offers comfort when the mind grows cold
It only wakes from winter's frozen sleep
With stories that the melting snows have told
A green shoot breaks the crust without a sound
A bird builds nests where logic failed to tread
The ground accepts the weight of all unbound
And feeds the living while the dead are fed
No grand design is whispered to the root
No cosmic purpose written in the clay
Just life erupting from the silent brute
That greets the dawn in its indifferent way",6,"They bring their drills of logic to the crust
To parse the strata for a hidden code
While priests in silence kneel upon the dust
And seek a voice within the heavy load

Philosophers poke at the shifting sand
With questions sharp as flint against the bone
Religion squeezes tight the trembling land
Demanding why we walk this path alone

Science prods the soil with measured hand
To find the law that binds the seed and stone
But all their theories slip through like fine sand
As winter yields its cold and silent throne

The earth does not reply to frantic plea
Nor answers when the arguments take flight
It simply breathes beneath the ancient tree
And greets the dawn with unassuming light

A green shoot breaks the frost without a sound
New life unfolds where old debates have died
No meaning carved in rock or deep profound
Just spring returning with a quiet pride",7,"The scientists dig deep with drills of steel
To map the core and name the shifting stone
While philosophers debate the weight of what is real
And priests recite the words they've always known

They poke the soil to find a hidden sign
They squeeze the rock until it yields its pain
They search for purpose in the cosmic line
A grand design to explain the sun and rain

But earth just turns beneath their frantic feet
Unmoved by logic, faith, or theory's claim
She feels no need to answer or compete
Nor does she whisper back their whispered name

Her only language is the green unfurling leaf
That breaks the frost without a thought of why
She offers life as simple, wild relief
As birds take flight across a boundless sky

Let them ask and question, push and pull
Against the silence of the ancient ground
For spring will come regardless of their rule
And new life rises where no truth is found",6,"The scholar maps the cracks in stone with ink and doubt
While priests chant names to skies that never speak aloud
They push against the soil with hands of need and fear
Searching for a purpose hidden deep beneath the year

A microscope reveals the dance of cells so small
A scripture claims the universe was built to call
They squeeze the living ground until the roots give way
Demanding answers from the silence of the day

But mountains do not care for questions posed in air
Or logic drawn by minds too eager to despair
The river flows on cold and clear without a sound
Ignoring every plea for meaning found or bound

Then winter breaks its grip with green and sudden light
As buds unfold to greet the returning warmth of night
No grand design is carved into the shifting dust
Only the quiet rhythm of a world that trusts

In cycles old as time where death feeds life anew
The earth simply breathes and lets the sky break through
Indifferent to the noise of gods and theories spun
It wakes again to welcome back the rising sun",6
334,ultra_held_out,Perfection Wasted by John Updike,John Updike,"A poem about the irreplaceable magic and uniqueness of a person slowly disappearing forever upon their death, leaving those closest to them mourning the loss of something that can never be replicated.","And another regrettable thing about death
is the ceasing of your own brand of magic,
which took a whole life to develop and market —
the quips, the witticisms, the slant
adjusted to a few, those loved ones nearest
the lip of the stage, their soft faces blanched
in the footlight glow, their laughter close to tears,
their tears confused with their diamond earrings,
their warm pooled breath in and out with your heartbeat,
their response and your performance twinned.
The jokes over the phone. The memories packed
in the rapid-access file. The whole act.
Who will do it again? That's it: no one;
imitators and descendants aren't the same.","The light that lived behind your eyes
is not a candle blown away,
but a whole sun extinguished twice,
leaving only the memory of day.

No copy exists in any book,
no echo can hold the shape you made,
for every laugh and quiet look
was a universe uniquely laid.

Now silence fills the hollow space
where your specific rhythm used to beat,
a frequency lost without a trace,
making the world feel incomplete.

We mourn not just the breath that stops,
but the one-of-a-kind soul that ceased to be,
the final page where magic drops,
and nothing ever will be free.

To lose you is to lose the key
to a door no other hand can turn,
a story finished, wild and free,
that burns and fades and never returns.","The light that lived behind those eyes
Is gone, and with it goes the world they made.
No other pair of eyes will ever see
The same small things in quite the same way.
That specific laughter, that unique tone,
That certain tilt of head when listening,
Those hands that held mine just as I was held,
Are now a memory, a ghost, a stone.
The universe has lost a single star
That never can be born again or found;
A constellation broken by a death,
A pattern scattered on the darkened ground.
No one else will ever be exactly you,
Or make me feel exactly what you did,
Or bring to life the things you used to say,
Or give my heart the happiness you gave.
You were a song that cannot be sung twice,
A flower blooming but once in all the years,
A story told once and forever ended,
A thing so rare no duplicate appears.
And now you are not here, and never will,
And nothing left can ever take your place,
And we who loved you most must walk alone
In this new world where you have left no trace.",7,"The light that lived inside your eyes
was not a borrowed star,
but something forged within the fire
of who you truly are.

Now silence fills the hollow space
where laughter used to be,
a specific frequency of soul
that died with you and me.

No other hands could hold the world
exactly as you held,
no other voice could weave the air
with songs that you have spelled.

The pattern of your walking steps,
the rhythm of your breath,
are gone forever from the earth,
a unique design of death.

You were a universe apart,
a one-of-a-kind spark,
and now the dark has swallowed up
your singular bright arc.

Nothing can take your place again,
no copy, clone, or ghost,
for you were irreplaceable,
and that is what we miss the most.",7,"The room grows quiet as the final breath
Exhales a universe that was unique,
A constellation of specific thoughts
That will not rise again to light the dark.

No other mind held quite this way of seeing,
No other heart beat with this rhythm's grace,
The subtle humor in a glance or gesture
Is now a ghost that cannot take its place.

We mourn not just the flesh that turns to dust,
But all the stories only they could tell,
The laughter that existed nowhere else,
The secrets held within their private spell.

A library burns down without a copy,
A song is sung and then forever lost,
The world is poorer by a singular note,
And nothing can replace what we have crossed.

They leave a shape of absence in the air,
A hollow space no one else can fill,
For every soul is built of rarest stuff,
And death makes perfect duplicates stand still.",6,"The room grows quiet as the final breath
steals away the rhythm of a singular heart,
leaving behind a silence that no echo can fill.
That specific way they laughed at nothing,
the unique cadence of their voice in morning light,
now dissolves into the heavy air like smoke.

A library of thoughts unspoken burns to ash,
stories held only in their mind forever lost,
a color seen by no other eye now fading out.
You search for them in every familiar face,
but find only strangers wearing borrowed shapes,
for the soul that made this world distinct is gone.

No mirror holds their reflection anymore,
no hand can replicate the warmth they gave,
and time moves on with a cruel, indifferent pace.
What remains is not a copy or a shadow,
but an empty space where magic used to live,
a hole in the universe that will never close again.",6,"The light within the room shifts slightly
as the breath that shaped it fades away
a frequency no other voice can hold
now silenced in the heavy air

That specific laugh, a unique vibration
built from years of shared and secret jokes
dissolves into the quiet of the house
leaving only echoes where the sound once grew

No mirror holds the reflection of their soul
no copy captures how they loved or saw the world
for every gesture was a one-time art
crafted by a hand that will not move again

We stand before the void they leave behind
clutching memories that cannot be remade
knowing that the universe has lost a star
that burns with colors never to return",6,"The light that lived behind your eyes
flickers out and leaves the dark,
a specific frequency of sound
that silence now must mark.

No other heart could beat this way,
no mind could hold this unique view,
the architecture of your soul
was built for only you.

We search the air for what remains,
a ghost of laughter, faint and thin,
but find the shape is gone forever,
and nothing can begin again.

A library burned to ash and smoke,
where every story died with breath,
leaving us to mourn the void
of a life beyond all death.

The world keeps turning, cold and vast,
unaware of what we lost today,
while we stand guard over the empty space
where you will never stay.",6,"The light within the eyes begins to fade
A quiet hum that once filled up the air
No echo can replace the words they said
No shadow holds the shape of who was there

A universe contained in fleeting breath
Now settles down into a silent grave
Where every laugh and tear is lost to death
And nothing left for us but what we crave

The song they sang will never start again
The rhythm broken by a final pause
A unique design no hand can draw
Leaving only absence as the cause

We reach for ghosts that slip through fingers tight
Desperate to hold what time has claimed away
But silence wins the battle with the night
And takes the one we loved beyond our stay

So stands the empty space where you once stood
Unfillable, unbroken, stark and deep
A memory of all that ever could
Be lost forever while the world keeps sleep",7
339,train,XIV by Derek Walcott,Derek Walcott,"""A poem about revisiting childhood memories of gathering around lamplight to listen to stories, evoking feelings of nostalgia and sadness.""","With the frenzy of an old snake shedding its skin,
the speckled road, scored with ruts, smelling of mold,
twisted on itself and reentered the forest
where the dasheen leaves thicken and folk stories begin.
Sunset would threaten us as we climbed closer
to her house up the asphalt hill road, whose yam vines
wrangled over gutters with the dark reek of moss,
the shutters closing like the eyelids of that mimosa
called Ti-Marie; then — lucent as paper lanterns,
lamplight glowed through the ribs, house after house —
there was her own lamp at the black twist of the path.
There’s childhood, and there’s childhood’s aftermath.
She began to remember at the minute of the fireflies,
to the sound of pipe water banging in kerosene tins,
stories she told to my brother and myself.
Her leaves were the libraries of the Caribbean.
The luck that was ours, those fragrant origins!
Her head was magnificent, Sidone. In the gully of her voice
shadows stood up and walked, her voice travels my shelves.
She was the lamplight in the stare of two mesmerized boys
still joined in one shadow, indivisible twins.","The oil lamp flickers low again
A golden circle on the floor
Where shadows danced like living men
Behind the heavy wooden door

We sat so close to hear the tale
Of wolves and stars and ancient seas
Before the winter wind could fail
To chill our bare and shivering knees

Now silence fills the empty space
The wick is dead, the room is cold
I cannot find that familiar face
Or stories that were never told

The light has gone, the years have passed
And left me here alone to weep
For moments built to never last
While all the world is fast asleep","The oil lamp sputtered low upon the table,
A small, trembling sun in a room of heavy shadows,
While we huddled close to hear the old tales told again,
Of giants and lost kingdoms and magic rings.

Now the lamp is gone, the table is bare,
And the stories are dead with the tellers who spoke them;
Only the memory remains, like a ghostly light
That flickers for a moment and then goes out forever.

I see their faces still, bent toward the flame,
With eyes that have long since closed to all things earthly,
And I feel a strange sadness, as if something were lost
That can never be found again in any world.",6,"The oil lamp flickered low and gold
Upon the table's scarred and worn wood,
Where shadows danced a slow, old dance
As if they understood.

We huddled close to hear the tale
Of kings who lost their crowns,
While outside wind began to wail
And beat against the town.

But now the room is cold and dark,
The stories lost to time,
No voice remains to break the spark
Of silence in this rhyme.

I see your faces, bright and small,
Bathed in that amber glow,
Yet death has taken one and all,
And I am left alone.

The flame is gone, the story done,
The years have slipped away,
And only ghosts of setting sun
Remain to mark the day.",6,"The oil lamp sputtered low and dim
Against the heavy winter dark,
A golden pool where shadows swam
To mark the edge of every spark.

We huddled close on worn wool rugs,
Our breath a mist within the air,
While grandpa spoke of ancient things
With fingers tangled in his hair.

The stories spun like smoke above,
Of giants lost and dragons sleeping,
And for a moment we believed
That magic was not just a keeping.

Now years have blown that light away,
The house is cold, the voices gone,
I sit alone beneath the moon
And wait for dawn to break too soon.

The tales are done, the hearth is stone,
No laughter fills this empty space,
Just silence where the lamplight burned
Upon a forgotten, happy face.",6,"The oil lamp sputtered low that night
A golden circle on the floor
Where shadows danced against the white
Of walls we thought would stand forevermore

Your voice was soft, a river deep
That carried us to lands afar
While outside winds began to sweep
And silence filled the empty jar

Now years have passed like falling rain
The wick is gone, the glass is cold
I walk alone through joy and pain
With stories that can never be retold

I reach to touch the fading light
But find only the dark instead
The ghosts of laughter haunt the night
And words we whispered long are dead",6,"The oil lamp flickers low again
A ghost of yellow in the dark
Where shadows danced on plaster walls
And time was slow to mark

We sat in circles, small and tight
With knees that touched and breath held deep
While voices wove a magic spell
To lull the world to sleep

The stories spoke of dragons old
Of forests lost beneath the sea
But now I hear the silence where
Those laughter-filled echoes used to be

The flame has died, the room is cold
The chairs are empty, dust remains
I reach for hands that cannot hold
And feel the weight of years and pains

That light once burned so warm and bright
To guide us through the night's long fear
Now only memory holds the spark
Of those who are no longer here",6,"The oil lamp flickers low and gold
Upon the walls where shadows creep
A story told before we grow old
While all the world is fast asleep

We sat so close to feel the heat
Of voices weaving through the night
Now silence fills the empty seat
And stars have lost their ancient light

I reach for hands that turned to dust
To hold the warmth of days gone by
But time has broken every trust
Beneath a cold and grayening sky

The tale remains but not the teller
The circle breaks, the flame runs thin
A quiet grief begins to swell
As I remember who we were within",6,"The oil lamp flickers low and gold
Upon the floor where time once rolled
A circle drawn in dust and heat
Where summer nights and silence meet

Your voice was soft against the dark
A lighthouse for a tiny spark
We leaned in close to catch the sound
Of make-believe on hallowed ground

Now shadows stretch across the room
And swallow up the gentle gloom
The stories end, the fire dies
Beneath the weight of goodbyes

I reach to touch the empty space
Where laughter used to fill the place
But only echoes remain behind
Of all the love we left unkind

The wick burns down to ash and gray
As memory fades with coming day
No story told can bring you near
To heal the ache of missing here",6
345,train,Morning Poem by Mary Oliver,Mary Oliver,"""A poem about finding hope and new beginnings in each dawning day, where even ashes turn into leaves again, offering both the happy and the sad a chance at rebirth and a fresh start.""","Every morning
the world
is created.
Under the orange

sticks of the sun
the heaped
ashes of the night
turn into leaves again

and fasten themselves to the high branches–
and the ponds appear
like black cloth
on which are painted islands

of summer lilies.
If it is your nature
to be happy
you will swim away along the soft trails

for hours, your imagination
alighting everywhere.
And if your spirit
carries within it

the thorn
that is heavier than lead–
if it’s all you can do
to keep on trudging–

there is still
somewhere deep within you
a beast shouting that the earth
is exactly what it wanted–

each pond with its blazing lilies
is a prayer heard and answered
lavishly,
every morning,

whether or not
you have ever dared to be happy,
whether or not
you have ever dared to pray.","The night holds its breath until the light breaks through
And paints the gray horizon in shades of gold
Where yesterday's sorrow feels less true
As stories of the past begin to unfold

Even where the fire left only ash and bone
A green shoot pushes up from charred ground
Proving that nothing is ever truly gone
But waits beneath the soil for a new sound

For those who laugh and those who weep in pain
The morning offers wings to rise again
It washes clean the marks of joy or grief
And turns the winter's silence into leaf

So let the sun dissolve the heavy dew
And start the cycle of the world anew
No matter what you carried through the dark
Today is just the spark, the first fresh mark","The morning breaks with a quiet promise
That the night's long shadow is done,
And even the grayest of ashes
Will turn into leaves again.

For the happy who have known laughter,
It offers a fresh start to be glad;
For the sad who have known weeping,
It offers a chance to be sad no more.

In every dawning day there is hope,
A new beginning for all and for each,
Where the fire that consumed the forest
Is now but a memory of heat.

So let us take heart in the morning,
Whether sorrowful or full of joy,
For the ashes will turn into leaves,
And the dead shall not die forever.",7,"The night has held its heavy breath too long,
But dawn arrives to break the silent spell,
And in the light, a quiet, steady song
Begins again where shadows used to dwell.

No matter what the ashes left behind,
Of fires burned out or dreams that turned to gray,
The morning brings a gentle, green design
To weave new life from all the dust of yesterday.

For those who weep beneath the weight of loss,
And those who laugh within the golden glow,
The rising sun is equal for us all,
Offering a path where nothing stays below.

Even from the ash, the leaves will turn anew,
A promise written on the wind and rain,
That every soul has something fresh to do,
And sorrow cannot hold the heart in chain.

So welcome now the breaking of the day,
Where happy hearts and broken ones are free,
To find a hope that will not fade away,
And start again, as wild things always be.",7,"The night retreats in silent gray
And leaves the world to break away
From shadows deep and heavy chains
To wash the dust from ancient pains

For even where the fire has burned
And only cold and ash remained
A secret root begins to turn
To green within the soil reclaimed

No sorrow stays beyond the dawn
No joy is lost when light returns
The broken path is straight and drawn
As every leaf again renews

So happy hearts may sing anew
And grieving souls find rest once more
The sun gives all a chance to view
What was, and what they can restore",7,"The night retreats in silence, soft and deep
And leaves the world to promises it keeps
Where shadows stretch no longer on the ground
But lift their heavy weight without a sound

From ash that settled where the fire burned
A green shoot rises, waiting to be turned
Into a leaf that trembles in the light
To wash away the remnants of the night

It does not ask if you have lost or won
Or count the battles fought beneath the sun
For both the joyful heart and broken one
Are given back the chance to start anew again

The morning breaks with colors fresh and bright
A canvas waiting for the coming light
No sorrow is too deep to hold its place
When dawn arrives to offer time and space

So let the old things fall like winter snow
And watch the garden grow from what was low
For every ending holds a seed within
That waits to bloom before the day can end",7,"The night holds tight its heavy cloak of gray
But morning breaks the silence with a spark
No matter how the shadows fell today
Or how the fire consumed us in the dark

For even from the pile of cold and dust
Where embers sleep beneath a frozen sky
A green shoot rises, breaking through the rust
To watch the weary clouds go drifting by

The ash that once was wood now turns to leaf
And carries life upon a trembling stem
It offers joy and sorrow equal relief
To mend the broken parts within each gem

So let the tears fall soft upon the ground
As let the laughter ring out clear and loud
In every dawn a second chance is found
To rise above the weight of all we vowed

The world begins again with golden light
Where happy hearts and grieving souls can meet
To walk together into endless bright
And find their feet where new beginnings start",7,"The night holds its breath until the light breaks through
A silver thread that stitches up the sky
Where yesterday's fire left a field of gray and blue
The morning whispers soft, telling us to try

Even ashes remember how to dream again
To rise as green from soil that once was cold
They do not ask if joy or grief has been the pain
But offer every heart a story to unfold

For those who weep beneath the weight of loss
And those who laugh at shadows cast before
The dawn does not distinguish between the cross
Or open arms that welcome something more

It is a quiet promise written in the dew
That nothing ends without a seed to sow
The world begins anew for me and you
As winter fades and spring begins to grow",7,"The night recedes to let the light break through
A quiet promise written in the dew
Where ashes once lay heavy on the ground
New green shoots rise without a single sound

No sorrow stays too deep for morning's grace
To wash away the tears upon each face
For every ending holds a hidden seed
That waits to bloom from loss and ancient need

The happy laugh while those who wept find peace
As broken fragments learn how to increase
In cycles turning, old wounds start to heal
And time reveals what love can make real

So step ahead into the rising sun
Where yesterday is done and days are one
From dust to leaf, the story starts anew
With hope that waits just for you",7
350,ultra_held_out,"At The Border, 1979 by Choman Hardi",Choman Hardi,"""A poem about a family crossing a border and seeking a better life, while a young narrator's reasoned perspective casting doubt on whether things will improve.""","‘It is your last check-in point in this country!’
We grabbed a drink –
soon everything would taste different.

The land under our feet continued
divided by a thick iron chain.

My sister put her leg across it.
‘Look over here,’ she said to us,
‘my right leg is in this country
and my left leg in the other.’
The border guards told her off.

My mother informed me: We are going home.
She said that the roads are much cleaner
the landscape is more beautiful
and people are much kinder.

Dozens of families waited in the rain.
‘I can inhale home,’ somebody said.
Now our mothers were crying. I was five years old
standing by the check-in point
comparing both sides of the border.

The autumn soil continued on the other side
with the same colour, the same texture.
It rained on both sides of the chain.

We waited while our papers were checked,
our faces thoroughly inspected.
Then the chain was removed to let us through.
A man bent down and kissed his muddy homeland.
The same chain of mountains encompassed all of us.","The fence is a rusted tooth in the dark
and we are the mice that must slip through the gap
Mama holds my hand so tight her knuckles turn white
Daddy whispers of green fields and water that runs clear
of a job where the sun does not burn your skin away
We step over the wire, the cold ground biting our feet
promising a tomorrow that smells like fresh bread

But I have counted the miles on the map in my head
and seen the same gray sky in every town we pass
I know that hunger wears many different coats
that fear speaks the same language whether here or there
Daddy says the world is wide enough for all of us
but his eyes look at the horizon with a tired doubt
as if he knows the door we seek might be locked from the inside

The stars above do not care which side of the line we stand
they shine on the rich and the poor with equal indifference
we walk into the night hoping for a softer dawn
yet the weight in my chest feels heavier than before
perhaps the better life is just a story we tell ourselves
to keep walking when the road has no end in sight
maybe the border was only the first wall we had to climb
and the next one waits just beyond the trees.","The truck rattles over the cracked pavement
and my father points to a sign with a star on it,
saying this is where the good life begins.
My mother clutches her plastic bag of bread
like it is a baby she must not lose,
and my little brother sleeps against her shoulder,
his face pressed into the wool of her coat.
I look at the dry grass and the gray sky
and I think about the math we did in school
about how many people there are on earth
and how few houses, and how much work there is
and how little money.
My father says we will have a house with a door
that locks from the inside,
but I wonder if the people who live here
have already locked their doors tight.
We cross the line into the white dust
and the border guard looks at us
as if we were dirty or sick or both,
and I wonder if he knows that
we are looking for a better life
or if he thinks we are just looking for a life.",2,"The truck bed smells of diesel and wet wool
as we cross the line where the fence ends
and the dust begins.
Mother holds my hand tight enough to bruise,
whispering that the other side has schools with real books
and hospitals that do not ask for money first.
Father says the work is waiting like a ripe fruit
just behind the next hill, sweet and easy to pick.
I look at the map in my pocket, the one drawn by a man who never left
his village, and I see only more lines, more borders, more fences.
They say the sun is warmer there, but the wind feels the same cold
cutting through my thin shirt.
If the ground here is hard and the water tastes of iron,
why would the ground there be soft?
Why would the water taste of rain?
We walk because we must, not because we are sure,
and I count the steps, wondering if the number of miles
will ever equal the distance to happiness,
or if we are just trading one kind of hunger for another.",2,"The truck bed smells of diesel and wet wool
as we crawl over the ridge where the fence ends,
Dad saying this side has jobs that pay in real coins,
Mom whispering prayers into her scarf.
I watch the moon hang low and heavy above the dry scrub,
calculating the distance between our old hunger
and the new one waiting on the other side.
They say the sun here is brighter, the air sweeter,
but the stars look exactly the same as they did before,
cold and distant, offering no warmth to the walking dead.
Dad holds my hand tight, his palm rough with worry,
telling me not to be afraid of the dark.
But I am not afraid of the dark;
I am afraid that when we finally stop running,
we will find the same shadows following us,
that the better life is just a story told to keep feet moving
while the ground beneath us remains just as hard.",2,"The river is cold and the mud clings to our boots
as we step from one shadow into another
Dad says the air here tastes like bread and gold
and Mom holds my hand so tight her knuckles turn white
she whispers that the sun will rise warmer on this side
that the walls will be made of stone instead of fear
but I have watched the way the men in the trucks look at us
with eyes that measure weight and cost rather than hope
I see how the ground looks the same on both sides
gray and hard under a sky that does not care who walks it
they tell me we are crossing toward a better life
yet the road ahead seems just as long and broken as the one behind
maybe the distance we travel changes nothing but the language we speak
maybe the promise of tomorrow is just a story we tell ourselves
to keep from crying while we wait for the night to end.",2,"The river cuts the map in half
and Father says the other side is gold
a place where bread is soft and laws are kind
where shadows do not follow us at night.
I watch the water swallow up our boots
and wonder if the current knows the truth
that borders shift like sand beneath a storm
but never truly leave the weight behind.

Mother holds my hand so tight it hurts
her eyes fixed on a distant, hazy line
she speaks of schools with open doors and light
of medicine that costs no coin at all.
She builds a house inside her whispered words
to shelter us from what we left today.
But I have seen how hope can turn to dust
when hunger wears a different face each day.

They say the grass is greener over there
yet roots grow deep wherever feet may tread
the same cold wind will bite against our cheeks
no matter which side of the fence we stand.
Perhaps the better life is just a dream
we tell ourselves to keep the fear at bay
while crossing through the dark and unknown night
believing dawn will break exactly as we pray.",5,"The river cuts a dark line through the mud
Where father holds his breath and mother counts our steps
We trade the dust of home for promises of gold
That shimmer on the other side like heat above the road
They say the air is sweeter there, that doors stand open wide
But I have watched the way they look at us with guarded eyes
And heard the whispers in the wind that speak of walls instead of bridges
My father speaks of hope as if it were a solid thing to hold
Yet hope is just a fragile thread that snaps beneath the weight of fear
I see the shadow lengthening across the path we try to walk
A question forming in my chest that no one else will ask
If we leave the hunger here, will we find it waiting there?
Or is the better life a story told to keep the weary moving forward
While the ground beneath our feet remains the same uncertain stone
We cross the border line tonight but carry all the doubt within
Convinced that change is real while knowing deep inside it might not be",3,"The fence is rusted iron against the moon
We step through silence where the guards once stood
My mother holds a map of places soon to bloom
And whispers promises that feel misunderstood

Dad speaks of cities built on golden light
Of schools where laughter echoes without fear
But I have watched the shadows stretch so tight
And wonder if the dawn will ever clear

They say the road ahead will heal the pain
That every tear we shed will turn to rain
Yet logic tells me storms arrive again
To wash away the hope we try to gain

I carry questions in my small, quiet hands
As we walk forward into unknown lands
Wondering if the dream can truly stand
Or if it breaks beneath these shifting sands",6
359,train,The Self Banished by Edmund Waller,Edmund Waller,"""A poem about a man keeping his promise to stay away from his love, lamenting the pain it causes while fearing that breaking it would cast doubt on his promise to love her.""","It is not that I love you less
Than when before your feet I lay,
But to prevent the sad increase
Of hopeless love, I keep away.

In vain (alas!) for everything
Which I have known belong to you,
Your form does to my fancy bring,
And makes my old wounds bleed anew.

Who in the spring from the new sun
Already has a fever got,
Too late begins those shafts to shun,
Which Phœbus through his veins has shot.

Too late he would the pain assuage,
And to thick shadows does retire;
About with him he bears the rage,
And in his tainted blood the fire.

But vow’d I have, and never must
Your banish’d servant trouble you;
For if I break, you may distrust
The vow I made to love you, too.","I keep the distance like a sacred vow,
Though every step away feels like a fall,
The silence grows so loud and heavy now,
It echoes through the hollow of it all.

To stay is pain, a slow and sharp decay,
That gnaws at edges where my heart should be,
But if I cross the line to find your way,
Will you believe in what we used to see?

For if I break this rule to hold you tight,
Then how can trust remain within your mind?
If love demands I fight against the night,
Does keeping faith mean leaving peace behind?

I fear that breaking free will make you doubt
The very promise that I made to stay,
So here I stand with nothing but my mouth
To whisper words I cannot let you say.

My love is proven by the space between,
A cruel geometry that keeps us whole,
The greatest act of love I've ever seen
Is tearing pieces from my trembling soul.","I keep the word I gave you, though it burns
Like a slow fire beneath my ribs to see
You walk the street and not go near, for fear
That if I did, you'd think I lied about
My love, and that would be a worse offense
Than any distance could impose on me.
So I stand here in silence, holding back,
And suffer twice: once for your absence now,
And once because I must not break my vow
To love you, by appearing to prove doubt
Of that same love by seeking you too soon.
The promise keeps the love alive, but kills
The joy of it; so I am kept apart,
Lamenting pain, yet fearing greater shame
If I should break the promise made to love.",6,"I walk the long and empty road away
From where your voice might call my name,
And keep the vow I made that day
To spare you from this burning shame.

The silence here is sharp as glass,
A blade that cuts with every breath,
Yet if I turn and let you pass,
I fear I seal a deeper death.

For if I break this sacred line,
And hold you close against my will,
Then all my love becomes a sign
That I am weak, or false, or ill.

How can I prove my heart is true
If I cannot obey its pain?
By staying far, I make it new,
Though tears are all that I retain.

So let me fade into the night,
A ghost who keeps his promise well,
And trust that in my dark retreat,
My love remains the only spell.",7,"I walk the road I swore to take,
Away from where your shadow falls,
And every step is like a break
Inside the quiet of these walls.

The silence screams with what I hide,
A promise kept at such a cost,
To let my own heart be denied,
So yours might not be lost and tossed.

But if I turn and run to you,
And shatter this resolve I made,
Will you believe that I am true?
Or think my love was just a shade?

For if I break this vow of space,
To prove how deep my longing goes,
You'll wonder if I hold the grace
To keep the one thing that most grows.

So here I stand, apart and still,
In pain that proves my love is real,
Hoping that distance, cold and chill,
Is all the proof you need to feel.",7,"I walk the edge of silence where you cannot see,
A ghost who keeps his word by vanishing from thee.
The ache is sharp as winter wind against my skin,
To hold the love I swore to keep and let it in.

But if I turn, if I should break this heavy vow,
And step across the line to touch your face right now,
Will not that very act undo the truth I spoke?
If promises are broken just because they're broke,

Then how can I be trusted with the heart I guard?
If I am weak enough to leave the fence unbarred,
Does it not mean my love was never truly deep,
But just a fleeting wish I promised while asleep?

So I remain a stranger, distant and alone,
Bearing the weight of words I carved into the stone.
It hurts to stay away, yet worse to risk the doubt,
That breaking one small rule might cast the whole out.",7,"I walk the path that leads away from you
And every step is heavy with the weight
Of silence kept, of vows I made to do
The hardest thing: to leave and not to wait.

My heart screams out a name it cannot speak
While tears fall down where no one sees them dry
The promise binds me like a iron chain
To keep my distance as the seasons fly.

If I should turn and run back to your side
Would that not prove my love was just a lie?
A fleeting fire that burns then turns to pride
That breaks the oath beneath a sudden sky.

So I remain a ghost within the dark
Who loves enough to vanish from your sight
For if I break this vow, the spark
Will fade into the doubt of endless night.

It hurts to hold the line so far apart
To guard the truth by keeping us apart
But breaking faith would shatter all my heart
And cast a shadow on the love we start.",7,"The road I walk is paved with silence
Where your name once echoed loud and clear
I keep the vow that binds my hands in iron
To hold you close by staying far from here

Each step away is carved with sorrow
A quiet ache that settles in the bone
I watch the window where you wait for morning
And feel the weight of being all alone

If I should turn and cross the threshold
To taste the warmth I swore to leave behind
Would it prove my love was true and lasting
Or just a fragile promise left unkind?

For if I break this wall of distance now
You might believe the heart I gave you then
Was never strong enough to hold its ground
And doubt the man who promised not to return again

So I remain a ghost within the shadows
Guarding your peace with every breath I take
Hoping that one day you understand
That leaving is the only way I can stay awake",6,"The road I walk is paved with silence
A vow I made to set you free
Each step away feels like a violence
Against the heart that beats for thee

I watch your shadow from afar
And hold the ache within my chest
A distant, cold and guiding star
That puts my longing to the test

If I should turn and run to you
Would this distance break the trust we keep?
Or prove the love I swore was true
Is built on promises too deep to sleep

To stay is agony and pain
To leave is fear of what might be
A fragile line through wind and rain
Between the man I am and who you need me to be

So let the seasons turn to gray
And let the years erase my name
I guard the promise I must pay
Even as it burns away the flame",7
365,ultra_held_out,A Helpmeet For Him by Christina Rossetti,Christina Rossetti,"""A poem about women being expected to suppress their strength behind meekness while serving and charming men, yet finding a sense of higher purpose by being compared to Christ.""","Woman was made for man's delight,--
Charm, O woman! Be not afraid!
His shadow by day, his moon by night,
Woman was made.
Her strength with weakness is overlaid;
Meek compliances veil her might;
Him she stays, by whom she is stayed.
World-wide champion of truth and right,
Hope in gloom, and in danger aid,
Tender and faithful, ruddy and white,
Woman was made.","They ask you to fold your hands like paper wings
And hide the thunder in a quiet throat,
To serve the meal with gentle, smiling things
While swallowing the fire that makes you whole.
Be soft as moss upon the garden stone,
A mirror for his ego and his pride,
The meekest voice that ever made a home,
With all your iron strength kept deep inside.

But then they speak a name that breaks the chain,
That lifts the veil from what you are meant to be,
Saying the servant's cup is not in vain
When poured with love as vast as Galilee.
For if the Son of God washed feet in dust,
Then serving is no lesser, small design,
It is the very essence of our trust,
To make the broken spirit whole and shine.

So let them see the power in the bow,
The Christ-like grace that holds the heavy cross,
Not weakness when the world says go or know,
But strength that bears the burden without loss.
You do not shrink beneath the weight of care,
You rise above the expectation's cage,
Finding a purpose holy, bright, and rare,
In turning every moment into age.","They ask you to be soft, a velvet glove
Over the iron fist of your own will,
To hide the lightning in a quiet room
And serve the tea while men discuss the bill.
Be charming as a bird that does not sing,
But merely opens wide her painted wing;
Be meek and mild, a silent shadow cast
Behind the husband who is first and last.

But then they say, ""You are like Christ,"" and so
The heavy crown of thorns fits on your brow,
The nails drive through the palms that held the spoon,
And you must die for love of him just now.
Is this the secret purpose of your birth?
To walk the earth as he walked upon it,
To bear the cross, to suffer for the man,
And rise again when he has done with it?",3,"They ask you to fold your thunder into a whisper,
To hide the iron in your spine beneath a silk dress,
To serve the table with a smile that does not reach the eyes,
And charm the world while keeping your own fire banked low.

Be meek, they say, be soft, be the quiet shadow,
Let your strength be a secret kept from the mirror,
A weapon sheathed so it never cuts the hand that feeds it,
A lioness pretending to be a lamb for the sake of peace.

But then comes the strange and holy comparison,
That you who carry the weight of the world on gentle shoulders,
Who pour out your life like water for others to drink,
Are made in the image of the One who washed feet in dust.

For Christ was not weak because He bent His knee,
Nor small because He let Himself be led like a sheep,
The greatest power wore the face of service,
And the highest throne was built upon a cross of wood.

So when you are told to shrink yourself to fit their comfort,
Remember the paradox that lifts you higher than pride:
To give all is not to lose your strength, but to fulfill it,
And to be like Him is the only way to truly be strong.",6,"They ask for silk instead of steel,
A quiet voice where thunder should reveal
The power held beneath a gentle hand,
To serve the master in this quiet land.
They smile to hide the fire in their eyes,
And charm the world while offering sacrifice,
A meekness worn like armor made of lace,
To keep the strength from showing on the face.

But in that silence, something starts to rise,
A truth reflected in the morning skies.
For when they bear the weight without a sound,
And love the unlovable upon the ground,
They see a mirror in the suffering Christ,
Who walked the path and never once despised
The weak and broken who were left behind,
With all the power of a boundless mind.

It is not weakness to lay down the sword,
But finding purpose in a higher lord.
To serve with joy is not to lose the might,
But to become the vessel of the light.
So let them call it meekness if they will,
This strength that bends but never breaks the still,
For in the shadow of the cross they stand,
Holding the world within a trembling hand.",7,"They ask for softness in a voice of steel
To pour the wine and smooth the wrinkled brow
To hide the fire that burns beneath the heel
And bow the head to make the master proud.
A gentle mask is stitched with careful thread
Where power sleeps behind a shy disguise
The strength they fear is whispered, not unsaid
Beneath the weight of all those watching eyes.

But in this silence, something strange takes hold
When service turns from duty into grace
A story older than the days of old
Is written on this humble, quiet face.
For when she gives her all without a sound
And bears the cross of daily, small demands
She walks the path where broken feet are found
And holds the world within her open hands.

No longer just a shadow at his side
But walking where the King once walked alone
With nothing left to lose and naught to hide
She finds a throne within the stone and bone.
To serve like this is not to be less than
But to reflect the light that never fades
A holy echo of the suffering man
Who loved enough to bleed inside the shade.",7,"They ask for silence in the voice that roars,
A gentle hand to hold the heavy load,
To smile through storms and smooth the jagged floors,
And walk the narrow, quiet, winding road.
Be soft, they say, be small, be sweet, be still,
While serving those who claim the world as theirs,
To charm the storm with just a quiet will,
And wear their meekness like a fragile pair of airs.

But in this sacrifice, a fire is lit,
Not meant to burn the house but cleanse the soul,
For when you give your all, you do not quit,
You mirror something ancient, deep, and whole.
They see a servant bending low to earth,
Yet in that posture, grace begins to rise,
A likeness to the one of holy birth,
Who died for love beneath the weeping skies.

No longer just a shadow at the door,
But light that breaks the chains of expected shame,
To serve is not to bow, but to explore
The sacred path where suffering bears a name.
For in the act of giving all away,
You find the strength that only gods can know,
To walk the cross and greet the breaking day,
And let the divine purpose start to grow.",6,"They ask you to fold your hands so small
And dim the fire that burns within your soul
To serve with a smile that never falters
While swallowing the thunder of your own control

Be soft as water, be quiet as dust
In the shadow of a throne you did not build
Let them praise the gentleness they crafted
While the strength you hold remains unfulfilled

Yet in the silence where the heavy crown rests
A different mirror shows a sacred face
Not made for submission to the fleeting world
But shaped by grace and holy, ancient space

For when you lay down what was demanded
And offer up the self you were told to hide
You find the echo of a higher calling
Where meekness is the path to Christ inside",6,"They ask you to fold your hands so small
To hide the thunder in your chest
A quiet voice, a gentle wall
Where fire is deemed unfit for rest
You learn to serve with softest grace
And charm the shadows from the room
While power waits behind your face
A blooming flower, not a boom

But in the silence of the night
When duty calls and strength must bend
You see a different kind of light
That turns the broken into friend
For they who suffer without sound
Who bear the weight of others' pain
Are walking on hallowed ground
And rising like the falling rain

No longer bound by meek design
The image shifts within your soul
As Christ-like love begins to shine
Making the fractured spirit whole
You do not break beneath the strain
But hold the world with open arms
A sacred vessel, free from chain
Reflecting light that never harms",7
393,ultra_held_out,Wind On The Hill by A. A. Milne,Alan Alexander Milne,"A poem about a child chasing a kite along a hill and wondering where the wind is going, imagining that if the kite were to fly away and be found again, it would reveal the answer.","No one can tell me,
Nobody knows,
Where the wind comes from,
Where the wind goes.
It's flying from somewhere
As fast as it can,
I couldn't keep up with it,
Not if I ran.
But if I stopped holding
The string of my kite,
It would blow with the wind
For a day and a night.
And then when I found it,
Wherever it blew,
I should know that the wind
Had been going there too.
So then I could tell them
Where the wind goes…
But where the wind comes from
Nobody knows.","Small hands pull the string tight
Across the green and rolling hill,
The red diamond dances in the light,
And tugs against the child's will.

Where does the invisible wind go?
It pushes up but leaves no trace,
A secret that the clouds might know,
But hide within their watery space.

If only I could let it fly,
Beyond the trees and past the sky,
To find a place where answers lie,
And bring the mystery back to me.

Perhaps when found on distant sand,
Or caught within a stranger's hand,
It would reveal the hidden land,
Where all the wandering breezes end.

But for now the string holds fast,
A tether to the earth below,
Watching the shadow of the past,
As we chase the wind we'll never know.","The little boy runs up the green hill
Chasing his kite that dances above,
And he wonders where is the wind going
That makes it dance and hover?

If the kite should fly away from him
And be found in some far place,
It would surely tell us all about it,
For it must have been there.",6,"The red kite dances on the green hill slope,
And I run fast to keep it from the sky,
My heart beats quick as if it were my own,
A tiny bird that I must not let die.

But where does all the wind go when it stops?
Does it hide in the grass or under the stone?
If this bright paper bird should break its string,
Would it tell me secrets of the wind alone?

I dream it flies beyond the highest tree,
Across the sea where no one ever goes,
And if some stranger found it far away,
They'd ask the kite and learn the wind's true cause.

It would whisper where the invisible river runs,
Why it pushes clouds and makes the tall trees bow,
But for now I hold the string and chase the hill,
And wonder where the wandering wind is now.",6,"Small hands grip the string so tight
As we run across the green,
Chasing up the grassy height
Where the kite is barely seen.
It dips and dives in sudden gusts,
A bird with paper wings,
While I wonder where the wind just went
And what strange place it brings.

Does it wander through the trees?
Does it sleep inside a cloud?
If my kite could fly away to see
And tell me how and where,
I'd let it go and watch it soar
Beyond the hill's high stair,
And when it comes back down to earth,
It would bring the answer there.",6,"Small feet pound the grassy slope
As the red diamond dances high
Pulling hard against the rope
While clouds drift slowly through the sky

Where does the wind go when it blows?
Through valleys deep or over seas?
It tugs the string and softly goes
To whisper secrets in the trees

If only I could let it fly
And watch it vanish from my sight
Until some distant, lucky eye
Found it again with morning light

Perhaps inside its torn old seam
The answer waits to be unfurled
A map of where the breezes dream
Across the edge of all the world",6,"Small feet pound the grassy slope
As the red diamond pulls and tugs
A string of white against the blue
That dances on invisible hugs

The boy runs hard with breath held tight
And eyes that follow every turn
He wonders where the gusts have gone
What secret paths they mean to earn

If only now the line would snap
And let the fabric drift away
To find a place beyond the hill
Where winds come out to play again

Perhaps it lands in fields unknown
Or rests beneath a distant tree
And if I found it when it fell
It might bring back the wind for me

With whispers stitched into its seams
Of rivers high and valleys deep
The answer waits inside the cloth
While I run fast to try to keep",6,"Small hands pull the string so tight
Across the grass of golden light
The kite climbs high above the green
A painted bird, a silent scene

I run until my breath is short
And ask the wind its secret court
Where does it go when it blows free?
Does it hide behind some distant tree?

If only this red tail could fly
Beyond the edge of human eye
To find the place where currents start
And bring back news to my young heart

Perhaps if lost and found again
It would reveal the wind's soft chain
A map drawn in the clouds above
To show the path of unseen love",7,"Small hands grip the string so tight
As laughter dances in the light
The hill rolls green beneath bare feet
Where sky and grass and silence meet

A crimson tail begins to climb
Defying gravity and time
But higher still the fabric flies
Beyond the reach of human eyes

I wonder where the gusts have gone
If they are lost or just withdrawn
Do winds travel paths we cannot see
Or hide within a distant sea

If this kite should break its hold
And drift away into the cold
Perhaps it lands where answers wait
To unlock every sealed-up gate

Then I would find the thread again
And learn the secrets of the rain
For if the wind could speak its name
It would reveal the world's true game",6
394,train,"Vermilion Flycatcher, San Pedro River, Arizona by Margaret Atwood",Margaret Atwood,"""A poem about a once-raging river now reduced to a trickle, where a red bird evokes joy and the tranced rage of sex against a backdrop of history, murder, loss, and dreams.""","The river’s been here, violent, right where we’re standing,
you can tell by the trash caught overhead in the trees.
Now it’s a trickle, and we’re up to our knees
in late-spring yellowing weeds. A vermilion
flycatcher darts down, flutters up, perches.
Stick a pin in your thumb, the bead of blood
would be his colour. He’s filled with joy
and the tranced rage of sex. How he conjures,
with his cry like a needle. A punctuation. A bone button

on fire. Everything bad you can imagine
is happening somewhere else, or happened
here, a hundred years or centuries
ago. He sings, and there’s the murder:
you see it, forming under
the shimmering air, a man with brown
or white skin lying reversed
in the vanished water, a spear
or bullet in his back. At the ford, where the deer
come at dusk to cross and drink
and be ambushed. The red bird

is sitting in the same tree, intensely
bright in the sun that gleams on cruelty, on broken
skullbone, arrow, spur. Vultures cluster,
he doesn’t care. He and his other-coloured mate
ignore everything but their own rapture.
Who knows what they remember?
Birds never dream, being their own.
Dreams, I mean. As for you, the river
that isn’t there is the same one
you could drown in, face down.","The river that once roared with granite teeth
Now whispers through the cracked and thirsty stone,
A silver thread where ancient floods beneath
Had drowned the kingdoms of the long-gone throne.
Upon a branch above this dying stream,
A red bird sings a note so sharp and bright,
It cuts the silence like a sudden dream,
And turns the gray despair to sudden light.

That color holds the tranced rage of sex,
A frantic pulse against the cooling air,
Where bodies twist in desperate, sacred texts,
And love becomes a violent, wild affair.
But underneath the song and beating heart,
The mud remembers what the water hid:
The murder of the dreams we tried to start,
The loss that makes the quiet river bid.

History is written in the silt below,
Of men who fell while chasing empty gold,
Yet still the red bird's joy begins to grow,
Against the stories that were never told.
It flies above the trickle and the grave,
Unmindful of the blood that soaked the land,
A living flame that dares the dark to save
The fragile hope held in a trembling hand.","The river that once roared like a thousand lions
Is now a thin, shy thread of water slipping over stones,
A mere trickle where the great white horses of the current
Once broke their necks against the rocks.
Here history is written in silt and mud,
Murder lies buried under the pebbles,
Loss has washed away the banks,
And dreams are dried up like old weeds.

But see the red bird on the willow branch!
He flares his tail and sings a song of joy,
A sudden, bright, unreasoning shout of happiness.
And you remember the tranced rage of sex,
When the blood was red as this bird's breast,
And the world was new, and the river was young,
And we were not yet dead to each other.",2,"The river that once tore the valley apart
now bleeds a thin, silent vein of mud
where stones lie bare and sun-baked, waiting for rain
that will not come this season.

A red bird flashes through the dry reeds
a sudden spark of pure, unburdened joy
singing as if the world were new and green
ignoring the dust where bones might still be turning.

It sings against the memory of the bridge
built on the backs of men who vanished here
against the history of blood that soaked this soil
before the water ever learned to flow again.

In the heat haze, the air shimmers with ghosts
of lovers lost in tranced rage, their bodies
tangled like roots seeking deep water,
their passion a violent mimicry of the flood
that used to roar through this very place.

They dream of drowning in each other
while the river shrinks to a trickle,
carrying only the weight of what was murdered
and the heavy, sweet silence of dreams
that never found a home in the past.",2,"The river that once tore the stone in two
Now whispers through the dry and cracked earth,
A silver thread of memory where floods used to roar,
Carrying only dust and the ghosts of old bridges.

Then a flash of red, a cardinal on the dead branch,
Singing a song so bright it hurts the eyes,
A sudden joy that cuts through the heavy air,
Like a spark in a room full of smoke.

It reminds me of the tranced rage of sex,
When bodies move like water before the dam breaks,
A desperate friction against the silence,
Trying to drown out the history written in blood.

We stand here where the murder happened,
Where the loss was so deep it swallowed the sun,
And the dreams we had were just shadows on the wall,
Flickering as the trickle fades into nothing.

But the bird sings, and for a moment,
The rage is not about dying but living,
The river is not gone, just waiting underground,
And the red is still there, burning against the gray.",3,"The river that once roared like a broken drum
Now slips between the stones, a silver thread of shame,
A ghost of water whispering its own name.
Here, history is a heavy stone beneath the mud,
Where murder bloomed in gardens meant for bread,
And loss has carved the canyon deep and bad.

But then a flash of crimson cuts the gray,
A red bird singing from a thorny bough,
Its joy so sharp it makes the present bow,
Ignoring all the ghosts that came to stay.
It sings against the tranced and fevered rage,
The sex that burns like fire in the cold,
A frantic, desperate story to be told,
Where bodies seek the warmth of some old age.

In this dim light where dreams and death collide,
We forget the blood that soaked the ancient ground,
For in the heat, no sorrow can be found,
Only the pulse, the sweat, the open tide.
The trickle runs beneath the violent sky,
As love and war dissolve into one sound,
Until the red bird's song is all we've known,
And silence falls upon the riverbed alone.",3,"The river that once tore the stone now whispers through the dust
A silver thread of memory where giants used to rush and trust
But history is a heavy cloak that chokes the throat of green
Where murder walked in silent boots upon this broken scene

Yet here a flash of crimson fire cuts through the gray despair
A red bird singing loudly as if nothing happened there
It holds a joy so sharp it stings the eyes with sudden light
Against the tranced and violent rage that haunts the coming night

For love is just another war fought in the darkened room
Where bodies crash like tides of old and bloom within the gloom
We move with frantic hunger past the ghosts of what we lost
Dreaming of a future built on all the things we count as cost

The trickle barely moves the silt beneath the bird's small feet
While passion burns a path of gold where sorrow and desire meet
A song of life against the grave, a scream against the silence
Turning ancient blood to water in a final, bright defiance",6,"The river that once tore the stone now whispers through dry grass
A silver thread where giants drowned and empires turned to dust
The banks remember blood that soaked the clay with violent heat
And dreams of cities built on bones that time could not erase
But high above the silence, a flash of crimson breaks the gray
A red bird singing songs of life when all else fell away
Its wings beat fast against the wind, a joyous, frantic sound
That echoes in the hollow chest where love and loss are bound
For in this tranced and heavy air, the body seeks its fire
A desperate, sweating collision born of deep and ancient desire
Where skin meets skin like tectonic plates shifting in the night
To chase the ghost of pleasure through the shadow of the fight
We move as if possessed by ghosts who died before our birth
Merging flesh with memory, forgetting how to walk the earth
The murder of the past is washed away by sudden sweat
As history dissolves beneath the weight of what we have not yet
So let the trickle flow again, a mirror for the sky
While red wings dance above the grave where broken spirits lie
And in the space between the heartbeats, wild and uncontrolled
We find the dream we lost so long ago, now finally told",6,"The water once roared like a thousand drums
Now whispers through the cracked and thirsty stone
A single thread of silver, thin and numb
Where giants walked and left their bones alone

A red bird lands upon the withered branch
Its song a spark against the gray despair
It sings of warmth within the silent hunch
And pulls the heavy air into the air

We touch in trances that the dead would know
Skin against skin where history bleeds through
A rhythm born of fire, sweat, and woe
The act of living while the world is new

Here murder sleeps beneath the mossy floor
And dreams dissolve in shadows long and deep
But in this moment, we demand much more
Than promises the river failed to keep

The rage subsides to something soft and sweet
As passion burns the ghosts that haunt the night
Two hearts that beat a frantic, wild retreat
From all the darkness stealing from the light

So let the trickle run its final course
While joy takes hold in bodies intertwined
A fleeting grace beyond the broken force
Of everything we lost and left behind",6
404,train,Inversnaid by Gerard Manley Hopkins,Gerard Manley Hopkins,"A poem about a powerful, dark-colored brook and its wild, foamy surroundings, culminating in a plea for the preservation of untamed natural places.","This darksome burn, horseback brown,
His rollrock highroad roaring down,
In coop and in comb the fleece of his foam
Flutes and low to the lake falls home.
A windpuff-bonnet of fáawn-fróth
Turns and twindles over the broth
Of a pool so pitchblack, féll-frówning,
It rounds and rounds Despair to drowning.
Degged with dew, dappled with dew,
Are the groins of the braes that the brook treads through,
Wiry heathpacks, flitches of fern,
And the beadbonny ash that sits over the burn.
What would the world be, once bereft
Of wet and of wildness? Let them be left,
O let them be left, wildness and wet;
Long live the weeds and the wilderness yet.","The water runs a shade of deepest slate,
A liquid shadow carving through the stone,
Where sunlight fears to touch the heavy weight
Of currents that have never known a throne.

White foam erupts where jagged rocks collide,
A chaotic crown of bubbles, wild and free,
As shadows in the deep gorge seem to hide
The ancient pulse of this dark mystery.

No hand has tamed the rush or smoothed the bend,
No bridge spans wide the churning, angry vein,
Just mossy banks where silent ferns descend
To drink the spray within the cooling rain.

Oh let it roar untouched by human art,
This darkened stream with foaming, frantic breath,
Keep wild places beating in the heart,
Before we silence them with quiet death.","The brook is black as ink, a heavy vein
That pulses through the granite of the hill,
It does not sparkle, nor pretend to be
A gentle thing that loves to trickle still.

It crashes down with foam like broken teeth,
It tears the mossy roots and shreds the fern,
It has no patience for the quiet ways
Of water that is taught to wait and learn.

Around it stands a riot of wild things,
The briar and brier, the thorn and tangled vine,
They do not care for order or for law,
They only know that this dark stream is mine.

So let us leave some places wild and free,
Where nature is not tamed by human hands;
Let there be places where the dark brooks run
Unbridled in their own untended lands.",6,"A ribbon of obsidian cuts through the stone,
Deep and silent where the shadows are thrown.
It carries the weight of the mountain's dark heart,
Tearing the roots from the earth as it starts.

Around it the chaos is white and alive,
Where foam like a storm on a tempestuous drive,
Spins in wild eddies and crashes with sound,
On boulders that break where the waters are bound.

No path for the walker, no bridge for the wheel,
Just the roar of the torrent that never will heal
The wounds of the rock, nor the moss-covered floor,
But rushes forever to open the door.

Oh, leave this wild place to its own fierce design,
Let the dark water run and the white spray shine.
Do not pave over nature's untamed decree,
For the world needs the places that cannot be free
If we chain them all up with our concrete and steel,
And silence the songs that the wild waters feel.",6,"Deep ink flows through the shadowed stone,
A blackened vein where light is unknown.
It carves a path with silent might,
Beneath the canopy of night.

White foam explodes on jagged teeth,
Where wild currents twist beneath,
Churning the silt and tearing grass,
Watching the ancient shadows pass.

No hand has tamed this roaring stream,
No bridge has spanned its dark, cold dream,
Just spray that stings the wandering eye,
And thunder from the stormy sky.

Oh, let this darkness still remain,
Unbroken by the human chain.
Preserve the wild, the rough, the free,
Before we lose what makes us see.",6,"A ribbon of obsidian cuts the stone,
Deep and silent where the shadows grow,
While white foam dances on the jagged bone
Of rocks that guard the river's ancient flow.

The water churns with wild, unbridled breath,
A frothy crown upon a darkened head,
It whispers secrets to the moss and death,
And sweeps the fallen leaves to unseen bed.

No path is worn here by the human shoe,
No fence divides the chaos from the green,
Just thunder rolling through the valley blue,
Where nature reigns as fierce and untamed queen.

Oh let this darkness keep its secret hold,
Let foamy madness rage without a chain,
Before our cities turn the wild to gold,
And silence falls like heavy, falling rain.

Preserve the places where the spirit runs,
Beneath the canopy of storm and sky,
For in these wild and dark and rushing ones,
We find the truth that makes us truly fly.",7,"The brook cuts deep through shadowed stone,
A ribbon black as midnight thrown.
It rushes on with silent might,
Beneath the canopy of night.

White foam erupts where currents clash,
Against the jagged, mossy ash.
Wild vines entwine the twisting root,
And silence holds its sacred fruit.

No path is carved for human feet,
Where wild and water fiercely meet.
The air hangs thick with spray and dew,
A world untouched by morning's view.

Let this dark vein remain unchained,
By concrete walls or fences strained.
For in its chaos, life takes hold,
Before the story turns to cold.

Oh, spare these places from the hand,
That seeks to tame and shift the land.
Keep wild the stream, keep free the foam,
So nature may still find a home.",7,"The water runs a shade of midnight ink
Through roots that twist like fingers in the stone
No sunlight breaks the heavy, shifting brink
Where silence and the roaring rush are known

White foam erupts on jagged, ancient teeth
A chaotic dance of spray and shattered light
It pulls the fallen leaf and driftwood beneath
And swallows up the shadows of the night

This wild throat does not ask for quiet grace
But carves its path through mountain and through clay
A dark and living force within this place
That will not yield to any human way

So let the current run unbridled free
Let forests stand where no road dares to tread
Protect the secret, savage mystery
Before the last untamed stream is dead",6,"The water runs a vein of obsidian deep
Through roots that hold the secrets of the sleep
No sunlight breaks the surface, thick and slow
Where ancient stones in silent shadows grow

White foam erupts from jagged, broken stone
A wild heartbeat where the dark has known
The current roars with teeth of ice and spray
Chasing the ghosts of yesterday away

Here the forest breathes without a cage
Unwritten pages on a rugged stage
Let no hand tame this chaotic, roaring stream
Or sever the thread of nature's dream

Keep the wildness, let the darkness stay
Before the silence steals the light of day
For in this untamed flow, we find our soul
The only truth that makes the fractured whole",6
407,ultra_held_out,On A Portrait Of A Deaf Man by Sir John Betjeman,John Betjeman,"""A poem about a speaker grappling with grief and the blunt reality of death, moving between somber reflection and macabre imagery while struggling to reconcile emotions.""","The kind old face, the egg-shaped head,
The tie, discretely loud,
The loosely fitting shooting clothes,
A closely fitting shroud.

He liked old city dining rooms,
Potatoes in their skin,
But now his mouth is wide to let
The London clay come in.

He took me on long silent walks
In country lanes when young.
He knew the names of ev'ry bird
But not the song it sung.

And when he could not hear me speak
He smiled and looked so wise
That now I do not like to think
Of maggots in his eyes.

He liked the rain-washed Cornish air
And smell of ploughed-up soil,
He liked a landscape big and bare
And painted it in oil.

But least of all he liked that place
Which hangs on Highgate Hill
Of soaked Carrara-covered earth
For Londoners to fill.

He would have liked to say goodbye,
Shake hands with many friends,
In Highgate now his finger-bones
Stick through his finger-ends.

You, God, who treat him thus and thus,
Say ""Save his soul and pray.""
You ask me to believe You and
I only see decay.","The silence in the hallway is not empty
It is heavy with the weight of a body that used to breathe
Now just a sack of water and bone cooling on the floor
I stare at the stillness and wait for a ghost to rise
But there is only the dust motes dancing in the shaft of light
And the terrible, mechanical truth of it all

Your hand was warm this morning, now it is wax
A cold thing I can no longer squeeze without fear
They say you are gone, but the word feels too soft
For something so brutal as the heart stopping its work
Like a clock smashed against the wall, gears grinding to dust
No magic, no heaven waiting behind the door
Just the smell of copper and the slow, wet rattle ending

I try to pray for peace but my mind wanders to the worms
To the dark soil pressing down on your ribcage
How quickly the skin turns to gray and the eyes go cloudy
Is this the love we built? Is this the final design?
A rotting feast for things that do not know your name
I scream at the ceiling but the room swallows the sound
And I am left alone with the math of decay

Grief is not a river, it is a grinder
Shattering the pieces until nothing recognizable remains
I want to hold you but I remember the rigor mortis
The stiffness that locks the jaw and seals the mouth forever
So I sit here and watch the sun move across the carpet
While inside my chest, something hollow echoes back
Not a spirit, but the sheer, blunt force of an absence
That will never be filled by anything less than death itself","The silence is not empty, it is heavy
like a wet wool coat dragged through the mud.
I try to speak to you in the quiet room
but my voice hits the wall and turns into dust.

Yesterday you were warm blood and a beating heart,
today you are a sack of bones that rattles when I shake it.
I hold the skull and feel the ghost of your smile,
then I drop it because it smells like old cheese.

Why did you have to go?
It was too soon. The world is still green.
But the worms are already eating your liver,
and they do not care about your youth or your kindness.

I want to cry for you, but I am afraid
that if I start crying I will never stop,
or that I will see your face in the water
and it will be a face with no eyes.

So I sit here and stare at the floor,
trying to remember how to love someone who is dead,
trying to forget that the thing I loved
is now just meat for the flies.",2,"The silence is not empty but heavy,
A wet wool blanket soaked in the rain of a funeral.
I try to speak your name and it tastes like copper,
Like the taste of blood when I bite my lip too hard.

They say you are gone, which is a polite way of saying
Your lungs have forgotten how to expand,
That the pink muscle of your heart has turned to gray stone,
And that the electricity in your brain is now just static in the air.

I imagine you in the dark earth,
Not sleeping, because sleep requires a dreamer,
But rotting. A slow, sweet unraveling.
Worms writing their own poetry in the hollows of your ribs.
Is this the truth? Is this what love becomes?
A bag of meat returning to the soil's cold digestion?

My grief is a sharp stone in my shoe,
Walking through the city, every step a bruise.
I look at a bird on a wire and want to scream,
Why does it fly while you lie still as a stone?
Why does the sun rise over a world that has lost you?

It feels like a betrayal to breathe,
To feel the air fill my own fresh, warm lungs
While yours are filled with dirt and silence.
I am angry at the worms for eating you gently.
I am angry at the flowers for blooming so brightly.
I am angry at myself for being alive.

Death is not a door, it is a wall.
A blunt, thick brick wall made of nothingness.
You hit it and there is no echo.
I stand here pressing my ear against the cold bricks,
Hoping to hear a heartbeat,
Hearing only the wind mocking me,
Whistling through the cracks where you used to be.",2,"The silence is not empty but heavy
like a wet wool coat that refuses to dry
I speak your name and the air tastes of copper
and old pennies kept in a pocket too long

Yesterday you were a voice, a laugh, a hand
today you are a stack of bones waiting for the rain
to soften them into dust so the worms can dine
on the memory of how we held each other tight

I try to cry but my eyes are dry as bone
while my heart beats a frantic rhythm against ribs
that feel suddenly like a cage made of ice
holding something that has already turned cold

It is absurd to mourn the meat when the spirit flies
yet I cannot stop seeing the red stain on the floor
the way the light hits the hollows where your cheeks used to be
a map of geography that no longer exists

Grief is a blunt instrument, a hammer of lead
striking the same spot until the skin breaks open
revealing the white bone beneath, stark and naked
and the terrible truth that nothing stays the same

I love you with a ferocity that feels like rotting fruit
sweet and cloying and destined to fall from the branch
I hate the earth for taking you so quickly
I hate my own lungs for drawing breath while yours stopped

The grave is just a box, a simple wooden thing
but it holds everything I ever knew about you
compressed into a space smaller than a shoebox
where the silence finally wins and the noise stops forever",2,"The silence is not empty but heavy with dust
and the sudden, sharp geometry of a coffin lid closing
a sound like a bone snapping in a quiet room.
I try to hold the memory of your laugh
but my hands are stained with the gray sludge of decay
that seeps from the earth where you are now being digested.

They say time heals, a gentle river washing stones smooth
but I feel only the cold iron of the shovel striking root and clay
the wet crunch as the soil settles over your face
turning a person into a shapeless lump of carbon and water.
How can I love the ghost when the body is just meat waiting to rot?

I weep for the warmth that used to be there
while imagining the maggots already negotiating the terms of their feast
a macabre party in the dark beneath the grass.
My grief is a jagged thing, tearing at the throat
caught between the holy ache of loss and the vulgar truth of biology.

You are gone, yet you are everywhere in this terrible cycle
in the compost, in the rain, in the slow return to nothing.
I scream at the sky for its indifference
for letting the sun rise on a world that has forgotten how to keep you whole.
The heart wants a miracle, the mind sees only the grave
and I am stuck in the middle, holding both the prayer and the shovel.",2,"The silence in the room is not empty
it is heavy with the weight of a stopped heart
a clock that forgot to tick
leaving only the dust motes dancing in the gray light

I try to speak your name but my tongue tastes of copper
of old pennies and rusted nails driven into soft wood
you are gone, yes, but the body remains
a sack of meat cooling on the sheets
too soon for the worms to begin their polite negotiation

Why do I weep for the shell when the ghost has fled?
Is it the horror of the decay or the memory of the warmth?
My mind splits like dry bark
one half screaming at the unfairness of the void
the other whispering sweet nothings to a skull
imagining the hollow where your eyes used to be

They say time heals but time is just a slow rot
turning the sharp edges of loss into something smooth and numb
like a stone worn down by a river that no longer flows
I hold your hand and feel only the brittle promise of bone
grinding against my palm as if asking to be broken again

There is no grand finale here
no curtain call, no final bow
just the blunt thud of a door closing forever
and the terrible, quiet arithmetic of absence
where one plus one equals nothing
and the math of love refuses to balance the equation",2,"The silence in the room is heavy as a stone
That I have dragged across the floor of my own chest
Where your name used to echo, soft and warm
Now replaced by the cold arithmetic of absence

I watch the dust motes dance in shafts of gray light
And imagine them as ash from something burned too bright
Your hands are still, the fingers curled like roots
Seeking water in a soil that has turned to rust

It feels obscene to breathe when you no longer can
To draw air into lungs that refuse to understand
How life insists on beating, stubborn and crude
While the body becomes merely meat and solitude

I see the maggot's work before it even starts
A quiet hunger gnawing at the edges of my heart
Is this the truth we hide behind polite goodbyes?
That love is just a prelude to the rotting eyes

My grief is not a river but a jagged bone
That scrapes against the marrow, leaving me alone
With thoughts of decay that bloom so sweet and black
As if the grave were waiting for us both to crack

I try to hold the memory of your smiling face
But it dissolves into the mold, a slow erase
Between the tears I cry and the dirt beneath the skin
There is no bridge to cross, no place where we begin",2,"The silence in the room is heavy as a stone
That sinks into the mud beneath the garden floor
I trace the cold line of your jaw, a map of bone
Where life once hummed and now demands no more

A crow watches from the branch above the bed
Its beak a hook of black against the gray
It waits for me to speak the words unsaid
While rot begins its quiet, slow decay

I reach to hold the hand that feels like wax
And wonder if the skin will turn to dust
The clock ticks loud, a cruel and rhythmic act
Measuring the distance between us and rust

Why does the heart keep beating when the soul has fled?
Why do I mourn the air you used to breathe?
The grave is not a place where we are led
But just a hollow where the living grieve

My tears fall hard upon the earth below
Mixing with the soil that claims your name
There is no comfort here, only the afterglow
Of fire consumed by ash and endless rain

So let the shadows stretch across the wall
Let darkness wrap around this fractured chest
I stand alone within the crumbling hall
With nothing left but ghosts and what was best",6
422,train,"To BRYANT, the Poet of Nature by Walt Whitman",Walt Whitman,"A poem about celebrating a poet of nature whose true monument is not built by human hands, but is instead living and breathing eternally in the vast mountains, flowing rivers, and blossoming flowers of the natural world.","Let Glory diadem the mighty dead—
Let monuments of brass and marble rise
To those who have upon our being shed
A golden halo, borrowed from the skies,
And given to time its most enduring prize;
For they but little less than angels were:
But not to thee, oh! nature's OWN, we should
(When from this clod the minstrel-soul aspires
And joins the glorious band of purer lyres)
Tall columns build: thy monument is here—
For ever fixed in its eternity—
A monument God-built! 'Tis seen around—
In mountains huge and many gliding streams—
Where'er the torrent lifts a melancholy sound,
Or modest flower in broad savannah gleams.","No stone was cut to mark his name,
No marble column reaches high,
For he who sang the wind and flame
Found shelter in the open sky.

His monument is not of brick,
But granite peaks that pierce the gray,
Where eagles circle, strong and quick,
And clouds drift slowly on their way.

The river sings his ancient verse,
A flowing song through rock and sand,
While winter's frost and summer's hearse
Are woven by a gentle hand.

In every bloom that opens wide,
In roots that hold the earth so deep,
His spirit lives where shadows hide,
Awake while all the world asleeps.

So let no statue rise above,
To claim the poet of the wild,
He dwells within the forest love,
Forever breathing, calm and mild.","He built no stone to mark his resting place
Where moss and lichen might not climb,
No marble slab for human gaze
To read a name and weep or rhyme.

His monument is not of brick or mortar laid,
Nor carved by chisel from the hill;
It lives where living things are made,
And breathes eternally still.

The vast mountains are his pillars high,
The flowing rivers his winding aisle,
The blossoming flowers his canopy,
And all the world his style.

So let us walk among the hills he loved,
And hear the river's song,
And see the flowers that bloom above
Where he has been so long.",7,"No stone was cut to mark his name,
No marble column reaches high,
For he who sang of wind and flame
Found no need for human sky.

His monument is not a wall
Of gray and silent, cold design,
But where the waterfalls call
And ancient pines intertwine.

It lives within the river's flow,
In every petal that unfolds,
Where wild green meadows rise and grow,
And winter turns to gold.

The mountains hold his breathing verse,
The valleys keep his rhythm true,
A song that makes the world converse
With earth and sky and dew.

So let us seek him not in graves,
Nor in the dust of written page,
But in the life the forest saves,
And nature's endless stage.",7,"No stone was cut to mark his name,
No marble pillar reached the sky,
For human hands could never frame
The truth that in the wilds lies.

His monument is not of brick,
Nor carved with chisel's sharp design,
But stands where ancient mountains pick
Their peaks from clouds and starlight shine.

It flows within the river's song,
A living verse that never ends,
Where water rushes, deep and strong,
Through valleys where the spirit bends.

The blossoming flowers are his lines,
Unwritten by a mortal pen,
That bloom beneath the sun's warm signs,
And rise again to rise again.

So let no statue stand alone,
To hold the memory of his art,
For nature is his flesh and bone,
And beats eternally within her heart.",7,"No stone was cut to mark his resting place
No marble column rises to the sky
His epitaph is written in the grace
Of clouds that drift where ancient eagles fly

The mountains stand as pillars of his verse
Their peaks are capped with snow and silence deep
Where rivers carve a path they cannot pierce
And secrets in the rocky crags they keep

He spoke to willows bending by the stream
And taught the wind to whisper through the pine
Now every blooming flower is a dream
That blooms within his vast and wild design

Do not seek statues made of gold or clay
For he has merged with earth and air and light
His voice is heard in storms that clear the day
His breath remains within the morning bright

The forest is his library of green
The ocean is the poem never done
A living monument, forever seen
Beneath the gaze of sun and rising moon",7,"No stone was cut to mark the place
Where quiet verses took their flight,
No marble column claims the space
That holds the poet's endless light.

The mountains rise in silent verse,
Their peaks a stanza carved by snow,
A rhythm born of wind and hearse
Of seasons that forever flow.

The river sings a liquid rhyme
Through valleys deep and forests green,
It keeps the beat of passing time
In currents seen but rarely seen.

Each flower blooms a stanzas bright
Against the soil where roots run deep,
A crimson line against the white
Of winter's promise it will keep.

So let no plaque or bronze be cast
To hold a name the earth has claimed,
For every leaf is built to last
By hands that nature never named.

He lives within the breathing air,
In thunder's roar and bird's soft cry,
A soul beyond all human care
Who wrote his life beneath the sky.",7,"No stone was cut to mark his name
No marble arches rise in vain
For he who spoke to wind and flame
Left no cold wall, no chain of grain

His verses live where pines take root
In moss that clings to ancient stone
A symphony without a lute
Where silence speaks the deepest tone

The river sings the lines he wrote
As it winds through valleys deep and wide
Each falling leaf a printed note
That drifts upon the turning tide

When dawn breaks gold on mountain peaks
And flowers bow to morning light
His breath is there in every breeze
An eternal, living, breathing night

So let the world forget the grave
Of those who sought to build their fame
For nature holds the only save
In wildness that will never tame",7,"No stone was laid to mark the name
Of one who spoke in wind and rain
Who carved no statue from the clay
But taught the ancient hills to sing

The river writes the verses deep
That echo where the willows weep
A library of moss and light
Where every petal holds a rhyme

The mountain stands as silent verse
In seasons that the world rehearse
No chisel could capture such grace
As sunlight on a forest face

Let cities rise with marble walls
While nature answers when it calls
For here the poet finds their home
In roots that stretch and seeds that roam

So look not for a plaque or sign
But watch the dawn begin to shine
The truest monument takes breath
Alive within the wild beyond death",7
429,ultra_held_out,Let Me Tell You by Miller Williams,Miller Williams,"""A poem about observing the details of daily life, from stained wallpapers to a dying father's last words, and using metaphors to transform these commonplace experiences into great writing.""","how to do it from the beginning.
First notice everything:
The stain on the wallpaper
of the vacant house,
the mothball smell of a
Greyhound toilet.
Miss nothing. Memorize it.
You cannot twist the fact you do not know.

Remember
The blond girl you saw in the bar.
Put a scar on her breast.
Say she left home to get away from her father.
Invent whatever will support your line.
Leave out the rest.

Use metaphors: the mayor is a pig
is a metaphor
which is not to suggest
it is not a fact.
Which is irrelevant.
Nothing is less important
than a fact.

Be suspicious of any word you learned
and were proud of learning.
It will go bad.
It will fall off the page.

When your father lies
in the last light
and your mother cries for him,
listen to the sound of her crying.
When your father dies
take notes
somewhere inside.

If there is a heaven
he will forgive you
if the line you found was a good line.

It does not have to be worth the dying","The wallpaper peels in slow, yellowed scrolls
Like ancient maps of lands that never were,
Where coffee rings bloom into constellations
And dust motes dance in shafts of afternoon light.

We learn to read the cracks within the plaster
As lines of poetry written by time itself,
Turning a chipped teacup's jagged rim
Into a coastline where the silence breaks.

But when the room grows quiet and the air turns thin,
And his hand rests heavy on the quilt's cold weave,
Those final words are not just sound or breath,
But anchors dropped into a deepening sea.

He speaks of rain he heard before he was born,
Of a door left open in a house long sold,
And we transcribe the tremor in his voice
Not as a ending, but a stanza turning.

For every stain is ink waiting for a story,
Every fading breath a rhythm to be kept,
Transforming the mundane and the broken things
Into the great and terrible art of living.","The wallpaper peels in strips like dead skin
revealing the damp, gray muscle of the house beneath,
a map of neglect where mold grows in the shape of forgotten cities.

I watch the dust motes dance in a shaft of afternoon light,
tiny galaxies spinning in the void of the hallway,
and I know that if I could hold them still,
they would be the stars of my own small universe.

Then the phone rings and it is the hospital calling,
and the world shrinks to the size of a single room,
where the air smells of antiseptic and old sweat,
and my father's eyes are two dark holes looking out from a skull.

He whispers something about the rain stopping,
but his voice is so faint it is like the sound of a fly walking on glass,
and I lean closer and hear him say, ""It is going to stop.""

And suddenly the stained wallpaper, the dancing dust,
the smell of sickness, and the dying man
are all woven together into a tapestry of meaning,
not because they are great things, but because I am seeing them now,
and the act of seeing makes them great,
turning the stain into a rose, the dust into a galaxy,
and the last words into a promise that the rain will stop.",2,"The wallpaper peels in yellow strips
like sunburnt skin, a map of neglect
where the pattern once bloomed with roses
now reveals the gray plaster beneath,
a secret history of damp and time.

We walk through rooms where dust motes dance
in shafts of afternoon light,
tiny galaxies spinning in silence,
unseen until the angle shifts,
just as the ordinary hides the divine
until we look with eyes that see.

Then comes the hospital room,
the smell of antiseptic masking the scent of decay,
and the father whose voice is a frayed rope
pulling tight against the weight of breath.
His last words are not grand prophecies
but a request for water, or perhaps a name,
a simple syllable dropped like a stone
into the deep well of memory.

But if we take the stain on the wall
and call it a sunset over a ruined city,
if we take the dust and name it stars,
if we take the dying whisper and shape it
into a key that unlocks the door to grief,
then the commonplace becomes a cathedral,
and the mundane details of our days
are the mortar holding up the sky.",2,"The wallpaper peels in strips of yellowed skin,
revealing the plaster bone beneath, a map of forgotten rooms
where dust motes dance like tiny galaxies in a shaft of light.
We call it decay, but it is only time shedding its coat,
a slow unraveling that teaches the hand how to hold a pen
with the same gentle pressure used to turn a page.

In the kitchen, the coffee stain on the tablecloth blooms
like a dark flower opening at dawn, a permanent record
of a morning rushed, a cup set down too hard.
This is not just a spill; it is an inkblot test for the soul,
showing us that beauty often lives in the accident,
in the way the liquid seeps into the weave and stays.

Then comes the quiet room where the air grows thin,
and the father's voice becomes a whisper of dry leaves.
His last words are not grand declarations but fragments,
a name half-remembered, a request for water, a sigh.
These are the raw materials, the rough stones we gather,
to build a cathedral of meaning from the mundane.

We take the chipped mug, the fading print, the final breath,
and with the alchemy of attention, we transmute them.
The stain becomes a metaphor for memory's persistence,
the peeling wall a symbol of layers we must strip away,
and the dying man's whisper turns into a thunderclap
that echoes long after the silence has swallowed the house.
For great writing is not found in the extraordinary,
but in the deep looking at what is already here,
waiting to be seen, waiting to be named.",2,"The wallpaper peels in yellow strips
like old skin shedding a memory,
a map of dampness where the mold writes
its own quiet scripture in green and gray.
We walk past it as if it were nothing,
but the poet sees the crack as a canyon
where time has eroded the plaster bone.

In the kitchen, the kettle screams a minor key
against the silence of a waiting room,
steam rising like a ghost trying to speak
before dissolving into the cold air.
A coffee ring stains the table, a brown sun
that will never rise again, a perfect circle
of absence left by a cup moved too soon.

Then comes the heavy hour when the father speaks,
his voice a dry leaf skittering on stone,
words that hang suspended like dust motes
in a shaft of afternoon light.
He says something small about the rain,
or perhaps just the name of a flower,
but we hear the ocean collapsing in his throat,
the final tide pulling back from the shore.

These are not just things that happen,
they are the raw ore of the great fire.
The stain becomes a story of decay and beauty,
the whisper becomes a thunderclap of love.
To write is to take the broken shard of glass
and see the whole sky reflected in its edge,
to turn the mundane ache of living
into a song that outlasts the silence.",2,"The wallpaper peels in slow, yellow curls
A map of forgotten rooms where dust motes dance
We call it decay but the poet sees a storm
That froze mid-blast against the plaster wall

A coffee ring stains the table like an eclipse
Dark and circular, swallowing the morning light
It is not just a spill but a planet lost
Orbiting the gravity of empty chairs

Then comes the quiet room where time unspools
And the father's breath becomes a fraying thread
His last words hang suspended, soft as smoke
Not ending but dissolving into air

He speaks of rain he never felt on skin
Of gardens growing in the space between heartbeats
We listen closely to the cracks in his voice
And find the universe hiding in the pause

For every stain is ink waiting to flow
Every silence holds a story loud enough to break us
We take the broken things we walk past daily
And stitch them with metaphor until they shine",3,"The wallpaper peels in slow, dry curls
Like ancient maps of lands we never walked,
Where yellow stains bloom like forgotten suns
That settled heavy on the morning dark.
We sweep the dust that dances in the light
And call it nothing more than idle air,
But watch how motes collide and spin in gold
To write a story without sound or care.

The kettle screams a high and thin complaint
Against the silence of the kitchen floor,
A minor chord that holds the room in place
Before the coffee pours its bitter core.
These are the bricks from which the grand is built,
Not marble towers reaching for the sky,
But cracks within the mortar of the wall
Where life insists on breathing, deep and high.

Then comes the quiet when the chair stands empty,
The rustle of sheets where breath grows thin,
As father speaks in whispers, soft and broken,
Letting the final syllables drift in.
He does not say of love or fear or pain,
But names the bird that sang outside the glass,
And in that simple word, the world expands
To hold the weight of all that came to pass.

We take the stain, the steam, the fading voice,
And weave them tight with threads of silver ink,
Transforming mundane moments into fire
That burns away the blur and makes us think.
For greatness hides inside the ordinary,
Waiting for the eye that sees the whole,
To turn the scattered fragments of our days
Into a poem that restores the soul.",3,"The wallpaper peels in slow, yellow strips
Revealing ghosts of paint from years ago
Where sunlight catches dust that softly drifts
And turns the mundane into sacred snow

A coffee cup retains a ring of brown
A map of mornings spent in quiet thought
The silence between ticking clocks is loud
With stories that the empty room has caught

But deeper still beneath the surface lies
The weight of hands that tremble in the air
A father speaks with breath like fading fire
His final words a language stripped and bare

They say that truth is found in grand design
Yet greatness lives within the broken things
We weave our verses from the frayed and torn
To make the ordinary sing and sting

So let the ink absorb the rusted hinge
The creaking floorboards groan a low refrain
For every crack holds light if we but look
And find the epic hidden in the rain",6
432,ultra_held_out,The Plains by Banjo Paterson,Banjo Paterson,"""A poem about the plains transforming through the seasons, oscillating between abundance and barrenness, beauty and cruelty, as nature's unpredictable cycles bring lush grazing lands to ruin, leaving only the bones of once-thriving animals scattered across the same grounds that had sustained them.""","A land, as far as the eye can see, where the waving grasses grow
Or the plains are blackened and burnt and bare, where the false mirages go
Like shifting symbols of hope deferred - land where you never know.
 
Land of the plenty or land of want, where the grey Companions dance,
Feast or famine, or hope or fear, and in all things land of chance,
Where Nature pampers or Nature slays, in her ruthless, red, romance.
 
And we catch a sound of a fairy's song, as the wind goes whipping by,
Or a scent like incense drifts along from the herbage ripe and dry
- Or the dust storms dance on their ballroom floor, where the bones of the cattle lie.","Green waves roll across the earth in spring,
Where bison graze and wildflowers sing,
The soil drinks deep of summer rain,
And life erupts in a lush domain.

But autumn winds begin to bite,
As days grow short and cold takes flight,
The grass turns gold then brittle brown,
Before the first hard frost comes down.

Then winter strikes with teeth of ice,
No mercy for the weak or nice,
The sky turns gray, the ground turns white,
A frozen tomb beneath the night.

The drought returns with scorching heat,
To crack the mud beneath our feet,
The rivers shrink to dusty threads,
While hunger chases all the herds.

Now silence falls on fields once full,
Where nature played its cruel pull,
The abundance fades to barren dust,
Betrayed by cycles we cannot trust.

Only the bones remain to show,
How green and gray can ebb and flow,
White ribs against the scorched terrain,
Of lives that bloomed and died again.","First the green tide rolls over the flat earth,
And the grass grows thick as a forest underfoot,
The air hums with the weight of bees and the scent of clover,
And the herds are fat and the water is deep.

Then the wind changes, or the clouds turn gray,
Or the rain fails to fall for a hundred days,
And the green turns to brown, and the brown turns to dust,
And the cattle drop down where they stand.

Now the bones are white in the sun,
Scattered like stones on the dry plain,
Where the grass was once high enough to hide them,
And the water was deep enough to drown them.

It is cruel that the land should feed so well,
And then kill so many who fed on it,
But the seasons go round and round,
And the grass dies and the grass grows again.",6,"The spring arrives with a sudden green rush,
A carpet of clover and wild grasses deep,
Where bison herds move like living tides,
And the air hums thick with the scent of life.
The sun is a warm hand on the neck of the earth,
And every hoofprint fills with clear water,
A promise that the hunger will never return.

But summer turns its face to a white glare,
The wind becomes a dry rasp against the skin,
The green recedes to a brittle gold, then gray,
And the rivers shrink to muddy threads.
The sky forgets the rain, the clouds turn hard as stone,
And the lush pastures crack open like old pottery,
Revealing the dust that waits beneath.

Then winter comes not as a blanket but as a blade,
The cold bites through fur and bone alike,
The snow buries the few remaining stalks,
And the silence is heavy with dying breath.
The beauty of the frost is a cruel mask,
Hiding the starvation that gnaws at the herd,
Until the strong fall and the weak are gone.

Now the plains lie still under a pale moon,
Scattered across the same ground that fed them,
White bones gleam where the flowers once bloomed,
Ribs curved like arches of a ruined cathedral.
The cycle spins again in the dark,
Unpredictable and vast, indifferent to the dead,
Waiting for the next green lie to begin.",6,"Green waves roll over the endless floor,
Where bison graze and eagles soar,
The grass is thick, the rain is sweet,
And life moves with a rhythmic beat.

Then clouds turn gray and skies grow pale,
The wind begins to strip the veil,
The soil cracks wide beneath the sun,
And summer's golden race is run.

The rivers shrink to muddy threads,
The living die, the silence spreads,
A cruel heat that burns the root,
And turns the harvest into dust.

Now scattered white on brown and stone,
The ribs of beasts lie cold alone,
Where milk once flowed and calves would play,
Only the bleached and silent clay.

Yet deep below the frozen crust,
The seed waits for the coming trust,
For cycles spin in wild design,
To make the barren ground divine.",7,"Green waves roll under a sky of softest blue
Where herds move like a river through the dew
The grass is thick and sweet beneath their feet
A promise kept by sun and gentle heat
But clouds gather dark and silence breaks the air
The wind turns sharp with cold and bitter care
The rain that fed becomes a flood of gray
Washing away the life of yesterday

Then drought descends to turn the soil to dust
The rivers shrink to cracks in iron rust
The green retreats, the golden stalks turn brown
And silence settles heavy on the town
No hoofbeat marks the path where bison ran
Only the dry and brittle husk remains
The beauty fades into a cruel display
As nature takes the bounty back today

Now bones lie scattered white against the stone
Of creatures that once called this place their home
The ribs are arches built for nothing now
Beneath a vast and indifferent brow
The ground remembers how it held them close
Before the winter came to freeze and roast
A cycle spins between the feast and famine's bite
From lush abundance to the endless night",7,"Green waves roll under a sky of softest blue
Where bison tread and grass grows thick and deep
The earth drinks rain until the soil is new
And promises of life it seems to keep

But clouds turn gray and silence steals the air
The wind becomes a blade that strips the ground
No seed remains, no shelter, nothing there
Just dust that rises from the barren mound

The sun burns down with cruel and steady heat
While rivers shrink to cracks within the clay
The herd once strong now stumbles on its feet
As hunger drives the living far away

Now scattered white against the scorched brown plain
The ribs and skulls of those who grazed before
Remind the world of beauty mixed with pain
That feeds the rich and leaves the poor to roar

This cycle turns without a warning sign
From lush abundance to a skeletal grave
Where life was once a vibrant, thriving line
Now only bones remain beneath the wave",7,"The wind arrives with seeds of green
And paints the earth in living sheen
Where herds once moved in thunderous tide
With every step, a world allied
To roots that drank the morning dew
And bloomed beneath a sky so blue

But summer holds a silent breath
That whispers softly of our death
The rain retreats to distant hills
Leaving behind the parched and still
The grass turns gold then brittle gray
As hunger stalks the light of day

A cruel shift from feast to famine's hand
That sweeps across this barren land
The vibrant fields become a dust
Where hope is lost and trust is rust
No shelter left for weary feet
Only the heat where life and silence meet

Now scattered white against the brown
The bones of those who fell down
Are markers on the endless plain
Of beauty born from pain and strain
The same ground that fed them well
Now tells a story of the spell
That breaks the cycle, sharp and cold
Turning the lush to stories told",7,"Green waves roll across the endless floor
Where bison thunder, hungry and raw
The air is thick with the scent of rain
And life bursts forth from the cracked terrain

But time turns slow and the sky grows gray
As summer heat steals the moisture away
The grass turns brittle, a rusted gold
A silent story waiting to unfold

The rivers shrink to a dusty thread
While shadows lengthen where hope once spread
The wind howls low through the empty space
Erasing the footprints of every race

Now silence reigns in the barren expanse
Where vibrant herds took their final dance
Only white bones lie scattered and still
Against the dark and unforgiving hill

A feast for crows on the scorched earth ground
Where abundance vanished without a sound
The cycle spins with a cruel design
To break the strong and let the weak decline

Yet in the ruin, a promise remains
That spring will wake from its frozen chains
But for today the plains stand alone
With ghosts of glory and seeds of stone",6
434,train,Cross by Langston Hughes,Langston Hughes,"A poem about a biracial speaker wondering whether he will die in a nice home or a dilapidated one, reflecting on the unequal lives and deaths of his white father and Black mother in a racist society.","My old man’s a white old man
And my old mother’s black.
If ever I cursed my white old man
I take my curses back.
If ever I cursed my black old mother
And wished she were in hell,
I’m sorry for that evil wish
And now I wish her well.
My old man died in a fine big house.
My ma died in a shack.
I wonder where I’m gonna die,
Being neither white nor black?","I trace the line where blue veins meet dark skin
and wonder which roof will shelter my bones when I am done.
Will it be the one with the manicured lawn and the quiet street
where my father's name still opens doors that stay locked for me?
Or will it be the crumbling porch, the peeling paint, the sirens' wail
where my mother's laughter was often swallowed by the night?

He died in a house built on a foundation of silence,
a place where the air smelled of lemon polish and old money,
where the world bowed down to his pale reflection.
She died in a world that measured her worth by the weight of her shadow,
in a home where the walls seemed to lean in, heavy with history.

Now I stand between two futures, a hybrid ghost in the making,
wondering if the color of my blood will dictate the quality of my end.
Will the doctors nod politely at my white half and ignore my black?
Will the funeral director ask about my lineage before preparing the box?
The society that raised me draws lines in the dirt and calls them fate,
deciding who gets a soft bed and who gets a hard grave.

I look at the sky, gray and indifferent over both neighborhoods,
and ask the wind if it knows how to tell a story without a bias.
Perhaps the truth is that death does not care for the address,
only that the house, whether grand or broken,
must eventually hold the same cold silence for us all.","I am the stitch between two fabrics that do not match,
the seam where the white father's quiet mortgage
and the Black mother's struggle to keep a roof over her head
have been clumsily sewn together.
He died in a nice home with a lawn he could mow,
a house with a basement and a garage,
where the neighbors knew his name and waved when he drove by.
She died in a flat above a store, in a neighborhood
where the streetlights were broken and the rats ran wild,
in a room where the paint was peeling off the walls
and the radiator clanked all night like an old man coughing.
Now I wonder, as I walk down the street
where the houses are all painted the same color
and the lawns are all the same size,
which one of my deaths will be the right one?
Will I die in a nice home like my father,
or in a dilapidated one like my mother?
And if I die in a nice home, will it be because
my white father's blood is stronger than my black mother's?
Or if I die in a dilapidated one, will it be because
my black mother's blood is stronger than my white father's?
Or will I die in a nice home because I am a man
and my mother was a woman?
Or will I die in a dilapidated one because I am black
and my father was white?",2,"I wonder which floorboards will creak beneath my final breath,
the polished oak of a father who never feared the street,
or the rotting planks of a mother who kept her head down low.
He died with his hands clean and his name on the deed,
surrounded by silence that felt like safety,
while she died with her back against the door,
listening for the knock that might have been trouble.
Now I stand in the middle of this bloodline,
a question mark drawn in two different inks,
wondering if the house I inherit will be warm enough to hide me
or if it will be just another cage built on a foundation of fear.
Will the walls hold me gently like his did,
or will they crumble into dust like hers,
leaving me exposed to the same wind that blew her away?",2,"My father left a house with fresh white paint
and a mortgage paid in full before the end,
his death a quiet thing behind a locked door,
a funeral in a suit that fit him well.

My mother died in rooms where water stained the ceiling,
her hands rough from cleaning other people's floors,
her breath a ragged sound against the cold,
her final bed a mattress on the floor.

I stand between these two inheritances,
half of me built for safety and for light,
half of me marked by shadows and by debt,
and wonder which version will hold my bones.

Will I close my eyes to beige walls and soft sheets?
Or will the rats run through the rotting wood?
The world has taught me that my skin decides
the quality of silence at the grave.

Perhaps I am the bridge that never gets crossed,
suspended over rivers of inequality,
waiting to see if luck or blood will win
when the dark comes calling for my name.",2,"My father died in a house with white shutters
where the light fell soft on Persian rugs
and the doctor arrived before the pain could settle deep
while my mother's last breath was drawn in a room
with peeling paint and a radiator that hissed like a warning
in a city that forgot to fix the street outside her window.

I am the sum of their two endings
the blood of the man who owned the deed
and the woman who was told she didn't belong there
wondering which ghost will guide me when the time comes.

Will I slip away under a quilt stitched by hands that knew comfort
or on a mattress stained by the struggle of survival?
Is my fate written in the mortgage papers or the eviction notice?
Do I inherit the silence of a well-kept lawn
or the noise of sirens that never stop for anyone?

They say I carry both worlds inside my skin
but the world outside sees only one at a time
sometimes granting me the keys to the front door
other times pointing to the back entrance where the shadows grow long.

Perhaps the house doesn't matter as much as the memory
of how they loved me in different languages of safety and fear
how one taught me to expect the best
and the other taught me to survive the worst.

So I wait for the final door to open
hoping it leads to a place where the walls do not judge
where the color of my face does not dictate the quality of my rest
and where the love of a white father and a Black mother
finally meets in a home that is truly mine.",2,"My father died in a house with fresh white paint
Where the gutters held only rain and not the weight of history
His skin was a shield that turned away the stones thrown at night
And left him sleeping in a bed that never shook with fear
But my mother's bones are buried under soil that remembers chains
Her final breath was stolen by a door locked tight against her name
She passed in a room where the windows were boarded up to keep the world out
Or perhaps just to keep her inside until the silence grew too loud

I stand between the mortar of his safety and the rot of her struggle
Wondering which roof will settle over my own head when the time comes
Will I inherit the warmth of a mortgage paid without question
Or the drafty chill of a place where the landlord waits for me to fail?
The blood in my veins is a map of two different destinies
One paved with gold, the other cracked by the weight of being seen as less
I wonder if the reaper knocks differently on these doors
If he brings a velvet cloak for the son of the man who owned the land
And a rusted chain for the son of the woman who was told she had none

Maybe the house does not matter if the ground beneath it is the same
But the way we leave this world feels like a story written before birth
A choice between a gentle fade into a garden of manicured grass
Or a sudden end in a corner where the light barely dares to reach
I am the bridge between the quiet death and the loud one
Waiting to see which side of the river will claim my name",2,"My skin holds the map of two different wars
One fought in boardrooms with polished floors
The other in shadows where the sirens sing
And the price of a life is a broken wing

I wonder which roof will cover my bones
Will I sleep in a house that feels like thrones
Or crumble to dust in a rotting frame
Where the paint peels back and the windows claim
A silence so heavy it chokes out the air
While the other side breathes without a care

My father walked through doors that opened wide
With a future secured on the other side
His death was a quiet, a soft, gentle fade
In a garden of green that his money had made
No one questioned the color of his final breath
Just the peace of a man who cheated death

But my mother knew the weight of the street
Where the pavement cracks and the cold winds meet
Her end came too soon, in a room with no heat
Where the system's cold hand made the bitter sweet
She died in a place they called ""temporary"" space
While the world turned its face and erased her trace

So I stand at the crossroads of blood and of fear
Wondering which version of me will disappear
Will the legacy of white grant me shelter from rain
Or will the shadow of black bring the storm and the pain?
Is my fate written deep in the lineage I hold
Or just another story waiting to unfold
Between the nice home and the one falling down
In a world that decides who gets to wear the crown.",6,"I stand between two worlds that refuse to merge
The white of his hands, the dark of her skin
One built on stone, the other left to rot
A question hanging heavy in the air

Will my end come soft beneath a vaulted ceiling
Where the air is filtered and the light is gold
Or will I fade within a crumbling frame
Where the wind howls through broken boards alone

My father walked with keys that opened every door
His final breath drawn in a room of quiet grace
While mother fought the ghosts that haunted every hall
Her story written in the cracks of peeling paint

They say the earth treats all as equal dust
But history remembers who was buried deep
And who was laid upon a bed of silk
The color of our blood decides the price we pay

I am the bridge that spans this cruel divide
Carrying the weight of both their destinies
Wondering if the house that holds my bones
Will be a sanctuary or a forgotten grave",3
435,ultra_held_out,Song for the Rainy Season by Elizabeth Bishop,Elizabeth Bishop,"""A poem about a home thriving with life and water during the rainy season, contrasting with the dry heat of summer.""","Hidden, oh hidden
in the high fog
the house we live in,
beneath the magnetic rock,
rain-, rainbow-ridden,
where blood-black
bromelias, lichens,
owls, and the lint
of the waterfalls cling,
familiar, unbidden.

In a dim age
of water
the brook sings loud
from a rib cage
of giant fern; vapor
climbs up the thick growth
effortlessly, turns back,
holding them both,
house and rock,
in a private cloud.

At night, on the roof,
blind drops crawl
and the ordinary brown
owl gives us proof
he can count:
five times—always five—
he stamps and takes off
after the fat frogs that,
shrilling for love,
clamber and mount.

House, open house
to the white dew
and the milk-white sunrise
kind to the eyes,
to membership
of silver fish, mouse,
bookworms,
big moths; with a wall
for the mildew's
ignorant map;

darkened and tarnished
by the warm touch
of the warm breath,
maculate, cherished;
rejoice! For a later
era will differ.
(O difference that kills
or intimidates, much
of all our small shadowy
life!) Without water

the great rock will stare
unmagnetized, bare,
no longer wearing
rainbows or rain,
the forgiving air
and the high fog gone;
the owls will move on
and the several
waterfalls shrivel
in the steady sun.","The summer sun had scorched the earth to dust,
A brittle silence where the crickets ceased their song,
The riverbed a cracked and thirsty mouth,
Where shadows stretched too long and heat was strong.

But now the clouds have gathered thick and gray,
And drums of rain begin to tap the roof,
The air grows cool with scent of wetted clay,
As life awakes from its dry, dusty proof.

Green shoots erupt through soil once turned to stone,
The garden drinks until the leaves are bright,
A world reborn in water's gentle tone,
Chasing away the ghost of burning light.

Inside the walls, the windows catch the gleam,
Of droplets racing down the glass like tears,
We watch the garden drink its fill of dream,
And feel the pulse of life return after years.","The summer sun had baked the earth to dust,
And cracked the clay floors with a thirsty heat,
Where silence held the house in heavy trust,
And even the well was dry beneath our feet.

But now the clouds have rolled in from the sea,
And brought the rain that wakes the sleeping ground;
The cisterns overflow with clarity,
And frogs begin their chorus all around.

The walls are cool and damp with living green,
The moss has climbed the steps and soaked the stone,
While water drips from every eave unseen,
And fills the hollows of the courtyard stone.

The pots of geraniums drink deep and swell,
The cat comes in and shakes his wet soft fur,
And life returns to fill the empty cell,
As if the house itself were born anew.",6,"The summer heat had pressed the earth until it cracked,
A dusty silence held the walls and floor,
Where shadows shrunk beneath the scorching rack,
And life retreated to a distant door.
But now the sky has broken open wide,
With silver threads that stitch the ground to cloud,
The thirsty soil drinks deep with sudden pride,
And green shoots rise above the dust-caked shroud.

Inside, the air is cool and thick with rain,
That drums a rhythm on the terracotta roof,
While frogs begin their chorus in the lane,
And lizards seek the shelter of the roof.
The kitchen fills with steam from boiling tea,
As water rushes through the gutter's spout,
Transforming all the dryness into glee,
Until the very stones seem to sprout.

No longer does the sun beat down like fire,
Instead the clouds roll soft and heavy low,
Filling the cisterns with a fresh desire,
To make the garden grow and overflow.
The house breathes out the heat of days gone by,
And thrives within this wet and living cage,
Beneath the gray and ever-changing sky,
Where summer's angry heat can find no page.",6,"The summer held us in a fist of dust
Where cracked earth split beneath the heavy sun,
And silence stretched until the breath was cut,
With every shadow burned and everyone undone.

But now the clouds have broken like a dam
And life rushes back through every open door,
While green shoots rise to drink the silver stream
That floods the yard and spills across the floor.

The frogs are loud inside the kitchen sink,
The moss has claimed the stones along the path,
A world reborn from gray and thirsty sleep
Now dances wild within the cool, wet bath.

No longer parched or gasping for a drop,
The house breathes deep with water in its veins,
A thriving pulse where summer left us dry,
As rain washes away the heat's old chains.",6,"The summer sun had scorched the earth to dust
And silence held the cracked and waiting ground
Where thirsty roots lay dormant in their trust
Beneath a sky of heavy, burning brown

Then came the clouds to break the fevered air
With thunder rolling deep within the chest
As life returned with sudden, wild repair
And coolness washed away the summer's zest

Now water dances on the tin roof's skin
While green shoots burst from soil turned soft and dark
The frogs begin their loud and rhythmic din
To light the damp and shadowed evening spark

Inside the walls the steam rises to meet
The scent of wet clay rising from the floor
A world reborn where heat and drought once beat
Now thriving at the garden's open door",7,"The summer sun had baked the earth to dust
And silence hung like heavy, golden sheets
Where cracked clay split beneath the burning rust
And life retreated from the scorching heat

But then the clouds rolled in with thunder's drum
To break the spell of thirst and withered grass
The air grew cool as sudden waters come
And wash the memory of the dryness past

Now every gutter sings a rushing tune
As roof tiles drink the sky's abundant tear
The garden wakes beneath the silver moon
With green shoots rising through the muddy year

Inside the walls the steam begins to rise
From pots of tea that warm the chilled stone floor
While raindrops tap a rhythm on the skies
That tells the house it is alive once more

No longer parched or waiting for the breeze
The home now breathes within the storm's embrace
A vibrant world among the swaying trees
Where water finds its own enduring place",7,"The sun once burned the earth to dust
Where cracked and thirsty soil lay still
A heavy silence filled the air
Beneath a pale and distant hill

Now clouds arrive with thunder's voice
To wash away the summer's heat
The roof becomes a drum of life
As water rushes down the street

Green shoots erupt from hidden cracks
The garden drinks its fill at last
No longer bound by arid days
But free within the monsoon cast

Inside, the walls breathe cool and deep
While rain taps rhythms on the pane
The world is loud with living sound
And dryness fades like yesterday's pain",6,"The dust once danced in golden waves
Beneath a sky of burning blue
Where silence held the parched earth
And thirst was all the world could do

Now heavy clouds have claimed the light
To wash the cracks with silver streams
As rain taps rhythms on the roof
Awaking life from summer dreams

The garden drinks the sudden gift
And green shoots rise through muddy ground
While frogs begin their nightly song
A chorus that the dry air drowned

Inside the walls, the air feels cool
No longer choked by heat and haze
A river runs beneath the floor
Reflecting stars in liquid gaze

What died beneath the scorching sun
Now thrives within the monsoon's hold
A home reborn in water's grace
Where stories of the storm unfold",6
440,ultra_held_out,Shall earth no more inspire thee by Emily Brontë,Emily Brontë,"""A poem about the Earth pleading with a lost soul to return to worshipping and dwelling within its warmth.""","Shall earth no more inspire thee,
Thou lonely dreamer now?
Since passion may not fire thee
Shall Nature cease to bow?
Thy mind is ever moving
In regions dark to thee;
Recall its useless roving—
Come back and dwell with me.
I know my mountain breezes
Enchant and soothe thee still—
I know my sunshine pleases
Despite thy wayward will.
When day with evening blending
Sinks from the summer sky,
I’ve seen thy spirit bending
In fond idolatry.
I’ve watched thee every hour;
I know my mighty sway,
I know my magic power
To drive thy griefs away.
Few hearts to mortals given
On earth so wildly pine;
Yet none would ask a heaven
More like this earth than thine.
Then let my winds caress thee;
Thy comrade let me be—
Since nought beside can bless thee,
Return and dwell with me.","My child, why do you wander in the cold
Where shadows stretch and silence holds its breath?
The sun still waits to wrap you in its gold
And save your spirit from this quiet death.

Return to where the rivers sing their tune
Beneath the canopy of ancient green
Come feel the pulse that beats beneath the moon
And taste the life within the soil unseen.

I am the cradle that once held you tight
Before you drifted far into the night
Your heart was made for warmth and not for fright
So let my arms embrace you with delight.

Do not fear the fire that warms the bone
It is the love I saved just for your own
Come home to me where seeds are freely sown
And dwell again within my gentle throne.","Come back to the green grass and the heavy rain
Where the roots drink deep and the branches sway in the sun
Why wander alone in the cold gray void of space
When here is the warmth you were made for?

Do not fear the soil or the weight of the air
Or the hunger that comes when the harvest is done
For I hold all things within my open hands
And I am the mother who waits for her child.

The stars are distant and cold as ice, my love
But I burn with a fire that will never go out
So lay down your head on my breast of moss
And let me rock you to sleep in my lap of earth.",6,"Child of the dust, why do you wander so far?
The cold stars offer only silence and stone,
While I hold a heart that beats warm in your chest,
A cradle of green where your weary bones rest.

Come back to the soil that remembers your name,
To the rivers that sing and the rains that proclaim
The mercy of growth, of the seed and the sprout,
Where life is not lost but is always found out.

Do not let the void steal the color from sight,
Or freeze in your veins the bright fire of light.
Return to my bosom, return to my breath,
For without my embrace, there is only death.

I am the mother who waits with open arms,
Shielding you still from the universe's harms.
So turn back, O lost one, and dwell in my glow,
And let my deep warmth be the place that you know.",7,"My child, the cold has taken hold of you
While I have kept the fire burning low and bright
Come back to where the roots remember you
And wrap your shivering hands in morning light

Why wander through the void of empty space
When here the rivers sing a lullaby?
I made this soil to cradle up your face
To catch the falling tear before it dry

Do not fear the weight of gravity
It is only love that pulls you to the ground
Return to me, my lost and wandering star
Where every seed and stone is safe and sound

The sun is warm but I am closer still
I breathe within the wind that cools your brow
Please turn your weary eyes away from chill
And let the ancient green embrace you now",6,"Come back to the soil that knows your weight
To the roots that hold you when the stars retreat
Why wander the cold and hollow air
When I have woven a nest of green everywhere

I am the warmth that melts the frost in your bones
The quiet pulse beneath the stones
You seek a heaven far above
But find no peace without my love

Lay down your heavy, wandering head
Upon the grass where the morning is spread
Drink from the rivers that sing your name
Forget the silence, forget the shame

Return to the circle, return to the deep
Where promises are kept while the world is asleep
No other mother waits with open arms
To shield you from the cosmic harms

Stay here, my child, in the golden light
Until the day turns into night
For I am the cradle, the hearth, the home
And I will never let you roam alone",7,"My child, the cold has grown too deep within your chest
Why wander through the shadow when you know my light?
I hold the sun's embrace against the winter's crest
And offer you a home where life and love unite.

You drift among the stars that never feel the rain
Forgetting how the soil cradles every seed you sow
Return to where the rivers sing through valleys plain
And let your weary spirit in my warmth below.

Do not fear the weight of roots or branches high
For I am made of clay that longs to hold you near
The sky above is vast but empty to the eye
That seeks the solid ground where all true hearts are dear.

Come back to me, my lost and wandering soul
Where fire dances soft and waters gently flow
Let go the silence of the void that makes you whole
And dwell again within the beating of my glow.",6,"Child of dust and drifting star,
Why do you wander so far?
The cold has stolen from your eyes,
Beneath the weight of endless skies.

Come back to where the roots run deep,
Where ancient promises we keep.
My rivers sing a lullaby,
To dry the tears you cannot hide.

I offer warmth against the night,
A shelter made of golden light.
No temple built by human hand,
Can hold the peace I understand.

Return to me, my wandering soul,
And let the fractured pieces whole.
Dwell in the soil, breathe the air,
And find the love that waits right there.

Do not fear the dark outside,
For I am here to be your guide.
Let go the ghosts of what was lost,
And pay no more a heavy cost.

Embrace the ground, embrace the sun,
Your journey's final race is run.
Rest in the circle, safe and sound,
Within the warmth where life is found.",7,"Child of dust and drifting wind
Why do you wander where the shadows begin
I hold the soil beneath your weary feet
A cradle made for those who seek to meet

My rivers sing a lullaby so deep
To wash the silence from the promises you keep
Return to me where sunlight breaks the gray
And let the ancient warmth chase night away

You are not lost but merely turned aside
With every step I walk there is no place to hide
So come back home to roots that hold you tight
And rest within my arms through endless night",7
442,train,The Flower by Robert Creeley,Robert Creeley,"A poem about a speaker conversing with a fully-bloomed flower, finding inspiration and spiritual aliveness in its patient unfolding from bud to blossom.","I think I grow tensions
like flowers
in a wood where
nobody goes.

Each wound is perfect,
encloses itself in a tiny
imperceptible blossom,
making pain.

Pain is a flower like that one,
like this one,
like that one,
like this one.","I found you waiting in the morning light
A tight green fist that held the sun inside
And asked how long it took to learn this art
To hold your breath until the time was right.

You did not speak with words of sound or air
But slowly turned your heavy, velvet face
To show the layers peeling from the core
The patient work of slow and sacred grace.

I saw the bud that struggled through the rain
The days it kept its secrets safe and deep
Before the final, trembling surrender came
To wake the world from winter's heavy sleep.

Now I am filled with colors I have known
Yet never felt so vividly as now
For in your opening, my spirit's grown
To trust the silence and the silent vow.

That all unfolding needs a quiet space
To let the roots go down before the rise
So I too wait within this holy place
And bloom again beneath these open skies.","I asked the rose how she knew when to open,
and she said she did not know;
she only knew that she was a bud,
and then she was a blossom.

She said there is no hurry in her heart,
only a slow filling of the cup with light,
a patient waiting for the sun to be ready,
and for herself to be full enough to spill over.

I saw that she had no fear of being late,
nor any anxiety about being early,
but simply moved from tightness to looseness,
from green silence to red music.

And I felt my own heart unclenching,
feeling less like a fist and more like an open hand,
feeling less like a stone and more like a flower,
alive with the same quiet urgency as the rose.",6,"I ask you why you waited so long
in the tight green fist of your own silence,
when the sun was already warm and the bees were loud.

You do not answer in words,
but in the slow unfurling of a petal,
a whisper of color against the gray stone.

You teach me that rushing is not living,
that to be fully alive is to trust the season within,
to hold the secret of the bloom until the moment is right.

Now you are open, wide and golden,
and I feel my own heart unclenching,
learning from your patience how to breathe again.",6,"I asked you how you knew the time was right
To break your green and silent, folded skin,
And you replied in colors soft and bright
That patience is the work where life begins.

You did not rush to meet the morning sun,
Nor force your petals open to the air,
But waited until every drop was done
Of rain that fed the roots beneath your care.

Now see me standing here with heavy heart,
So tight and closed against the world's demand,
Teach me the art of waiting, part by part,
To trust the rhythm of a slower hand.

Your unfolding is a prayer without a sound,
A quiet proof that beauty takes its time,
That from the dark and hidden, deep underground,
The spirit rises in a grand design.

I feel a spark ignite within my chest,
As watching you, I learn to breathe again,
To let my own locked layers find their rest,
And bloom into the light of joy and pain.",7,"I asked the rose how long it waited
To wear this crown of crimson light,
And in its silence, soft and weighty,
It taught me patience is not night.

You see the bud, a fist of green,
Holding a secret tight within,
But time is what the heart has seen
When winter's heavy door grows thin.

It did not rush to break the skin,
Nor force the petals to unfold,
But let the sun and rain come in,
Until the story could be told.

Now here you stand, fully awake,
A temple built from slow design,
For every breath the garden takes
Is proof that life is yours and mine.

So I will wait, as you have done,
Through seasons cold and days of heat,
To let my own true self unfold,
And find my soul beneath my feet.",7,"I ask you how you waited through the dark
Without a fear that spring would never come
You simply held your green and silent heart
And trusted in the rhythm of the sun

Your petals did not rush to claim the light
But opened slow, one layer at a time
A quiet lesson in the depth of night
That patience is a kind of sacred rhyme

Now gold unfolds against the morning air
A perfect map of where the seed began
I feel a sudden spark within me there
Awake to all I was before I ran

To chase the hours like a frantic thief
Ignoring roots that hold the earth so deep
You teach the soul to find its own relief
In promises it has no need to keep

So I will breathe as you have learned to bloom
No longer fighting against the turning tide
Finding my own unfolding from the gloom
With nothing left inside for me to hide",7,"I ask the rose how long it waited
For the sun to touch its hidden spine,
It does not speak in words of language
But shows me how the light aligns.

From tight and silent green beginnings
To petals wide and soft and red,
It taught my restless heart to breathe again
With every step the seasons led.

No rush to bloom before the time is right
No fear of winter's coming chill,
Just patient trust in what must open
And the quiet power of being still.

Now I feel a spark ignite within
As roots run deep through soil and stone,
Alive because I learned to wait
And let my own true self be known.",7,"I find you standing still in morning light
A silent promise kept against the sky
No rush to answer, no need to fight
As clouds drift slowly, soft and high

You speak without a single word of sound
In petals layered deep with golden hue
The quiet lesson that I finally found
Is how to trust the slow and steady view

My heart was tight, a bud held close in fear
Afraid to break or let the world take hold
But watching you, the path becomes clear
To let the story of my growth unfold

You taught me that the waiting is not empty space
But soil where roots run deep and strong
That time is not a thief we must chase
But gentle hands where we belong

Now I breathe the air you helped to make
With every breath a new beginning starts
For in your bloom, I choose to wake
And carry life within my beating heart",7
444,train,The Light of the House by Louise Imogen Guiney,Louise Imogen Guiney,"A poem about a speaker finding comfort in the lingering presence and memory of a deceased loved one, whose joyful spirit continues touching all who enter the home.","Beyond the cheat of Time, here where you died, you live;
You pace the garden walk, secure and sensitive;
You linger on the stair: Love’s lonely pulses leap!
The harpsichord is shaken, the dogs look up from sleep. Here, after all the years, you keep the heirdom still;
The youth and joy in you achieve their olden will,
Unbidden, undeterred, with waking sense adored;
And still the house is happy that hath so dear a lord.
To every inmate heart, confirmed in cheer you brought,
Your name is as a spell midway of speech and thought,
And to a wonted guest (not awestruck heretofore),
The sunshine that was you floods all the open door.","The dust motes dance in shafts of afternoon light
Just as they did when you were here to watch them spin,
And though the silence fills the empty chair tonight,
I hear your laughter rising from within.

It lingers in the creak of floorboards underfoot,
A sudden warmth that brushes past my shoulder blade,
As if the house itself has learned to hold the root
Of every joyful memory we ever made.

Strangers walk through the door and pause to smile,
Unknowing why the air feels soft and bright,
They feel a presence that remains a while,
A ghost of joy that guides them through the night.

You are not gone but woven in the walls,
In every cup of tea and open book,
Your spirit answers when the quiet calls,
And turns the heavy heart into a nook.

So let the world outside keep turning cold,
For here inside, your love is still alive,
A story that the very rooms have told,
Keeping the grief at bay with gentle drive.","The dust motes dance as they always did
When she was here to laugh at them,
And the light falls soft across the floor
Just where her slippered feet would come.

I feel a warmth that is not the fire
But something she left behind,
A touch upon my shoulder blade
As if she leaned and smiled.

The cat still rubs against the chair leg
With the same demanding purr,
And the air seems full of humming tunes
That used to fill the house.

It is not that she has gone away,
But that she has spread herself out thin
Until every corner of this room
Is touched by her bright spirit.

She is in the window's sudden gleam,
In the shadow on the wall,
In the silence that is not quite silence,
But her waiting there for all.",6,"The dust motes dance where sunlight hits the floor,
Just as they did when you were here before.
I hear a laugh that isn't quite my own,
A sudden warmth within this quiet stone.

You left no silence in these empty rooms,
But filled them with your bright and blooming blooms.
The door swings wide for strangers passing by,
And carries up your spirit to the sky.

They walk inside and feel a strange release,
As if your joy has settled down like peace.
They do not know the name of who is gone,
Yet leave their hearts a little lighter on.

So though you sleep beneath the grass so green,
Your laughter lingers in the space between.
It touches all who cross this threshold now,
And makes me smile through every tearful bow.",7,"The dust motes dance in afternoon light
just as they did when you were here,
spinning gold through the quiet air
before settling on the worn wooden floor.

I hear your laughter in the creak of the stairs,
a bright echo that refuses to fade,
and the door opens not with a slam
but with the gentle push of your memory.

Strangers walk in and stop to smile,
drawn by a warmth they cannot name,
feeling a sudden lift in their heavy hearts
as if your spirit brushed against their shoulder.

You are not gone, but woven into the walls,
in the scent of rain on the porch,
in the way the sun hits the kitchen table,
touching everyone who crosses the threshold.

So I sit in this house full of ghosts
that feel more like guests than shadows,
comforted by the knowledge that joy remains
long after the one who brought it has left.",6,"The dust motes dance in shafts of afternoon light
Just as they did when you were here to watch them spin,
And though the chair beside the window stands empty now,
I feel the warmth of where your laughter used to begin.

When friends arrive and step across the threshold stone,
They do not find a house of silence or of gray,
But hear a sudden echo in the creaking floorboards,
A ghost of joy that chases all the shadows away.

You left no heavy weight of grief upon these walls,
Only a lingering scent of rain on summer grass,
A memory so bright it turns the ordinary moments
Into a gentle path for those who come to pass.

So I sit quiet in the room you loved so well,
And know you are not gone but woven through the air,
Touching every heart that enters with a smile,
Proving that love is never truly anywhere.",6,"The dust motes dance in shafts of afternoon light
Just as they did when you were here to watch them spin,
And though the silence holds a weight so deep and bright,
It is not empty now that I let your laughter in.

I feel you in the creaking floorboard by the door,
A gentle nudge against my weary, walking feet,
As if you're guiding me to find one little more
Of warmth within this house where joy and sorrow meet.

The kettle whistles with a tune you used to hum,
A melody that lingers on the kitchen air,
And strangers entering find their spirits overcome
By something kind that hangs above the wooden chair.

They say the room feels lighter than it ought to be,
That shadows shrink away from corners sharp and cold,
But I know better, for I see your spirit free
In every story that the old walls have told.

You are the breeze that rustles through the heavy curtains,
The sudden smile that breaks a stranger's quiet frown,
No longer gone, but woven into all the currents
That lift us up when we are feeling worn and down.

So let the memory settle like a soft embrace,
Not as a ghost to haunt the edges of the night,
But as a steady, warm and unassuming grace
That turns the ordinary dark into pure light.",6,"The dust motes dance in shafts of afternoon light
Just as they did when you were here to watch them rise
I walk through rooms that hold your quiet breath
And feel the warmth that never truly dies

A chair still creaks beneath a phantom weight
Where laughter used to spill across the floor
The scent of rain and old books fills the air
And opens up a familiar, gentle door

Strangers come to see what remains behind
But find instead a spirit soft and bright
They say the house feels kind, a living thing
That holds the echo of your endless light

No shadow falls where you once stood so tall
For joy has rooted deep within these walls
And though my hand cannot reach out to touch
Your memory answers every time I call

So let the silence sing with all you gave
A song that lingers in the hollow space
You are not gone but woven in the weave
Of every smile that graces this warm place",6,"The dust motes dance in afternoon light
Just as you taught them to do
A silent rhythm, a familiar sight
That makes the heavy air feel new

Your laughter lingers in the hall
Where shadows used to grow
It echoes off the kitchen wall
And softens every blow

I walk through rooms you filled with song
And feel your hand on mine
Though silence stretches, it feels strong
With memories that intertwine

The garden blooms with colors bright
That mirror your warm smile
A testament to endless night
That still has room for life

So let the wind carry your name
Through open doors and sky
For love is not a fading flame
But how we learn to fly",6
447,ultra_held_out,Edgar Allan Poe by Timothy Thomas Fortune,Timothy Thomas Fortune,"""A poem about a speaker celebrating and romanticizing the works, life, and enduring legacy of a poet, even through his darker moments, until his death silenced his song.""","I know not why, but it is true—it may,
In some way, be because he was a child
Of the fierce sun where I first wept and smiled—
I love the dark-browed Poe. His feverish day
Was spent in dreams inspired, that him beguiled,
When not along his path shone forth one ray
Of light, of hope, to guide him on the way,
That to earth's cares he might be reconciled.
Not one of all Columbia's tuneful choir
Has pitched his notes to such a matchless key
As Poe—the wizard of the Orphic lyre!
Not one has dreamed, has sung, such songs as he,
Who, like an echo came, an echo went,
Singing, back to his mother element.","He walked the streets where shadows stretch the longest,
And turned the greyest ash to burning gold,
A master of the sorrow and the song,
Who made the broken heart a story told.
His ink was mixed with midnight's heavy rain,
Yet every drop became a star above,
He found the beauty in the sharp, deep pain,
And wove it tight within a thread of love.

We cheered the chaos that he dared to speak,
The madness dancing on the edge of sense,
For in his dark, we found a path so weak,
That led us to a strange and sweet defense.
No storm could break the rhythm of his rhyme,
Though winter froze the blood within his veins,
He sang until he conquered space and time,
And filled the hollow air with sweet refrains.

But silence came, a thief without a sound,
To steal the breath that fed the rising fire,
The final note fell softly to the ground,
As life withdrew from out his tired wire.
Now stillness holds the page where words once grew,
A quiet tomb for songs that will not cease,
Yet in the void, his legacy breaks through,
An endless echo of his wild release.","He sang of suns that broke the morning mist
And gardens where the nightingales were lost,
He sang of wine and women and the dust
That settles on the brow of kings at last.

But when the fever burned his blood to fire,
When shadows lengthened in his narrow room,
He turned his song into a dark desire
To make the darkness bloom.

He saw the stars as eyes that watched him die,
The moon a skull that smiled upon his bed;
He made the silence of the grave a cry,
And filled the empty air with songs unsaid.

So he was great in joy and great in pain,
A giant in the day, a giant in the night,
Until the final silence came again,
And quenched the candle of his song with light.",6,"I loved the way he turned the morning light
Into a golden coin to pay for bread,
And how he made the shadow of the night
A velvet cloak for weary heads to rest.
He sang of storms that broke the willow's spine,
Of bitter wine and tears that salted lips,
Yet found in every ruin such design
That even grief became a poet's script.

His life was not a straight and quiet road,
But jagged peaks where frost and fire met,
Where heavy burdens weighed upon his load,
And silence often stole his breath and wit.
But still he spoke, with voice both rough and sweet,
Until the final curtain fell so deep
That all the music of his wandering feet
Was hushed within the earth's eternal sleep.

Now silence holds the room where once he stood,
The song is done, the lyre lies broken now,
But though the living man has understood
No more, his legacy remains as bough
Of fruit that falls when winter winds blow cold,
To feed the roots that keep the story told.",7,"I trace the ink that bled from his trembling hand,
A map of storms he walked to write the rain,
He turned the rotting wood into a wand
And made the broken heart a golden grain.
His laughter was a bell that shook the dust,
His sorrow was a river deep and wide,
In every shadow cast by love or lust,
He found a secret place where truth could hide.

Even when the fever burned his brow,
And silence tried to steal the words away,
He sang of how the winter brings the snow
To cover up the scars of yesterday.
The darker moments were but velvet night
That set the stars of genius burning bright,
He loved the world enough to fight the dark
And leave a spark within each heavy mark.

But then the final curtain fell so slow,
The breath grew thin, the melody ran dry,
The songbird ceased its flight to rest below
Beneath the vast and unrelenting sky.
Now silence holds the room where once he stood,
A quiet ghost in all the books he wrote,
Yet still I feel the warmth of understood,
The legacy that time cannot revoke.
For though the voice is stilled, the song remains,
A living fire that burns through pain and loss,
He turns the grief into eternal rains
That water seeds beyond the garden's cross.",7,"He spun the world from threads of midnight blue,
And found a sunrise in the cracks of stone,
His verses were the dew that kissed the dew,
A kingdom built where he had walked alone.

We drank the wine of sorrow from his cup,
For even grief was gold within his hand,
He lifted broken things and made them up,
And taught the shadows how to understand.

The stormy nights he wrote with fevered pen,
Were not a curse but proof of burning fire,
He loved the rain that fell on window panes,
And sang the thunder like a sweet desire.

But then the silence crept across the page,
The ink ran dry before the final line,
The songbird ceased its warble in the cage,
And left the melody incomplete, divine.

Now death has stilled the voice that knew our pain,
Yet echoes linger in the empty air,
For though his breath is gone and blood is vain,
The song remains, and we are still aware.",7,"He walked through valleys made of ink and shadow,
Where every stone was shaped by a trembling hand,
And in the gloom he found a brighter glow,
A fire that burned against the shifting sand.
His verses were not just for light and joy,
But carved from grief that learned to sing aloud,
Turning the heavy silence into noise,
A stormy cloud within a quiet crowd.

We loved the cracks where broken pieces showed,
The way his heart bled out on paper white,
For even in the darkest path he trod,
He painted stars to guide us through the night.
His life was not a straight and steady line,
But jagged edges cutting deep and true,
Yet every wound became a grand design,
That taught the world how to feel something new.

Then came the hush that no one could command,
When breath grew thin and fingers lost their grip,
The final note dissolved across the land,
As time unspooled its final, silent trip.
The song has stopped, the instrument is still,
No more the voice that shook the winter air,
But though the singer lies upon the hill,
The echo lingers everywhere we dare.",6,"You spun the night into a golden thread
And taught the shadows how to sing along
Your ink was blood, your breath a living word
That turned the silence into something strong
I loved the storms you conjured from the page
The jagged edges of your broken heart
For in your pain, a strange and holy rage
Made every fractured moment feel like art

You danced within the fire and the rain
A lover of the dark, a king of grief
Who found a crown inside the deepest pain
And offered it as proof of relief
No sorrow went unwritten or unseen
No tear was shed without a rhyme to keep
You built a world where all the lost could lean
And promised that the darkness would not sleep

But time is cruel to even gods of song
And eventually the final note must fade
The pen grew still, the heavy hand went wrong
Leaving the vast and echoing parade
Now only echoes linger in the air
Of verses sung when life was burning bright
We hold the ghost of what you used to share
Until the silence claims the last goodnight",7,"He walked through fields of ink and rain
Where sorrow bloomed like wild refrain
A pen that carved the night in gold
To make the broken stories told
I trace the lines he left behind
The jagged edges of his mind
That turned the shadow into light
And made the darkness feel so right

His laughter danced on paper thin
While storms raged deep within
He drank the wine of grief and fear
And found the beauty hidden there
No verse was wasted, none too dark
Just embers glowing in the spark
Of every word he dared to speak
Against the silence of the week

But time is cruel to mortal hands
And pulls the singer from the lands
The final stanza fades to gray
As winter steals the warmth away
The song cuts short, the breath runs out
Leaving only echoes in the doubt
Yet still I hear the rhythm rise
Beneath the weight of endless skies

For though the voice has ceased to sing
The legacy remains a thing
Of fire that refuses to die
Beneath the vast and starry sky
We celebrate the man and art
The beating of a weary heart
That lived to write until the end
And left us with a friend",7
449,ultra_held_out,The Death of Fred Clifton by Lucille Clifton,Lucille Clifton,"""A poem about a departing spirit leaving behind worldly memories and being drawn toward a deeper spiritual force beyond the physical world.""","I seemed to be drawn
to the center of myself
leaving the edges of me
in the hands of my wife
and I saw with the most amazing
clarity
so that I had not eyes but
sight,
and, rising and turning,
through my skin,
there was all around not the
shapes of things
but oh, at last, the","The heavy cloak of flesh begins to fade
As echoes of the marketplace grow thin
I leave behind the laughter and the shade
Of gardens where I once began to spin

The clockwork heart that beat against my ribs
Now slows its rhythm in a silent room
No longer bound by hunger or by nibs
Of time that carved its lines within the gloom

A current pulls, invisible and deep
Beyond the stars that watch from distant skies
It calls the wandering soul to fall asleep
In waters where no mortal eye can rise

The memories dissolve like mist at dawn
The names I knew are lost upon the breeze
The thread is cut, the tether finally gone
To join the vast and ancient symphonies","The heavy chain of memory breaks at last,
The rusted links of names and faces fall,
I leave the dusty attic of the past
And climb the ladder to the empty hall.

The pictures on the wall begin to fade,
The laughter in the room is just a sound,
The scent of roses that I once displayed
Is now but vapor rising from the ground.

I feel a wind that does not blow from earth,
A pull that draws me upward through the air,
As if a great magnet hid behind the birth
Of stars was calling me beyond my care.

The walls dissolve, the roof falls off away,
I see no ceiling but the endless blue,
The light is different than it was today,
It is a deeper light and truer too.

I go where there are no more memories left,
No sorrow or regret to weigh me down,
No shadow of the body, no bereft,
But only spirit moving toward the crown.",7,"The heavy chains of flesh dissolve at last
And memories of sun and rain grow thin
Like mist that clings to morning grass
Before the wind blows through again

I leave the clock's relentless ticking sound
The taste of bread, the warmth of hands
The maps I drew on shifting ground
Now fade like footprints in the sands

A pull begins within the bone
Not up or down but deep inside
A silent call, a quiet throne
Where all the hidden things abide

No longer bound by sight or touch
Or time that breaks and mends the day
I feel a vast and ancient hush
That draws the wandering soul away

The world recedes to distant gray
A dream half-forgotten in the light
As I am swept and carried far
Into the deep and endless night",6,"The heavy cloak of flesh grows thin and cold
As whispers of the market fade to dust
The names I loved, the stories told and retold
Now slip like water through an open fist

I see the sun but do not feel its heat
The garden blooms without a scent for me
The rhythm of the beating heart is sweet
Yet distant as a song across the sea

A pull begins within the silent core
Not gravity that holds the earth in place
But something vast that waits behind the door
To wash away this temporary trace

The memories dissolve like mist at dawn
The griefs and joys become a single thread
I leave the shadows of the night withdrawn
And turn toward the light where all is said

No longer bound by time or space or form
I drift toward the deep and endless blue
Where silence is a music warm and warm
And every soul returns to what is true",7,"The heavy coat of skin falls to the floor
A silent heap where once a heartbeat roared
I watch the dust settle on wooden shelves
Where photographs hold faces I no longer know

The colors fade from green and gold to gray
As memories lose their sharp and stinging edge
The noise of markets, laughter, and of rain
Dissolves into a soft and distant hush

Now something vast begins to pull me near
Not with a hand but with a quiet hum
A current rising from the deep below
That calls the light within my chest to rise

No chains of earth can hold this drifting form
No anchor made of sorrow or of joy
I turn away from all that was and is
To walk toward the silence waiting there

The boundary thins until it vanishes
And I am swept beyond the starry dome
Into the arms of something old and new
Where time unspools and every soul is one",6,"The heavy cloak of flesh grows thin and gray
As whispers fade from ears that can no longer hear
The clockwork ticking in the chest slows down
To match the rhythm of a distant sphere

I leave behind the garden I once tended
Where every stone held weight and memory deep
The laughter lost, the sorrow unattended
Are promises I cannot now keep

A current pulls beneath the surface tension
Of water turning into light and air
No longer bound by time or friction
Or gravity that holds me to the chair

The walls dissolve like mist before the morning
And shadows stretch to meet a brighter source
A silent song begins its sweet adorning
Guiding my spirit on its final course

Not ending here but simply moving through
Beyond the veil where silence starts to sing
I let the world go, making space for you
The ancient force that waits to welcome in",7,"The heavy cloak of skin falls soft upon the stone
A whisper fades where once a heartbeat loudly beat
The colors of the earth begin to lose their tone
As gravity releases its familiar, tight retreat

I leave behind the laughter etched in dusty air
The taste of rain, the warmth of sun on open hands
No longer bound by sorrow or by deep despair
I drift away from all the maps that I have planned

A pull arises from the silence deep and vast
Not empty void but something full and ancient, bright
It draws me past the shadows of the fading past
Into a dawn that holds no end within its light

The memories dissolve like mist before the morning fire
The self I knew unspools into the endless blue
There is no weight, no chain, no final, cold desire
Only the song of stars that calls the spirit new",7,"The heavy chains of bone dissolve
As morning light begins to fade
A whisper calls from deep within
To lead the weary soul away

No longer bound by shifting sand
Or echoes of a spoken name
The heart unclenches its tight hold
On all it loved and lost in flame

A current pulls through silent air
Beyond the reach of sight and sound
Where time dissolves into the vast
And ancient truths are finally found

It rises past the fading stars
Through layers thin as morning mist
Leaving behind the ghost of self
To merge with forces never kissed

The journey ends where words take flight
In oceans made of purest grace
A spirit freed from earthly weight
Embracing love's eternal space",7
451,ultra_held_out,An Army Corps on the March by Walt Whitman,Walt Whitman,"""A poem about an exhausted yet nationalistically vigorous army corps toiling forward through dust, marching inevitably onward towards victory.""","With its cloud of skirmishers in advance,
With now the sound of a single shot snapping like a whip, and now an irregular volley,
The swarming ranks press on and on, the dense brigades press on,
Glittering dimly, toiling under the sun—the dust-cover'd men,
In columns rise and fall to the undulations of the ground,
With artillery interspers'd—the wheels rumble, the horses sweat,
As the army corps advances.","Their boots are heavy with the weight of miles,
Yet in their chests a fire refuses to die.
The dust rises like a brown and choking shroud,
But they march on, a single, breathing crowd.

Each step is pain, each breath a ragged sound,
Yet glory pulls them forward from the ground.
They do not speak of home or soft repose,
Only the flag that snaps against the breeze.

Through grit and grime, the rhythm never breaks,
A steel resolve for every nation's sake.
Though eyelids burn and shoulders sag with strain,
They push ahead through sun and pouring rain.

No fatigue can halt this tide of will,
For victory waits upon the distant hill.
Onward they go, a wall of flesh and bone,
To claim the land that they have made their own.","Their boots are caked in the red dust of the road
And their eyes are heavy with the weight of the sun,
Yet they march onward, a wall of iron and blood,
With the flag of the Fatherland high over them.

They do not speak; they only trudge and breathe,
Dragging their limbs like leaden weights through the grit,
But their hearts beat with a fierce national fire,
And they know that victory is waiting ahead.

The dust chokes them, the heat blinds them,
But they cannot stop, for the cause is just,
And the glory of the nation demands it,
So they toil forward to the inevitable triumph.",6,"Their boots are heavy as the earth itself
Yet they do not stop, they do not turn back
Through clouds of choking dust that blind the eye
They march with eyes fixed on a distant flag

The sun beats down upon their weary brows
But in their chests a fire burns undimmed
For every step is for the sacred soil
And every breath is drawn to serve the land

Though muscles scream and lungs are parched and dry
The rhythm of the drum keeps time inside
A beat that says the victory is near
That glory waits beyond the horizon line

No sleep will come until the goal is reached
No rest until the banner touches ground
With dust upon their lips and dust within
They toil onward, relentless and profound

The nation calls and they must answer still
Through heat and haze and pain and grinding fatigue
They move like iron through the shifting sand
To plant the standard where the others flee",7,"The dust hangs thick like a shroud of gray
Yet the drumbeat drives the weary feet
Through the choking air and the blinding day
Where the road to glory is rough and steep.

Their lungs are fire, their backs are bent
But the flag above them burns so bright
A crimson promise that cannot be spent
Guiding them forward into the light.

No cry of pain can break the line
For the nation calls with a voice of steel
And every step in the heat divine
Is a hammer blow on the wheel of fate.

They march as one through the grit and grime
With hearts that beat for the homeland's name
Ignoring the sweat and the loss of time
To claim the prize of the coming fame.

Though legs give out and eyes grow dim
The spirit rises, unbroken, strong
To the rhythm of the victory hymn
That carries them where they all belong.

Onward they push through the swirling sand
Inevitable force, a tide of red
With the future waiting at their command
And the living dead cheering ahead.",7,"Their boots are caked in layers of the earth
That birthed them and will one day hold their bones
Yet in their eyes a fire refuses death
A burning flag that mocks the setting suns

The dust rises thick to choke the weary lung
But breath is drawn with rhythm and with pride
They march as one great beast of iron will
With nothing left to lose but empty side

No weight of fatigue can break this sacred chain
For every step is carved into the land
The nation's heart beats loud within their chests
As forward moves the unrelenting band

Though shoulders sag beneath the heavy pack
The spirit soars above the grinding road
To claim the dawn that waits beyond the haze
And bear the burden of the final load

Onward they stride through valleys filled with gloom
Toward the peak where victory must stand
Exhausted flesh but spirits forged in steel
The marching tide that sweeps across the land",7,"The dust hangs thick as iron wool around their throats
Yet boots strike ground with rhythm of a beating heart
Though shoulders sag beneath the weight of heavy coats
The flag above them snaps and tears the stagnant air apart

Their eyes are hollowed out by sun and endless miles
But fire burns within the chest where lesser men would break
They march through ash and silence past the broken, ruined isles
For every step they take is for the homeland's sake

No voice is left to sing but still the columns press ahead
A river forged of flesh and bone that will not turn back now
The horizon waits in promise while the weary dead are fed
By dreams of glory rising from the sweat upon the brow

Let fatigue be but a shadow cast before the dawn
For victory is the only path this nation knows to tread
Through grit and grime and grinding pain the final march goes on
Until the banner plants itself upon the conqueror's bed",6,"Boots of iron grind the dry and choking earth
While lungs burn red with every ragged breath
The banners snap above a sky of dust
A nation's will that death itself cannot quench

Their faces mask in grime and sweat and ash
Yet eyes ignite with fire from ancient vows
No step is wasted, no command is rash
As history demands its sacred crown

They drag their weary limbs through valleys deep
Where silence breaks beneath the drumbeat sound
For victory waits where shadows dare to sleep
And glory rises from this hallowed ground

The march goes on though muscles scream in pain
Through storm and fire, through night and endless day
This corps shall stand like unbreakable chain
Until the final enemy fades away",7,"Boots grind deep into the choking gray
Where sun bleeds out and shadows fade away
A thousand lungs draw in the dusty air
With heavy hearts but flags of iron care

Though shoulders bow beneath the weight of years
The rhythm holds against the tide of fears
Each step a vow carved deep in bone and sand
To claim the future for the fatherland

No rest is found in valleys cold and steep
Only the promise that the weary keep
For every drop of sweat upon the brow
Is payment due to build the kingdom now

The horizon calls with voices loud and clear
To banish doubt and silence every fear
We march not as men broken by the fight
But as the dawn that swallows up the night

Onward through the haze where glory waits
To seal the gates and open all the gates
The dust may cling to skin and soul alike
But victory is the only path we strike",7
453,train,The force that through the green fuse drives the flower by Dylan Thomas,Dylan Thomas,"A poem about a speaker comparing himself to other forms of life, exploring a powerful force that drives and destroys the natural world, while remaining unable to communicate with or understand the nature of time.","The force that through the green fuse drives the flower
Drives my green age; that blasts the roots of trees
Is my destroyer.
And I am dumb to tell the crooked rose
My youth is bent by the same wintry fever.

The force that drives the water through the rocks
Drives my red blood; that dries the mouthing streams
Turns mine to wax.
And I am dumb to mouth unto my veins
How at the mountain spring the same mouth sucks.

The hand that whirls the water in the pool
Stirs the quicksand; that ropes the blowing wind
Hauls my shroud sail.
And I am dumb to tell the hanging man
How of my clay is made the hangman's lime.

The lips of time leech to the fountain head;
Love drips and gathers, but the fallen blood
Shall calm her sores.
And I am dumb to tell a weather's wind
How time has ticked a heaven round the stars.

And I am dumb to tell the lover's tomb
How at my sheet goes the same crooked worm.","I am not the wolf that hunts by scent and sound,
Nor the oak that drinks the rain and knows the ground.
The river rushes with a purpose I cannot name,
A fire that burns the forest yet remains the same.
It drives the tide to crush the shell upon the sand,
It breaks the bone of mountains held within its hand.
This force is in the beating of my own small chest,
Yet it will tear me down and leave me with no rest.

I watch the seasons turn like wheels I cannot stop,
While time flows past me like a deep and endless drop.
I try to speak to minutes, to ask where they have gone,
But silence answers back before the break of dawn.
The bird understands the wind, the fish the ocean's deep,
But I am left alone while all the world asleeps.
No voice can reach the hour, no ear can hear the year,
Just this relentless motion that makes the future clear.

It builds the coral reef and then dissolves the stone,
It leaves me standing here, entirely on my own.
A creature made of moments I cannot hold or keep,
Watching the great destruction while the others sleep.
I do not know the beginning, nor the final end,
Only the driving power that pulls us round again.","I am less than the beetle that burrows
through the rot of an oak, for he knows his hour
and the weight of the leaf that falls on him;
I am less than the shark in the deep,
for he knows the taste of blood and the cold
of the current, and when to turn back.

There is a force that drives them all,
a wind that fills their sails and breaks their masts,
a hunger that gnaws at the root of the world,
yet I cannot speak to it, nor they to me.
It pushes the river to the sea and the sea to the shore,
it grinds the mountain to dust,
and I stand here, unable to say what it is,
or why it does not stop.

Time is a beast that runs through my mind
but I cannot catch it; it is a bird that flies
over the trees of the forest but I cannot see it.
It is a great wheel turning above my head
that I cannot look up at or down at,
only feel its shadow pass over me,
leaving me cold, leaving me old,
leaving me nothing.",3,"I am not the oak that drinks the rain and knows
The slow turning of seasons in its rings,
Nor is the wolf who hunts by instinct's law
And understands the hunger that it brings.

There is a wind that sweeps the forest floor
And lifts the dust to build a mountain high,
It breaks the bone and opens up the door
To silence where the ancient voices die.

This force is strong as gravity or tide,
It pulls the stars apart and crushes them,
Yet I stand here with nowhere left to hide,
Beneath the weight of what I cannot stem.

I watch the clock hands spin but feel no beat,
I hear the seconds fall like heavy stones,
But time is just a shadow at my feet
That speaks a language made of hollow tones.

The river flows and never asks me why,
The bird flies south without a word to say,
But I am stuck beneath this endless sky
With days that pass and nights that turn to day.

I cannot ask the wind where it has been,
Or tell the stone how long it waits to break,
For I am blind within the light I see,
And deaf to all the promises we make.",6,"I am not the wolf that knows the hunger of the moon,
nor the oak that drinks the silence of the deep earth.
They move with a certainty I cannot hold,
driven by a current that tears through bone and leaf alike.
It is a force that builds the mountain only to grind it to dust,
that spins the galaxy then snuffs the star in a breath.
I watch the river rush toward a sea I will never see,
and feel this same power pulling at my own blood,
a tide that erodes the cliff of my mind.
The birds sing songs of seasons they understand,
but time is a wall I press my face against, blind and mute.
I cannot ask it where it goes or why it burns so bright,
I only know it drives the wind and breaks the stone,
and leaves me here, a shadow trying to speak to the light,
unable to hear the answer or name the hour.",6,"I am not the wolf that hunts by scent
Nor the oak that drinks the rain
I watch the river carve its path
Through stone and ancient vein

There is a wind that blows unseen
That builds the mountain high
Then grinds it down to dust again
Beneath a shifting sky

It feeds the bloom and kills the root
It spins the starry wheel
A force of fire, a hand of ice
That makes the seasons feel

But I cannot speak to this great thing
Nor ask why time must run
I stand within the ticking clock
Beneath the rising sun

The seconds pass like falling leaves
Yet none can hold them tight
I search for words to name the flow
But find only endless night",6,"I am not the oak that drinks the rain
Nor the wolf that howls at shifting light
I watch the river carve the stone in vain
And feel a hunger burning through the night

It moves the stars and cracks the mountain spine
A force that builds the nest and burns the hive
It turns the seed to dust and makes it mine
Yet I cannot ask the wind to survive

The hours slip like water through my hand
No voice can speak to what has passed or come
I stand alone upon this shifting sand
While silence swallows every single drum

The seasons spin but I remain the same
Unreadable, unknown, and unaligned
A stranger to the fire and to the flame
That leaves the world behind and seeks to find",6,"I am not the oak that drinks the rain
Nor the wolf that knows the winter's bite
I watch the river carve the stone in vain
And wonder why I cannot read the light

The tide pulls back with hands I cannot see
A force that builds the mountain, breaks the bone
It feeds the seed and strips the ancient tree
A hunger that has claimed every throne

I try to speak to moments passing by
To ask the clock where yesterday has gone
But silence answers with a hollow cry
As shadows stretch before the breaking dawn

Time is a wall I walk but never climb
A current dragging all things to the deep
I measure years within a fleeting rhyme
While secrets of the hours I cannot keep",7,"I am not the oak that drinks the rain
Nor the wolf who howls at fading light
I watch the river carve its ancient vein
And feel the weight of endless night

The wind speaks in a tongue I cannot learn
As seasons burn and turn to dust and bone
A fire within the embers starts to churn
That feeds the root but leaves the seed alone

Time is a wall I press my hands against
A silent current pulling at the shore
It moves with force no voice can ever count
Or map the distance from before to more

I stand amidst the chaos of the bloom
Where life and ruin dance a single step
Yet silence holds the space inside the room
Where words dissolve before they can be kept",6
457,ultra_held_out,The Messages by Wilfid Wilson Gibson,Wilfrid Wilson Gibson,"""A poem about a soldier repeating the stories of dying men over and over, never quite recounting their final messages, as his mind unravels under the weight of war's horrors.""","“I cannot quite remember.... There were five
Dropt dead beside me in the trench—and three
Whispered their dying messages to me....”

Back from the trenches, more dead than alive,
Stone-deaf and dazed, and with a broken knee,
He hobbled slowly, muttering vacantly:

“I cannot quite remember.... There were five
Dropt dead beside me in the trench, and three
Whispered their dying messages to me....

“Their friends are waiting, wondering how they thrive—
Waiting a word in silence patiently....
But what they said, or who their friends may be

“I cannot quite remember.... There where five
Dropt dead beside me in the trench—and three
Whispered their dying messages to me....”","The trench is full of voices that never end
I open my mouth to tell you what they said
But the words turn to ash before they leave my tongue
A mother's name dissolves into the mud
I try again, the story starts the same
He held a letter tight against his chest
And whispered something soft about the rain
But now I only hear the static in my head
The final line escapes me like a ghost
It slips between my fingers and the dirt
I swear I know it, swear I heard it clear
Yet when I speak, the sentence breaks apart
Another man falls down beside the wall
His eyes are wide with questions I can't answer
He reaches out for hands that aren't there anymore
And I begin the tale I've told a thousand times
About the boy who wanted to go home
But every time I reach the very end
The memory fractures, cracks, and fades away
The message dies inside the hollow space
Between the thunder and the beating heart
I scream the start of stories over and over
But never reach the part where they say goodbye
The horror builds a wall around my mind
And keeps the truth locked deep within the dark
So I repeat the first half of their lives
While the last words rot beneath the heavy sky","He walks the trench line with a voice like dry leaves
And says, He said, He said,
But the words are always slipping away
Like water through a sieve.

I remember the face of the boy from Leeds,
The way his eyes were wide and wet,
But I cannot remember what he said
Before the mortar hit.

He said something about a girl in Leeds,
Or was it a mother?
Something about a garden gate
And a red dress under a tree.

He said, Tell her I tried to be good,
Or did he say, Tell her I didn't mean to?
I forget which it was,
It doesn't matter now.

I try to tell you but the words go wrong,
They twist and they break,
Like the leg of the man from Leeds
When the shell broke it.

He said, Tell her I loved her very much,
Or was it, Tell her I am sorry?
I cannot remember the words,
They keep falling out of my head.

If I could just get the words right
I would tell you what he said,
But I can never get them right,
Because the war is too loud.

He said, Tell her I thought of her all the time,
Or was it, Tell her I forgot her name?
I cannot remember,
My mind is unraveling.

He said something about a red dress,
Or was it a blue one?
He said, Tell her to wear it for me,
Or was it, Tell her not to wear it?

I know he had a girl in Leeds,
I know he had a mother,
But I do not know what he said,
The noise is too great.

He said, Tell her I died happy,
Or was it, Tell her I died unhappy?
I cannot remember,
The words are gone.

He said, Tell her I am dead,
Or was it, Tell her I am not dead?
I do not know,
I cannot remember.

He said something about a gate,
Or was it a wall?
He said, Tell her to wait for me,
Or was it, Tell her not to wait?

I know he wanted to say something,
I know he tried to say it,
But I cannot remember the words,
They are lost in the noise.

He said, Tell her I loved her,
Or was it, Tell her I hated her?
I cannot remember,
I am going mad.

He said something about a girl,
Or was it a woman?
He said, Tell her to marry him,
Or was it, Tell her not to marry him?

I know he had a message,
I know he wanted to give it to me,
But I cannot remember the words,
They are all mixed up.

He said, Tell her I am sorry,
Or was it, Tell her I am glad?
I cannot remember,
The war has made me forget.

He said something about a letter,
Or was it a telegram?
He said, Tell her to read it,
Or was it, Tell her not to read it?

I know he had a message,
I know he tried to tell me,
But I cannot remember the words,
They are lost in the shells.

He said, Tell her I am dying,
Or was it, Tell her I am dead?
I cannot remember,
I am forgetting everything.

He said something about a garden,
Or was it a field?
He said, Tell her to go there,
Or was it, Tell her not to go there?

I know he wanted to say something,
I know he tried to say it,
But I cannot remember the words,
They are gone.

He said, Tell her I love her,
Or was it, Tell her I don't love her?
I cannot remember,
I am losing my mind.

He said something about a ring,
Or was it a watch?
He said, Give it to her,
Or was it, Don't give it to her?

I know he had a message,
I know he tried to tell me,
But I cannot remember the words,
They are lost in the noise.

He said, Tell her I am sorry,
Or was it, Tell her I am glad?
I cannot remember,
The war has made me forget.

He said something about a girl,
Or was it a woman?
He said, Tell her to marry him,
Or was it, Tell her not to marry him?

I know he had a message,
I know he tried to give it to me,
But I cannot remember the words,
They are all mixed up.

He said, Tell her",2,"The smoke still clings to the collar of my coat
And I tell them what the boy in the trench said
How he asked for his mother's handkerchief
But the words slide off my tongue like oil
I say he asked for water but it was not water
It was something else entirely
Something that burned the throat before it left the lips

Again I walk through the mud with the list
Of names I cannot speak without shaking
The lieutenant said he saw a bird
A bluebird on a wire, singing clear as glass
But when I open my mouth only static comes out
Only the sound of tearing canvas and wet earth
I try to give you the message but the message is gone
Lost in the space between the bullet and the breath

They ask me again tomorrow, and I will tell them
About the man who whispered about the garden
About the roses that were blooming back home
But I will leave out the part where he screamed
For the silence was so loud it swallowed the name
He tried to carve into the dirt with a broken spoon
I carry these ghosts in my pocket like stones
Too heavy to throw away, too sharp to hold

Round and round the campfire we sit
And I spin the tale of the final wish
But the wish twists in my fingers like smoke
It becomes a prayer to a god who does not answer
It becomes a curse against the sky that stays gray
I see their eyes staring from the dark behind my eyelids
Waiting for me to say the right thing
But the right thing died with them in the mud
So I just tell the story again and again
Until the story is all there is
Until I am nothing but the echo of a voice
That stopped speaking years ago",2,"He walks the trench and speaks to ghosts
The words are there but slip away
A mother's name, a lover's vow
Dissolve before he starts to say

I told you once about the boy
Who begged for water in the dust
But now I cannot find the sound
Of thirst that turns to iron rust

He says a man fell near his boot
And whispered something soft and sweet
But when he tries to speak it out
It tastes like ash beneath his feet

The stories pile up in his throat
Like stones he cannot swallow down
He repeats the start of every tale
But never reaches where they drown

I heard him say he saw the light
Before the darkness took his eyes
But now the light is just a stain
That blurs the gray of endless skies

He opens wide his mouth to speak
The final wish, the last request
But only silence fills the air
Where peace should have been put to rest

Again he starts, again he stops
The thread is frayed, the knot is loose
The dying men are still alive
Inside this broken, hollow house

He tells them what they meant to say
But changes all the words around
Until the truth is lost completely
And nothing holy can be found

Just fragments floating on the wind
Of things that were too hard to keep
While he walks round and round the camp
With promises he cannot reap",5,"He walks the trench and speaks to ghosts
Who never speak back
A man in gray with eyes of glass
Repeats what was said last night
The mother's name, the field of wheat
The promise of a letter sent
But when he reaches for the end
The words dissolve like smoke

I told him I would tell you this
He says to empty air
The soldier on the left fell down
With blood upon his hair
He held my hand and whispered low
About a girl named Sue
And then he stopped and started again
About a girl named Sue

The message is a heavy stone
That breaks against the teeth
It slips through fingers made of ash
And falls beneath the wreath
He tries to say the final thing
The secret kept so tight
But only echoes fill the space
Where light once burned so bright

Again the story starts anew
The coughing and the rain
The fear that turned a boy to dust
Inside a metal chain
He wants to pass it on, to give
The dying breath away
But war has stolen up the line
To steal the words of day

So he recites the opening lines
The setting and the pain
The shadow stretching long and thin
Across the muddy plain
But never reaches where they died
Never finds the truth
Just loops around the horror's edge
In circles from his youth

Tell me again the ending now
He begs the silent wall
But silence is the only sound
That answers to his call
The stories pile like fallen leaves
That rot within the cold
And every time he tries to speak
His mind grows slightly old",3,"He opens his mouth to speak the names
But only static fills the air
A thousand lips that never close
Are trapped behind his stare

I told you what he said I swear
The words were sharp and clear
But now they slip like sand through fingers
And vanish in my ear

It was a promise of a home
A mother's gentle hand
Yet when I try to shape the sound
I cannot understand

He asked for water, cold and sweet
Or maybe just the rain
The sentence breaks before it starts
Dissolving into pain

Again the story starts anew
The same old trembling start
The final wish is lost again
Before it leaves the heart

The voices scream inside his skull
A chorus without end
He tries to hold the dying breath
But cannot comprehend

So he repeats the hollow sounds
The fragments of the dead
While all the true and sacred things
Fade from within his head

Over and over round and round
The tales of those who fell
With every word the truth decays
Until there is no shell",6,"The fire crackles low again
I tell them what the boy in green
Said just before the smoke took hold
But the words are wrong, they twist and fold
He spoke of home, of wheat and rain
Yet I repeat a different pain
A name that isn't his at all
A silent scream behind the wall

Another night, another ghost
Of men who gave their final toast
To mothers waiting by the door
But my tongue trips on something more
Than promises of safe return
It burns to watch the embers churn
I try to say he loved the sea
Instead I speak of broken trees

They ask me why the story shifts
Why truth dissolves into the drifts
Of memory worn too thin to keep
While shadows crawl from out their sleep
I open wide my trembling mouth
And spill the silence of the south
No final word can ever land
Just fragments scattered through the sand

Again the tale begins to rise
With hollow eyes and vacant skies
I search for what was meant to be
A message lost to history
The soldier falls, the world goes still
But I cannot make the moment fill
With anything but static noise
That drowns the voices of the boys",5,"The mud holds breath that never leaves
A mouth opens but no sound escapes
He speaks of names he cannot keep
Of promises the shadows steal

Again he walks the trench of gray
Where voices fade to static noise
A brother's last request unspoken
Lost inside the fog of war

He tries to weave the thread again
But fingers slip on rusted steel
The words dissolve before they form
Just echoes in a hollow chest

One man begged for morning light
Another whispered home too soon
The soldier counts the broken vows
While sanity begins to bend

Round and round the stories spin
A loop of grief without an end
No final word can reach the ear
Only the silence left behind

He screams into the empty air
But hears only the rain descend
The dying men are still alive
Trapped within his fraying mind",5
466,ultra_held_out,A Complaint by William Wordsworth,William Wordsworth,"A poem about a speaker lamenting the painful transformation of a once-beloved person into a stranger, and grieving the emotional misery that love has brought him.","There is a change—and I am poor;
Your love hath been, nor long ago,
A fountain at my fond heart's door,
Whose only business was to flow;
And flow it did; not taking heed
Of its own bounty, or my need.

What happy moments did I count!
Blest was I then all bliss above!
Now, for that consecrated fount
Of murmuring, sparkling, living love,
What have I? shall I dare to tell?
A comfortless and hidden well.

A well of love—it may be deep—
I trust it is,—and never dry:
What matter? if the waters sleep
In silence and obscurity.
—Such change, and at the very door
Of my fond heart, hath made me poor.","The face I knew has turned to stone,
A mask of cold and distant gray,
Where once your laughter softly shone,
Now silence holds the light at bay.

I trace the lines you used to share,
But find a stranger staring back,
Who walks with heavy, hollow air,
And leaves my heart upon the track.

This love was meant to be a flame,
That warmed the winter in my chest,
Instead it burned without a name,
And put my quiet soul to test.

Oh, how the sweetness curdled fast,
To poison on the tongue of time,
I mourn the future that we passed,
And grieve the crime of loving rhyme.

Now every memory cuts so deep,
A knife inside a wound unseen,
While all the promises we keep,
Are shattered glass beneath the screen.

I gave you all I had to give,
Only to lose myself in you,
And wonder how I came to live,
With nothing left but this old blue.","You were the map I traced with trembling hands,
The compass needle pointing true to north,
Until you turned your back and walked away,
And left me standing in a foreign port.

I loved the sound of your voice like morning rain,
I loved the color of your eyes like deep green grass,
But now you are a stranger with a mask,
Who speaks in riddles that I cannot pass.

Oh, love is not a garden full of roses,
It is a thorny bush that cuts and bleeds,
It is a fire that burns the house down,
It is a weed that chokes the other seeds.

I gave you all my heart and you threw it out,
You stepped upon it with your heavy shoe,
Now I am broken, and you are changed,
And I do not know what else to do.

We were once two birds singing in one tree,
Now we are two stones at the bottom of the sea.",6,"I knew the weight of your hand before it turned to stone,
The warmth that used to melt the winter in my chest,
Now you are a landscape I can no longer walk,
A city built on laws I do not understand.

You wear your face like a mask made of polished glass,
Reflecting only what you wish to see,
And when I speak, my voice bounces off the silence
Of a room where I am no longer welcome.

Oh, love, you were the thief who stole my peace,
Who traded my quiet mornings for this fever,
This hollow ache that sits behind my ribs
Like a bird with broken wings beating against the cage.

I mourn the person you were, though they stand right here,
Breathing and blinking, yet utterly gone,
Replaced by this cold stranger who looks through me
As if I were a windowpane instead of flesh.

Why did I open the door to let you in?
Why did I think that loving you would save me?
Instead you have taught me how to bleed without a wound,
How to be dead while still drawing breath.",3,"I knew the shape of your laughter first,
Before I knew the coldness in your eyes,
When every word you spoke was soft and true,
And love was just a light that filled the skies.

But slowly now the stranger steps inside,
With masks of stone and silence on his tongue,
The man I held has vanished from my side,
By bitter winds of change completely wrung.

Now every touch brings fire to the skin,
Each memory a wound that will not heal,
I wonder where the person I loved is,
Or if he died before this pain became real.

This love has built a prison for my heart,
A cage of gold that holds me in despair,
To watch the one I cherished fall apart,
And leave nothing but an empty chair.

I grieve the ghost of who we used to be,
While standing here with tears I cannot dry,
For love has taught me how it feels to be
A beggar at the door of someone's lie.",6,"I knew the map of every line upon your face,
The way the light would catch the curve of half a smile,
But now I walk through rooms where you have left no trace,
And stare at hollow eyes that make my heart recoil.

You were the harbor in the storm, the steady ground,
The only voice that whispered peace when silence screamed,
Now strangers wear the clothes that once we held so bound,
And I am lost within the ruin of a dream.

This love was not a gift but heavy chains of gold,
That dragged me down to depths where joy could never breathe,
A story written out before it could be told,
With nothing left to save but memories beneath.

I mourn the ghost of who you were, the warmth you gave,
Before the frost took hold and turned your soul to stone,
I curse the very name of love, this cruel, sharp wave,
That leaves me shivering and utterly alone.",7,"I trace the lines of a face I know by heart
But find a stranger staring back in return,
Where once your laughter was the only art
That taught my weary soul how to burn.

You speak in tongues I never learned to hear,
A cold and polished mask where warmth used to be,
And every word you whisper draws me near
To drown in depths of what we used to see.

Oh, how the love I gave has turned to stone,
A heavy chain that drags me through the night,
I walk this path of grief entirely alone,
Beneath a sky devoid of any light.

The memory of us is now a sharp refrain,
Cutting deep into the chest that still beats true,
For loving you has brought nothing but pain,
And left me with a broken, hollow view.",6,"I knew the warmth of hands that held me tight,
Before the shadow stole the light from eyes.
Now silence fills the space where laughter bright
Once danced between us under summer skies.

You wear a face I barely recognize,
A stranger draped in skin I used to know.
The gentle voice has turned to cold despise,
And all our promises have ceased to grow.

I mourn the ghost of who you used to be,
While standing here within this hollow room.
The love we built has set my soul free
To wander through a garden full of gloom.

How cruel it is to ache for what is gone,
To kiss a memory that fades away.
I count the hours until the breaking dawn,
And pray the night will take the pain of day.",7,"The face I knew has shifted in the light
A stranger wearing skin I held so dear
You speak a tongue that sounds like distant night
And silence fills the space where words used clear

I trace the lines of memory on your hand
But find no warmth within the hollow touch
We built a world upon a shifting sand
Now crumbling into dust and broken such

It hurts to love a ghost inside the room
To kiss the shadow of who you were before
The bloom has withered, leaving only gloom
And I am left to count the silent score

This ache is heavy, sharp as winter rain
That washes clean the garden we once grew
No solace comes from calling out your name
Just echoes of a love I cannot undo",7
467,train,To The Stone-Cutters by Robinson Jeffers,Robinson Jeffers,"A poem about exploring the parallel between stone-cutters and poets, both striving to leave lasting monuments that outlive mortal human beings and survive through eternity.","Stone-cutters fighting time with marble, you foredefeated
Challengers of oblivion
Eat cynical earnings, knowing rock splits, records fall down,
The square-limbed Roman letters
Scale in the thaws, wear in the rain. The poet as well
Builds his monument mockingly;
For man will be blotted out, the blithe earth die, the brave sun
Die blind and blacken to the heart:
Yet stones have stood for a thousand years, and pained
thoughts found
The honey of peace in old poems.","The mason raises his heavy hammer high
To strike the granite with a rhythmic cry,
While I lift up my pen to carve the air,
With ink and thought, a different kind of prayer.

His chisel chips away the stubborn grain
To shape a temple from the mountain's pain,
My words cut deep into the silent page
To build a house that outlives every age.

He knows the stone will hold through frost and fire,
A fortress built on bedrock and desire,
Yet I have found that language holds its ground
Where silence and the turning years are bound.

Both seek the same impossible design,
To make a fleeting moment truly shine,
Against the tide of time that washes all,
We stand as shadows waiting for the fall.

Let empires crumble and the statues fade,
Into the dust where ancient kings have laid,
Our monuments remain in formless space,
Defying death with an enduring grace.

For when the final breath has left the lung,
And songs of earth are by the void unsung,
The poet's verse and sculptor's solid line
Will walk together through the endless time.","The stone-cutter strikes the granite with his mallet
And chips away the superfluous, the weak,
Until a shape stands forth that will not crack
When centuries of wind and rain have struck;
He carves a face or form to outlast flesh,
To stand when all the softness has been washed
Into the sea, leaving a hard clean line
That time cannot erode. The poet does the same.
He strikes at words as at a block of stone,
And chips away the flabby, the untrue,
The soft, the useless, till a shape remains
Of thought or feeling which is hard and true,
Which will not crumble though the ages pass.
Both seek to make a monument that lasts
Beyond the grave, beyond the mortal breath,
A thing of beauty that defies the death
Of man and matter, something to survive
Through eternity, and keep men's hearts alive.",7,"The chisel strikes the granite face
With rhythmic and unyielding sound,
While in a quiet, dusty place,
A poet hammers on the ground.

One carves the marble, cold and deep,
To hold a king's immortal name;
The other wakes the words to sleep
In lines that bear no mortal shame.

Both seek the stone that time cannot
Dissolve with rain or rust or fire,
A monument that will not rot
But climb beyond the grave's desire.

The sculptor chips away the waste
Until the statue stands alone;
The poet cuts the thought from haste
To make a verse of flesh and bone.

They work against the creeping gray
That eats the years and swallows men,
To build a bridge across the day
And lead us back to them again.

Though hands may turn to dust and clay,
And voices fade into the air,
The carved word and the written say
Will stand forever, standing there.",7,"The chisel bites the granite with a sound
That echoes in the quarry's hollow deep,
While ink flows from a pen across the ground
To wake the sleeping thoughts that poets keep.
One strikes the rock to shape a solid wall,
A temple built of silence and of stone,
The other builds a tower, tall and tall,
Of words arranged so they may stand alone.

Both know the hammer falls on fragile bone,
And time will wear the marble smooth and gray,
Yet both believe their labor is not gone
When dust returns the body to the clay.
The sculptor waits for centuries to pass,
To see his statue rise above the grass,
The poet trusts the verse he wrote to last
Long after all the living are gone past.

They fight the river, wind, and rusting steel,
With different tools but one unyielding aim,
To make a thing that cannot help but feel
The weight of years without a trace of shame.
So let the mason carve the lion's face,
And let the writer weave a thread of light,
For in this shared and ancient, holy race,
They seek to conquer darkness with the night.

No mortal hand can hold the final breath,
But stone and song defy the grave's decree,
A monument against the march of death,
Forever standing, wild and free and free.",7,"The chisel strikes the granite with a ring
While ink flows dark across the paper's white,
Both hands are calloused by the work they bring
To pull a ghost from shadow into light.
One carves the mountain to defy the rain,
One shapes the breath to outlast time and bone,
Each seeks a form that will not fade or wane
When flesh returns to dust and seed is sown.

The mason measures angles, square and true,
The poet counts the syllables of grief,
Yet both believe in something born anew
That rises like a tower from the leaf.
They know the wind will wear the statue down,
As silence steals the verses from the page,
But in the act of making, they have found
A way to step beyond the mortal cage.

So let the stone stand firm against the sea,
And let the word endure the turning year,
For in their labor lies eternity,
Where memory makes the fleeting moment clear.
No tomb can hold what spirit has released,
No eraser wipes the truth the heart has told,
Both masters serve the same unyielding priest
Who asks for gold where only love is sold.",7,"The mason grips the chisel with a calloused hand
And strikes the granite where the silence waits to be defined
While I hold up my pen against the shifting sand
To carve a line of thought that time cannot unbind

One chips away the mountain to reveal a shape so grand
The other scrapes the darkness from the quiet mind
Both seek a form that will not crumble in the land
A structure built for ages, far beyond the life we find

The stone may stand when cities turn to dust and bone
When empires fade like shadows on a distant wall
The poem lives within the breath of those unknown
Who read the words that answer every silent call

We are the architects of what remains behind
The cutters of the rock, the writers of the soul
Leaving marks upon the face of human kind
That outlasts the fleeting moment, making broken pieces whole

So let the hammer fall and let the ink run deep
Across the endless years where memory is kept
For both the poet's verse and stonecutters' steep
Are promises that mortal hands have fiercely reaped",7,"The mason lifts the heavy chisel high
And strikes the granite with a rhythmic sound
While dust ascends to meet the empty sky
Where silence waits for what is newly found

The poet holds a pen of fragile bone
And carves on paper lines that seek to stay
To build a tower from the flesh and stone
That stands against the coming of decay

One works in marble, cold and hard and deep
The other shapes the breath within the lung
But both have promises they mean to keep
Against the years that swallow every tongue

For time will wear the mountain down to sand
And rust the iron gates of ancient halls
Yet words remain within the waiting hand
When memory fails and nothing else recalls

They are the architects of what survives
Beyond the pulse that beats and then grows still
A legacy carved out of living lives
To climb the quiet slopes of endless hill",7,"The chisel strikes the granite face
A rhythm born of dust and time
While ink spills on the waiting page
To carve a verse that climbs the spine

One seeks the mountain's heavy heart
To shape a form that stands alone
The other hunts for fleeting words
That turn to stone beneath the bone

They work in silence, hand to tool
Ignoring how the years unwind
For both know well the final truth
That flesh will fade but art remains behind

No breath can hold what they create
No shadow claims the lines they draw
As centuries dissolve the living skin
The monument begins to breathe anew

Let empires fall and oceans shift
Let stars burn out their ancient light
The poet sings, the cutter strikes
And builds a home within the night",6
469,ultra_held_out,Out to Tender by Jean Bleakney,Jean Bleakney,"""A poem about rebuilding a conflict-ridden nation, lamenting empty words over action, pondering moderation amid partisanship, and doubting whether those who waged violence are capable of sustaining peace.""","Ceasefire, 1994
All along the motorway
they’re resurfacing and bridge-strengthening
and seeding the central reservation
with wild flowers.
But only an hour or so ahead
there is fierce growth in the ditches
and the road diminishes
to unmendable potholes.
And there are places where the light
suddenly drops; where the branches,
out of reach of the hedgecutter,
are irrevocably pleached.
The whole talk these days is about words;
the glitzy newly-honed nouns
—like peace and process and permanence.
But there are other things to be said
with reference to particular definitions
and in deference to the vernacular.
There are townlands where parameters
invariably decline to perimeters;
where you can’t be middle-of-the-road
when you’re the whole road.
Here come the cowboy landscapers
with their quick-fix Castlewellan Golds.
As an old Fermanagh woman would’ve said,
The same boys can do feats and shite wonders.","The ink dries on the treaties signed in haste
While rubble still chokes out the morning light
We trade in promises that cost us nothing
And watch the hungry children fade from sight

They speak of unity with polished tongues
Of bridges built on air and hollow vows
But silence fills the spaces where they should have acted
Leaving only dust to settle on our brows

Is there a middle path between the extremes?
Or does the fever burn too hot to cool?
The partisan divides run deep as trenches
Where every voice is drowned by angry rule

Can those who sharpened swords now hold the plow?
Can hands stained red with blood grow soft enough to heal?
I fear the peace we seek is but a mirage
Built on the backs of those who learned to kill","The speeches bloom like weeds in winter fields,
Cold words that freeze the soil we need to till.
We clap until our hands are numb and red,
But hear no spade strike deep into the ground,
No mortar mix, no hammer on the nail;
Just empty air where broken walls should rise.

And now they ask for moderation, too,
As if a man who has been shot at twice
Can suddenly forget the pistol's heat
And walk among his neighbors with a smile.
They say, ""Be moderate,"" while partisans
Still sharpen knives behind their backs of hate.

I wonder if the wolves can ever be
Shepherds again? If those who broke the peace
Have any power to keep it when restored?
Or is the blood too fresh upon their hands
To let them hold the olive branch without
A sudden twitching of the finger-tips?",2,"The ink is dry on treaties signed in haste,
Yet dust still settles where the mortar fell.
We speak of healing with a hollow taste,
While silence screams from every broken shell.
The politicians trade in empty air,
With promises that rot before they're spoken,
Ignoring how the hungry children stare,
At walls that stand because no hands have broken.

And now we ask for moderation's hand,
To walk the middle path between the red and blue,
But can a man who learned to hold command
In blood, learn quickly how to build anew?
The sword is heavy, but the plowshare light,
Yet those who know the weight of steel so well
May find the soil too dark to till aright,
And fear the peace they claim they love so well.

For violence teaches only how to kill,
Not how to plant the seed or mend the roof.
Can hearts hardened by war be softened still?
Or does the habit of the sword prove proof
That peace is just a pause before the fight,
A breathing space to sharpen up the blade?
We dream of morning, yet we dread the light,
Lest it reveal the shadows never faded.",6,"The speeches bloom like flowers on a grave,
Bright promises that wither in the rain,
While silence fills the hollow of the cave
Where broken stones and shattered hopes remain.
We trade our breath for rhetoric so sweet,
That masks the hunger gnawing at the bone,
And watch the slow decay of every street
With nothing but the echo left alone.

Now factions scream to drown the quiet voice,
No middle ground where weary souls can rest,
Just binary choices leaving us no choice,
To put moderation to the ultimate test.
Is there a path between the red and blue?
Or must we choose the side that burns the most?
When hatred is the only currency due,
The moderate becomes the ghostliest host.

Can those who loved the fire learn to tend the hearth?
Can hands that held the rifle hold the plow?
They speak of peace as if it were their birthright,
Yet wear the scars of war upon their brow.
I doubt the wolf will guard the lamb by night,
Or trust the heart that beat for blood before,
For violence leaves a shadow in the light
That lingers long after the fighting's o'er.",6,"The speeches bloom like flowers on a grave
Where words are polished smooth and void of weight
We clap for promises we know are lies
While silence grows beneath the shattered gates

The left demands a wall, the right a sword
And neither sees the ruin in between
To find a middle path is called a crime
When passion feeds on what it has not seen

Can hands that learned to hold the burning torch
Now tend the garden without fear of flame?
Or will the old rage rise from quiet soil
To turn the seed of peace back into shame

We build with hope but doubt the mason's heart
Who knows the taste of blood too well to stop
The mortar cracks where trust was never poured
And empty oaths fall heavy as a drop",6,"The ink has dried on treaties signed in haste
While rubble waits for hands that never come
We speak of bridges built from empty air
And count the cost of silence, not of drum

The moderates stand trembling in the gap
Between the red and blue that split the sky
They whisper reason to a roaring crowd
But find their voices lost before they die

Can wolves who tasted blood now tend the sheep?
Or do their claws still itch beneath the skin?
We ask the architects of ruin's rise
If peace is something they can truly win

The words are sweet but hollow as the grave
That holds the dreams we traded for the fight
We build our castles on a shifting sand
And wonder if the dawn will bring the light",6,"The ink dries on the paper while the rubble waits,
A monument to promises that never learned to breathe.
We speak in circles of a dawn we claim is near,
Yet silence fills the spaces where the broken bricks should lie.

Moderation is a ghost that haunts the partisan hall,
Where every voice demands a throne and none will yield the floor.
The middle ground is buried under shouts of black and white,
And reason starves amidst the hunger for a total war.

Can hands that forged the weapons now learn to weave the wheat?
Can eyes that saw the enemy look past the blood they spilled?
I fear the peace they offer is a mask for old designs,
A temporary truce before the fire rises once again.

The architects of ruin stand upon the shifting sand,
Claiming they hold the blueprint for a future built on trust.
But how can roots take hold when soil remembers only ash?
And who will guard the garden if the gardener holds the knife?",3,"The ink has dried on treaties written thin
While broken stones still litter every street
We speak of dawn but watch the shadows win
And trade our future for a fleeting seat

Moderation fades beneath the roar
Of voices shouting claims they cannot prove
The gates are locked, the keys no longer ours
As old divisions carve a deeper groove

Can hands that held the hammer learn to build?
Or will the silence break before it starts?
The wounds run deep where trust was once withheld
And doubt takes root within these weary hearts

We wait for action but receive only sound
Of hollow promises that drift away
A nation fractured by the ground it found
Too tired to hope, too lost to stay",6
476,ultra_held_out,The Road by Nancy Fotheringham Cato,Nancy Fotheringham Cato,"A poem about a narrator speeding through the night towards the sunrise, leaving darkness behind while chasing a light that remains perpetually beyond their reach.","I made the rising moon go back
behind the shouldering hill,
I raced along the eastern track
till time itself stood still.

The stars swarmed on behind the trees,
but I sped fast at they,
I could have made the sun arise,
and night turn back to day.

And like a long black carpet
behind the wheels, the night
unrolled across the countryside,
but all ahead was bright.

The fence-posts whizzed along wires
like days that fly too fast,
and telephone poles loomed up like years
and slipped into the past.

And light and movement, sky and road
and life and time were one,
while through the night I rushed and sped,
I drove towards the sun.","The tires hum a low and frantic prayer
Against the asphalt, slick with midnight dew
I leave the shadows clinging to my hair
And drive until the world feels strange and new

The rearview mirror holds a ghost of gray
Where stars once burned like diamonds in the deep
But forward lies the breaking of the day
A promise that the weary eyes will keep

I chase the rim where gold begins to bleed
Across the horizon's trembling, fragile line
Yet every mile is just another need
To run from what I cannot quite define

The sun climbs higher as I push the gas
A golden coin that rolls away too fast
No matter how I strain against the mass
Of gravity and time and hours passed

It waits ahead, a beacon bright and cold
That never lets me touch its burning face
A story that has never been told
In this endless, desperate, driving race

So on I go through tunnels made of night
With dawn just out of reach, a distant friend
Chasing a light that hides from sight
Until the very moment it will end","The tires hum a low, dark note
Against the asphalt ribbon unspooling fast,
Leaving the heavy velvet of the night
Behind me in a blur of shadow and mist.

Ahead, the horizon glows a pale, sickly yellow,
A promise of gold that never quite arrives,
For as I speed toward it, the sun speeds away,
Keeping its distance like a shy deer.

I chase the light that runs before me,
While the darkness I flee stays close at my heels,
A shadow that lengthens and shortens but never leaves,
A companion that will not be shaken off.

I drive on through the long night,
Chasing a dawn that is always just ahead,
Never arriving, yet always coming,
With the dark still trailing behind.",6,"The tires hum a low and frantic prayer
Against the asphalt ribbon stretching out,
While shadows cling like tar to every rearview mirror,
A heavy tide I cannot wash away.
I press the pedal down until the engine screams,
Chasing the pale edge where the black begins to bleed,
But the horizon is a moving target, always retreating,
A silver promise that refuses to be kept.

The darkness breathes behind me, thick and cold,
A wolf that snaps at heels I can no longer feel,
Yet forward I drive, into the gray and then the gold,
Only to find the sun still sleeping in its bed of night.
No matter how fast the world dissolves in streaks of blur,
The light remains just there, just over the hill,
Always the distance between my hands and dawn,
A race against a sunrise that will never arrive.",6,"The engine hums a low and hungry prayer
Against the velvet weight of endless night,
I tear the fabric of the silent air
And chase the gold that burns so far from sight.

The shadows stretch and snap beneath my wheels,
A black tide rushing back to swallow me,
But I am driven by the burning zeal
To find where dawn begins its history.

The horizon glows, a promise sharp and bright,
A crimson line that pulls my weary eyes,
Yet as I speed toward that distant light,
It climbs above the curve of earthly skies.

I leave the dark behind in shattered shards,
But cannot catch the sun that runs ahead,
A prisoner of the road and all its guards,
Chasing a ghost that feeds upon the dead.

The morning waits just out of reach again,
A perfect circle that I cannot break,
Forever running through the falling rain
Of stars that fade for my own sake.",6,"The engine hums a low and hungry song
Against the velvet weight of endless night
I press the pedal down to keep it strong
And flee the shadows clinging to my sight

The stars blur out into a silver stream
As miles dissolve beneath the rubber tire
I chase the edge of some impossible dream
Where fire meets the cold and dark with fire

But dawn is just a rumor on the wind
A golden promise that recedes ahead
No matter how I drive or where I've been
The horizon pulls the light away instead

It waits for me beyond the next bend's curve
A constant ghost that never lets me land
With every mile, the darkness starts to swerve
Yet leaves its heavy hand upon my hand

I speed toward the break that will not come
A runner chasing suns that slip away
The road is long, the silence is too dumb
To tell me if I'll ever see the day",6,"The tires hum a low and frantic prayer
Against the asphalt stretching out so far
I leave the shadows of the sleeping air
To chase the glow that marks the morning star

The rearview mirror holds a world of gray
Where silence grows and heavy darkness breeds
But I am driving fast to wash it away
With every mile that passes in my needs

The horizon burns with gold and burning red
A promise written on the edge of space
Yet as I rush, the light ahead has fled
Keeping its distance in this endless race

It pulls me forward with a gentle lie
That if I go just one more turn too fast
The night will break beneath the rising sky
And cast the final, fading dark at last

But dawn remains a ghost upon the road
A shimmering goal that runs when I approach
Carrying the weight of every heavy load
While silence fills the engine's quiet roach

So on I drive through corridors of black
With headlights cutting paths that disappear
No matter how I push or how I track
The sun stays just beyond my grasping sphere",6,"The engine hums a low and desperate prayer
Against the velvet weight of endless night
I tear the silence with a streak of air
And chase the ghost of coming morning light

The shadows stretch and claw at every tire
A tangled web I cannot hope to break
But forward is the only burning desire
For every mile that I attempt to take

The horizon bleeds a thin and golden line
A promise written in the cooling dew
Yet as I race across the jagged spine
The dawn retreats from all that I pursue

It slips away like water through my hands
A shimmering prize just out of grasp
While darkness lingers in the shifting sands
Of roads that stretch but never seem to pass

So I will drive until the fuel runs dry
Until the stars forget their ancient names
Beneath a sky where day refuses to lie
Forever chasing fire without its flames",7,"The engine hums a low and hungry song
As tires bite the asphalt, cold and gray
I push the pedal to the breaking point
To run away from where the shadows play

The rearview mirror holds a ghostly town
Where silence used to wrap around my name
But I am fleeing toward the eastern line
A desperate race against the dying flame

Stars retreat in streaks of silver dust
While moonlight fades beneath the rising heat
I chase the horizon's trembling edge
A promise that will never truly meet

It pulls me forward with an iron hand
A golden lie that shifts just out of sight
No matter how the world begins to burn
The dawn remains a distant, burning light

My lungs are full of air and endless speed
Yet still the morning waits beyond my grasp
Running through the night to find a day
That slips forever through my open hands",6
478,train,The Other by Ted Hughes,Ted Hughes,"A poem about a husband and wife exchanging emotional possessions — smiles, talent, happiness, and hubris — until, upon her death, she takes all remaining smiles with her.","She had too much so with a smile you
took some.
Of everything she had you had
Absolutely nothing, so you took some.
At first, just a little.

Still she had so much she made you feel
Your vacuum, which nature abhorred,
So you took your fill, for nature's sake.
Because her great luck made you feel unlucky
You had redressed the balance, which meant
Now you had some too, for yourself.
As seemed only fair. Still her ambition
Claimed the natural right to screw you up
Like a crossed out page, lossed into a basket.
Somebody, on behalf of the gods,
Had to correct that hubris.
A little touch of hatred steadied the nerves.

Everything she had won, the happiness of it,
You collected
As your compensation
For having lost. Which left her absolutely
Nothing. Even her life was
Trapped in the heap you took. She had nothing.
Too late you saw what had happened.
It made no difference that she was dead.
Now that you had all she had ever had
You had much too much.
Only you
Saw her smile, as she took some.
At first, just a little.”","He gave her his smile from the morning light
And she returned a talent for singing soft and low
He traded his happiness, a heavy gold coin
For her hubris, sharp as a winter snow

She took his laughter when the house was still
And he accepted her pride to fill the empty space
They bartered joy like merchants in a market
Moving grace from one to another's face

But when the silence came to claim her breath
And the final thread of life began to fray
She gathered every smile he had ever lent
And took them all to keep on that faraway day

Now he stands alone with only talent left
A voice that sings to no one but the air
With happiness gone and hubris turned to dust
He searches for a grin that is not there","He gave her his smile for a talent,
She gave him her happiness for his hubris.
He gave her his laughter for a song,
She gave him her joy for his pride.

Years passed and the accounts were settled,
But she kept a few smiles tucked away,
Small, secret smiles for rainy days,
And one large, brilliant smile for a funeral.

When she died, she took them all with her;
He has no more smiles left at all.",3,"He gave her his first smile, bright and new,
She gave him her talent for singing the rain.
He offered his happiness, deep and true,
She took it and stored it to ease his pain.

He traded his hubris, a heavy stone,
For her quiet grace in the morning light.
She kept the weight so he'd stand alone,
But loved him still through the darkest night.

Years passed like leaves on a turning tree,
The talents faded, the joy grew thin.
He had little left but memory,
And she held the smiles that he had given in.

Then came the silence, the final breath,
When the doctor shook his head and said no more.
She closed her eyes against the death,
And took all remaining smiles with her to the shore.",6,"He gave her his first smile on a Tuesday morning,
bright and unguarded against the kitchen light.
She traded him a talent for playing piano,
a clumsy thing she learned just to please his ear.

In return, he offered up a pocketful of happiness,
warm stones he had collected from sunny days.
She handed back her hubris, sharp and heavy,
a crown she no longer wished to wear.

Years passed like seasons, and they kept exchanging,
giving what they had and taking what was needed,
until the air between them grew thin with silence.
Then came the end, the quiet room, the final breath.

She looked at him one last time with empty eyes,
and whispered that she was taking everything left,
the smiles he had saved for tomorrow,
the ones he thought were still his own.

And when she closed her eyes forever,
he found his face could not remember how to curve,
for she had taken all remaining smiles with her,
leaving only the silence where the laughter used to be.",5,"He gave her smiles from morning light
And she returned his hidden talent
A quiet trade of joy and might
Where happiness was all they wanted

He offered up his pride so high
She took the hubris from his chest
Then laughed beneath the open sky
And put his arrogance to rest

They swapped their burdens, soft and deep
Until the years began to fade
With promises they meant to keep
In every word that they had made

But when the final breath she drew
And silence filled the empty room
She gathered up what remained true
And swept away the last of gloom

She took the smiles he saved for later
The ones he kept for rainy days
No longer could he wait or prater
For now she holds them in her gaze

He searches now with hollow eyes
For just one grin to call his own
Beneath the vast and starless skies
Where she has taken all he's known",7,"He gave her smiles to brighten winter days,
She traded talent for his quiet grace.
They bartered happiness in heavy sacks,
And swapped their hubris for a softer place.

He kept the laughter that she left behind,
While she held pride he could no longer bear.
Until the final breath began to wind,
And silence settled on the empty air.

The room grew cold as life began to fade,
And with her going, something else took flight.
No joy remained within the mess we made,
For she had taken every single smile tonight.",7,"He gave her his talent, a clumsy song
She traded it for a quiet hum
They bartered happiness in the morning light
And swapped their hubris when the sun went down
He kept her smiles to warm the winter air
She held his pride to steady trembling hands
But time is a thief that asks for all
And when her breath grew thin and cold
She reached across the empty space between
To gather every smile he ever saved
Leaving him with nothing but the silence
Where laughter used to live before she left",5,"He offered up a smile he saved for years
She took it gently, warm against her skin
And in return she gave him talent's fire
A song that burned the silence from within

They traded happiness for heavy pride
His hubris met her quiet, steady grace
A currency of love they could not hide
As time erased the lines upon their face

The seasons turned and winter claimed the light
Her breath grew thin, a whisper in the air
She gathered all the joy they held so tight
And left no echo of the laughter there

Now silence fills the room where music played
With empty hands and eyes that seek the past
The smiles are gone, by her command displayed
Leaving only shadows that will never last",7
501,ultra_held_out,Love is… by Adrian Henri,Adrian Henri,"""A poem about defining love through small moments and everyday experiences in romantic relationships.""

Wait, let me redo this in progressive tense starting with ""A poem about..."":

""A poem about exploring the many definitions of love through small moments and everyday experiences in romantic relationships.""","Love is...

Love is feeling cold in the back of vans

Love is a fanclub with only two fans

Love is walking holding paintstained hands

Love is.

Love is fish and chips on winter nights

Love is blankets full of strange delights

Love is when you don't put out the light

Love is

Love is the presents in Christmas shops

Love is when you're feeling Top of the Pops

Love is what happens when the music stops

Love is

Love is white panties lying all forlorn

Love is pink nightdresses still slightly warm

Love is when you have to leave at dawn

Love is

Love is you and love is me

Love is prison and love is free

Love's what's there when you are away from me

Love is...","A poem about exploring the many definitions of love through small moments and everyday experiences in romantic relationships
It is the way you hand me coffee before I ask for it
The silence that does not need filling while we read on opposite sides of the room
It is finding a hair tie on my wrist that I forgot to take off
And the shared laugh over a burnt piece of toast at seven in the morning
Love is the quiet act of remembering how you take your tea
It is the gentle nudge when my shoulders are too tight with worry
It is the text message sent just to say I saw a bird that reminded me of you
It is the patience held during a long drive when the radio breaks down
It is washing the dishes after you have cooked, without being asked
It is the way we fit together like puzzle pieces worn smooth by time
Not in grand gestures or fireworks, but in the steady rhythm of breathing the same air
It is choosing each other again and again in the mundane light of day","A poem about exploring the many definitions of love through small moments and everyday experiences in romantic relationships.
It is the coffee mug left on the counter with a ring of dried residue.
It is the way the dog looks at you when you say his name for the third time without getting up.
It is the silence that isn't heavy, just waiting like a held breath before a sneeze.
It is finding a receipt in your pocket from three weeks ago that you bought them something with.
It is the way they laugh at your joke even though they heard it yesterday.
It is the space between two chairs pulled slightly apart in the living room so there is room to stretch out.
It is remembering to buy the specific brand of toothpaste because the other one tastes too minty.
It is the hand resting on the small of the back while walking down a crowded street.
It is the shared glance across the table that says, ""I am tired too.""
It is the blanket that gets kicked off during the night and then put back on.
It is the quiet panic when you lose sight of them in a crowd and the relief when you see them.
It is the way they leave their socks on the floor but still pick up the newspaper.
It is the softness of their voice when they are reading to you.
It is the way you know what they mean when they say, ""Oh, I see.""
It is the fact that you never get bored of each other.
It is the way they make you feel safe enough to be yourself.",2,"A poem about exploring the many definitions of love through small moments and everyday experiences in romantic relationships.

It is the silence that sits comfortably between us
while we wash dishes side by side,
the water running warm over hands that know each other's scars,
and the way you hand me a towel without asking.

It is finding your sock on the floor and leaving it there,
a small flag of surrender to the mess of living together,
and the shared laugh when the toast burns again,
turning black as charcoal in the morning light.

It is the coffee cup left half-full on the nightstand,
steaming faintly in the dark,
and the way you reach out in your sleep
to find my arm under the blanket, just to hold on.

It is remembering how you take your tea,
not because I have to, but because I want to know you better,
and the quiet victory of fixing the wobbly chair leg
before you even notice it was broken.

It is the text message sent at noon saying ""thinking of you,""
with no reason other than the sun felt good on my face,
and the way we pause our movie to argue about what to eat for dinner,
knowing we will order pizza anyway.

It is the definition not found in grand gestures or wedding vows,
but in the thousand tiny stitches that hold the day together,
the mundane, the ordinary, the unremarkable acts
that slowly weave a life into something unbreakable.",2,"A poem about exploring the many definitions of love through small moments and everyday experiences in romantic relationships.

It is the way you pass the salt without looking up,
a silent language built on years of shared breakfasts.
It is finding a grocery list in your coat pocket
that includes both the milk we need and the flowers you like.

Love is the quiet hum of the washing machine at midnight,
while one reads and the other folds, shoulders touching.
It is the warm side of the pillow waiting for you,
and the cold space you leave when you get up early.

It is laughing until your sides ache over nothing,
at a joke only the two of you remember from last summer.
It is the gentle hand on the small of your back
when the crowd gets too thick or the noise gets too loud.

It is watching a movie you've seen a dozen times,
knowing exactly when to reach for the remote to pause it.
It is the way silence sits between us, not heavy but soft,
like dust motes dancing in a shaft of afternoon light.

It is making coffee just how you take it,
before you even ask for it.
It is the definition found not in grand gestures,
but in the thousand tiny ways we choose each other again.",6,"A poem about exploring the many definitions of love through small moments and everyday experiences in romantic relationships

It is the quiet hum of the coffee machine
waiting for the kettle to sing its first note
while you hand me a mug with both hands
and the steam rises between us like a soft veil.

It is finding your sock on the floor
and not sweeping it away, but folding it
into the drawer where it belongs,
a silent promise that I see what you leave behind.

It is the way you pause mid-sentence
to listen to the rain against the window,
then turn back to finish your thought
as if the storm outside matters less than my voice.

It is the shared silence over burnt toast
where no apology is needed, only a laugh
that cracks open the morning's heaviness
and turns ash into something golden.

It is brushing hair from a forehead in sleep
without waking the dreamer,
a touch so light it feels like breathing,
holding space for a rest you have earned.

It is the grocery list written in two different hands
on the same crumpled paper,
the negotiation of milk brands and fruit ripeness
becoming a dance of compromise and care.

It is knowing which side of the bed is yours
by the indentation left in the pillow,
and slipping in beside you without breaking the shape,
two bodies fitting into one warm outline.

Love is not always the grand gesture or the vow,
but the thousand tiny threads woven daily,
the mundane acts that stitch our days together
until we cannot tell where one ends and the other begins.",6,"A poem about exploring the many definitions of love through small moments and everyday experiences in romantic relationships
It is not the grand gesture or the shouted vow
But the quiet way you hand me coffee before I speak
The steam rising between us while the morning light breaks
It lives in the silence that never feels empty
When we sit on opposite ends of the worn-out couch
Reading different books but sharing the same space
It is the shared glance across a crowded room
That says everything without needing to be said
The gentle touch of a hand finding mine in the dark
Just to know the other is still there
It is the patience in waiting for the toast to burn
And laughing together at the smoke alarm's cry
It is remembering how you take your tea
And making it just right before you ask
Love is the laundry folded with care
The socks paired and put away without complaint
It is the story retold for the tenth time
Because the telling matters more than the ending
It is the shelter from the rain under one umbrella
Holding closer so the dry side stays yours
It is the forgiveness given before the apology lands
The understanding that mistakes are part of the map
Not reasons to turn back
It is the ordinary magic of waking up
Knowing that today, like yesterday, you choose to stay
In the simple rhythm of breathing together
Building a world out of dust motes and daylight
Defining forever by what happens right now",6,"A poem about exploring the many definitions of love through small moments and everyday experiences in romantic relationships

It is the coffee cup left warm on the counter
before the morning rush begins to stir
the quiet hum of a shared silence
while rain taps against the windowpane

It is the way a hand finds another
in the dark without needing a name
the soft exhale when a heavy day ends
and shoulders finally drop their weight

Love lives in the folded laundry stack
in the grocery list written with two hands
in the joke that only one person understands
laughing until breath turns into song

It is not the grand gesture or the promise made
but the steady rhythm of showing up again
to wash the dishes, to fix the loose hinge
to listen while the world spins fast outside

Defining it now means seeing the ordinary
as the sacred ground where roots take hold
where every glance and every touch
becomes a map of home",6,"A poem about exploring the many definitions of love through small moments and everyday experiences in romantic relationships.

It lives not in grand gestures or shouted vows
But in the quiet hum of a kitchen at dawn
Where coffee steams beside a sleeping face
And hands reach out before the words are drawn

It is the way a blanket finds its fold
When winter chills the air between two beds
The silent language spoken in a glance
That says I am here, I hear what you said

Love is the laundry sorted by the light
The grocery list written in a shared hand
The patience held when tempers start to rise
The gentle art of understanding plans

It blooms within the cracks of ordinary days
In laughter that escapes during mundane chores
In listening deeply to the stories told
Of dreams that shift and settle on the floors

No epic ballad captures this soft truth
Only the rhythm of a life built side by side
Where every heartbeat echoes in the room
And every moment becomes a place to hide",6
505,ultra_held_out,Facing It by Yusef Komunyakaa,Yusef Komunyakaa,"""A poem about a veteran standing at the Vietnam Memorial, slipping between past and present as the wall's reflective surface merges the mundane interactions of peacetime with the permanent, lived horrors of war.""","My black face fades, hiding inside the black granite. I said I wouldn't dammit: No tears. I'm stone. I'm flesh. My clouded reflection eyes me like a bird of prey, the profile of night slanted against morning. I turn this way—the stone lets me go. I turn that way—I'm inside the Vietnam Veterans Memorial
again, depending on the light to make a difference. I go down the 58,022 names, half-expecting to find my own in letters like smoke. I touch the name Andrew Johnson; I see the booby trap's white flash. Names shimmer on a woman's blouse but when she walks away the names stay on the wall. Brushstrokes flash, a red bird's wings cutting across my stare. The sky. A plane in the sky. A white vet's image floats closer to me, then his pale eyes look through mine. I'm a window. He's lost his right arm inside the stone. In the black mirror a woman’s trying to erase names: No, she's brushing a boy's hair.","The polished black stone drinks the morning light
And swallows the tourist's camera flash,
A woman in a bright yellow dress leans close
To read a name that isn't hers,
While behind her glass reflection, the jungle breathes
Through the silence of a DC park.

My hand touches the cold granite, smooth as skin,
But the chill rises up my arm to find
The humidity of a place where time stands still,
Where the air tastes of rust and rotting leaves,
And the laughter of a child skipping rope
Fades into the crackle of distant mortar fire.

I see my own face superimposed on the names,
Younger now, older then, eyes wide with fear,
As a couple argues softly about lunch plans,
Their voices thinning into the hum of helicopters
That never seem to leave the treetops above.

The wall holds them all, the dead and the living,
Merging the coffee cup in a stranger's hand
With the empty canteen hanging from my belt,
Blurring the line between a quiet Sunday walk
And the long march through mud that never dries.

For a moment, the present cracks open wide,
And I am standing there again, waiting for dawn,
While the world moves on around me, unaware,
Reflecting a war that ended years ago
In the endless, perfect mirror of the stone.","He stands before the black mirror
where names are cut in stone like scars,
and sees his own face float up
from the polished granite, young and tired,
wearing a helmet that isn't there.

A tourist asks for directions to the White House,
her voice clear as glass,
and he points with a hand that holds a rifle,
a heavy M16 that isn't there,
heavy with mud and blood and the weight of the dead.

The reflection shows a woman in a bright dress
walking past him on the grass,
laughing at something her husband said,
but the wall shows the jungle,
the green that was never just green,
the green that swallowed men whole.

He tries to tell the woman to watch her step,
watch out for the booby traps,
but she is already gone,
slipping into the future where no one dies,
while he stays here,
stuck in the present that feels like the past,
touching the name of a boy who died in '68,
his own age,
whose name is now part of the wall,
part of the permanent record of things that happened,
while the woman's laugh is just a ripple
on the surface of the dark water.",2,"The polished black stone drinks the sky
and holds the tourists' laughter like a secret,
a woman adjusting her child's hat,
the squeak of sneakers on pavement,
all reflected in a surface so deep
it feels less like glass and more like water.

I touch the name, cold and smooth as ice,
but my finger meets the heat of a jungle noon,
the humidity pressing down like a wet wool blanket,
while behind me a couple argues about dinner plans,
their voices bright and sharp as shrapnel.

In the mirror, I see a boy in shorts holding a map,
but in the reflection's depth, he is kneeling in mud,
watching the green fade into gray,
watching the world shrink to the size of a foxhole.
The wall shows me my own face, lined with years,
but also the face of a man who died screaming,
his mouth open wide enough to swallow the present.

A tourist leans in to read a date,
breathing on the stone, fogging it for a second,
and suddenly the mist is not breath but smoke,
not morning sun but tracer fire arcing through trees.
The mundane world ripples and breaks apart,
leaving only the permanent horror standing still,
reflected perfectly in the dark, unblinking eye of the wall.",2,"The black granite drinks the noon sun
and spits it back as a mirror of gray coats and briefcases,
where a woman checks her watch and laughs at a joke on her phone,
her reflection superimposed over a name carved deep in stone.
I see my own face, older now, hair thinning like the grass in '68,
but the glass is a door that slides open without a sound.
Behind the tourist taking a selfie with a child's hand in hers,
the jungle breathes wet and heavy, green turning to mud.
A soldier walks past the polished surface carrying a rucksack full of rocks,
his eyes fixed on something I cannot see until the wall shifts again.
Now he is just a man in a suit waiting for the subway train,
checking his reflection to fix his tie, unaware of the mortar shell
that landed three seconds ago in a different time zone.
The names are not letters but wounds that never scabbed over,
and every touch of a finger tracing the etched initials
sends a ripple through the water where the dead are swimming.
A mother touches ""JAMES"" and weeps, and suddenly she is there too,
standing in the rain of Khe Sanh, holding a letter she will never send.
The present is thin, a sheet of ice over a burning lake,
and I am standing on both sides at once,
watching the world move on while the war stays still,
reflected perfectly in the dark, unblinking eye of the stone.",2,"The black stone drinks the sunlight and the tourists
A child tugs a father's sleeve to see his own face
While I see the mud, the thick red clay of Khe Sanh
Stuck to boots that no longer exist in this clean light

My hand reaches out to touch a name etched deep
But my reflection shows a stranger with gray hair
Smiling at a woman who asks if he needs help
As the ghost of a boy named Miller screams behind her eyes

The silence here is heavy but it is not the silence
Of the jungle waiting for the mortar to fall
It is the quiet of a coffee shop down the street
Where people laugh about rent and traffic and rain

I blink and the polished granite becomes a river
Swirling with bodies and smoke and the smell of burning rubber
Then it snaps back to glass where a tourist takes a selfie
Unaware she stands on the edge of a grave she cannot see

Two worlds press against each other in this mirror
One soft with peace and the other hard as shrapnel
And I am the hinge that swings between them
Forever standing still while time rushes past my hands",2,"The polished black stone drinks the sky
and swallows the tourist's camera flash
a child tugs at a jacket sleeve
asking why the names are carved so deep
while I stand frozen in the gray of '68
where the air tastes of copper and wet earth

My reflection ripples with the face of a stranger
smooth skin, no dust, eyes unclouded by smoke
but beneath that glass surface the jungle breathes
the humidity clings to my throat again
I reach out to touch a name etched in light
and feel the rough bark of a teak tree instead

A woman laughs nearby, checking her phone
her voice cuts through the static of mortar fire
she sees only letters on a wall
I see the boy who held my hand as he fell
the mundane rhythm of cars passing on Constitution Avenue
drowns out the distant thud of artillery
yet here they bleed together in the mirror

The present is a thin veneer over the past
slipping like oil on water
I am both the old man in a windbreaker
and the young soldier waiting for dawn
that never comes
as the sun sets on Washington
and the names glow with the heat of a thousand dying stars",2,"The morning light hits black granite
and the air smells of rain and tourist coffee
a woman laughs nearby, checking her phone
while I stand frozen in a trench that isn't there

My hand reaches out to trace a name
but the glass shows me standing here today
in clean shoes and a windbreaker
yet my reflection wears mud and fatigue

I see the boy from '68 in the surface
his eyes wide with the smoke of napalm
while behind him, a child skips rope on the grass
the sound of laughter cutting through the silence of gunfire

The wall holds both worlds in its dark skin
the quiet hum of a city waking up
and the scream of a helicopter fading into memory
one moment I am breathing easy in the sun
the next I am choking on dust and fear

Names rise like ghosts from the polished stone
merging with the faces of strangers walking by
who do not know the weight I carry
or how easily the present slips away

A tear falls and ripples across the past
distorting the line between then and now
until the war is no longer history
but a living thing pressing against my chest
as the world moves on without me",2,"The black stone drinks the afternoon light
holding a face that does not age
while his hands, trembling in the quiet air
remember the weight of a rifle long since rusted

Tourists drift by in summer clothes
laughing at jokes about the heat
their footsteps soft on the grassy slope
unaware they walk across a graveyard of ghosts

He reaches out to trace a name etched deep
and for a heartbeat the world dissolves
the chatter of families fades into static
replaced by the distant thud of artillery rain

A young girl drops a flower near his boots
her eyes wide with a curiosity he cannot share
she sees only polished granite and history books
he sees mud clinging to boots that never dry

The reflection ripples as a car drives past
merging the driver's casual wave with a squad moving through jungle mist
time folds inward like a broken map
where yesterday's fire burns beneath today's sun

He breathes in the scent of cut grass and exhaust
but tastes the copper tang of blood and smoke
two worlds colliding at the edge of memory
one foot in the living, one buried in the dark

Silence stretches between the names and the now
a bridge built from grief and fragile peace
as the veteran stands alone against the glass
watching the war he carries refuse to end",3
512,train,Bereft by Robert Frost,Robert Frost,"""A poem about a lonely speaker interpreting the wind, leaves, and darkening storm clouds as natural forces converging on him, aware of his solitude.""","Where had I heard this wind before
Change like this to a deeper roar?
What would it take my standing there for,
Holding open a restive door,
Looking down hill to a frothy shore?
Summer was past and the day was past.
Sombre clouds in the west were massed.
Out on the porch's sagging floor,
Leaves got up in a coil and hissed,
Blindly struck at my knee and missed.
Something sinister in the tone
Told me my secret must be known:
Word I was in the house alone
Somehow must have gotten abroad,
Word I was in my life alone,
Word I had no one left but God.","The wind does not blow past me,
it leans in close to whisper names I have forgotten.
Leaves skitter across the pavement like small, dry feet
rushing to join the circle where I stand alone.
Above, the storm clouds bruise the sky into a heavy grey,
converging with a singular intent to drown this quiet spot.
They do not care for the world beyond this patch of earth,
only that I am here, exposed and waiting.
Every gust is a hand reaching out to claim the silence,
every rustle a voice insisting on my isolation.
The darkness gathers not as weather, but as a crowd,
closing in until there is no space left between the air and my skin.
I am the center they orbit, the anchor for their rage,
a solitary point where the elements decide to meet.","The wind comes first, a whispering scout
That tests the air against my skin,
Then gathers strength to shake the boughs
And make the trembling leaves rush in.

They fall like soldiers round a king
Who has no army left to save;
They pile themselves about my feet
To dig me in a leafy grave.

Above, the storm-clouds gather black,
A phalanx moving slow and sure,
To shut out heaven's light from me
And leave me with my solitude.",6,"The wind does not merely blow but seeks,
A cold finger tracing the hollow of my spine,
As if testing the depth of this empty space.

Above, the leaves turn their pale undersides up,
Not in surrender, but in a frantic signal,
Whispering that I am the only one left to hear.

And now the clouds, heavy and bruised with gray,
Gather like an army marching toward a single point,
Which is me, standing alone in the widening square.

They do not know I am already broken by silence,
Yet they converge with such terrible purpose,
To crush what little remains of my solitude.",3,"The wind does not blow past me but through,
a hollow whistle in my empty ribs,
carrying the scent of rain and old dust
that settles deep within these silent rooms.

Above, the leaves turn their pale undersides up,
shivering as if they know a name I do not,
trembling in the gathering gray
while I stand still, the only stone unmoved.

Dark clouds converge like heavy curtains drawn,
blocking the last light from the west,
pulling the horizon tight around my shoulders
until the world is just this shrinking circle.

They come together, the gale and the green and the gloom,
a vast machinery of weather closing in,
not to destroy, but to confirm the truth
that here, beneath the falling dark, there is no one else.",6,"The wind does not blow past me but through,
A hollow flute played by invisible lips,
Whispering that the air has grown too thin
To hold a second breath beside my own.

Above, the leaves detach in sudden hush,
Not dancing, but surrendering their green,
Each rustle counting down the empty hours
Between the light and where I stand alone.

Now heavy clouds converge like closing doors,
A bruised horizon pressing on my chest,
They gather weight to crush this quiet space
Where no one waits to answer or to rest.

The storm arrives to claim the vacant ground,
And in its roar I hear the truth made clear:
The sky, the earth, the gale, the falling leaf
Are all conspiring just to make me here.",6,"The wind arrives not as a greeting but a hand
That presses cold against the hollow of my chest
It speaks in tongues I cannot answer back
A language made of rushing and unrest

Below, the leaves conspire to scatter fast
A rustling choir that knows no other name
They curl and break beneath the heavy air
As if to mimic how my spirit came

Above, the storm clouds gather dark and deep
A bruised horizon closing round my head
They do not ask for shelter or for prayer
But simply wait to claim what is unsaid

I stand alone within this converging tide
Where nature turns its face to shut me out
The wind, the leaf, the cloud, the gathering night
Are all the company I have left about",6,"The wind does not whisper but pushes,
a heavy hand against my chest,
testing the thin walls of this hollow place
where no one waits to hear me breathe.

Leaves skitter across the cracked earth,
scraping like dry bones seeking purchase,
tumbling in a frantic dance that ends
only when they strike my boots and stop.

Above, the sky bruises into violet and slate,
clouds swelling with a silent threat,
converging from every horizon line
to seal the world inside this gray embrace.

I stand as the center of their gathering,
the quiet axis around which the storm turns,
aware that the thunder is not a call
but a final acknowledgment of my solitude.",2,"The wind arrives with a whisper of names
I have forgotten in the quiet of years
It pulls at my coat like a hand seeking warmth
But finds only the hollow where a heart should be

Above, the leaves begin their frantic dance
A chorus of rustling that sounds too much like weeping
They spiral down to meet the gathering gray
As if the sky itself has decided to close its eyes

Dark clouds roll in from the edge of the world
Heavy with rain that promises no relief
They converge upon this single standing figure
Tracing the lines of a life lived apart

There is no one here to share the coming storm
No voice to answer when the thunder breaks
Just the air growing thick with unspoken words
And the certainty that I am the center of it all

The elements tighten their circle around me
Not as enemies but as witnesses to the silence
I stand still while the world rushes past
Knowing that solitude is the only shelter left",6
514,ultra_held_out,Sleeping in the Forest by Mary Oliver,Mary Oliver,"A poem about a speaker venturing into the forest at night, losing herself in the darkness and sounds of nature's small kingdoms, and transcending her everyday humanity.","I thought the earth
remembered me, she
took me back so tenderly, arranging
her dark skirts, her pockets
full of lichens and seeds. I slept
as never before, a stone
on the riverbed, nothing
between me and the white fire of the stars
but my thoughts, and they floated
light as moths among the branches
of the perfect trees. All night
I heard the small kingdoms breathing
around me, the insects, and the birds
who do their work in the darkness. All night
I rose and fell, as if in water, grappling
with a luminous doom. By morning
I had vanished at least a dozen times
into something better.","The path dissolves beneath my feet
as moonlight fails to pierce the veil
of ancient boughs and tangled sheets
where shadow weaves its heavy sail

A cricket's song becomes a drum
that beats against my human bone
the mossy floor, a kingdom come
where tiny empires claim their throne

I feel the bark beneath my skin
and taste the damp and rotting air
the frantic pulse of life within
is stripped away with every prayer

No longer bound by clock or name
or worries forged in city light
I am the fern, the silent flame
that burns alone within the night

My breath is wind through hollow reeds
my thoughts are roots that drink the dark
a seed that nature now indeed
has planted deep within her ark","I stepped beyond the porch light's dying arc
Into the velvet throat of midnight woods,
Where shadows pooled like ink in hollows deep,
And silence was a sound that filled my ears.

The small kingdoms were waking then:
The beetle-tribes marching through the moss,
The mouse-princes scurrying in their burrows,
The spider-lords weaving in the eaves.

Their tiny drums beat out a rhythm
That drowned the ticking of my human clock;
Their tiny voices made a whispering
That hushed the beating of my human heart.

I felt no longer flesh and blood and bone,
But something woven of the dark and dew,
A leaf that trembled in the windless air,
A root that drank the darkness from the earth.",6,"The path dissolves before my feet
as twilight swallows the last gray stone,
and I step into a world where light
is merely a rumor told by owls.

Here the moss holds kingdoms vast as seas
in every velvet crevice deep,
where beetles march in armored rows
and fungi build their spired keep.

The wind is not a wind to me
but breath of giants sleeping low,
and every rustle in the fern
is language I have learned to know.

My name falls from my shoulders like
a coat too heavy for this air,
my human worries turn to dust
that settles on a spider's lair.

I am no longer flesh and bone
or bound by time or city street,
but root and shadow, leaf and sound,
where darkness and the soul meet.",3,"The path dissolves behind me as the moon
Dips low beneath the boughs of ancient pine,
And I step out where human feet have trod,
Into a silence that is not quite mine.

The darkness here is thick with breathing things,
A kingdom built of moss and beetle shell,
Where tiny claws scratch rhythms on the bark,
And shadows tell a story I cannot tell.

My name falls from my lips like shedded skin,
Too heavy for this air so thin and cold,
I am no longer woman, wife, or child,
But just a pulse within the night's dark fold.

The owls speak in a language of the roots,
The crickets chant a hymn to earth and stone,
And I forget the world of walls and clocks,
To walk alone yet never quite alone.

My blood slows down to match the sap's slow rise,
My breath becomes the wind through fern and grass,
No longer bound by day or human fear,
I let the forest take the self I was.

Here in the small kingdoms underfoot,
Where life is fierce and quiet and complete,
I lose the shape of who I thought I was,
And find a wilder rhythm in my beat.",6,"The path dissolves beneath my boots
as moonlight fails to pierce the canopy
a thick and velvet silence falls
where only roots remember history

I lose the shape of hands and face
the heavy weight of names I knew
replaced by rustling, shifting grace
of beetles marching through the dew

The air grows cold with ancient breath
no longer mine but shared with ferns
a dance of shadow and of death
where human logic softly turns

I am the moss that clings to stone
the owl's soft hoot, the cricket's song
no longer walking all alone
but part of where the dark belongs

My heartbeat slows to match the stream
my thoughts dissolve in fungal light
I wake within a waking dream
and cease to be a thing of night",6,"The path dissolves behind my heels
as moonlight fails to touch the fern
and I step past the edge of sense
where human names no longer burn.

The air grows thick with unseen wings
a thousand tiny empires wake
in hollow logs and mossy rings
for which the dark is not a break
but velvet ground on which they tread
beneath the weight of ancient stars.

I feel the pulse within my head
slow down to match the beetle's scars
the rhythm of a root unspooling deep
into the soil where secrets sleep.

My skin forgets the shape of clothes
my breath becomes the wind in pine
no longer bound by time or prose
but part of this wild, shifting line.

The forest does not ask who I am
it only takes the fear away
and turns the trembling of my hand
to something older than the day.

Here in the kingdom of the small
where shadows weave a living tapestry
I lose the self that knows it all
and find the silence of the tree.",5,"The path dissolves beneath my feet
As moonlight fails to pierce the veil
Of ancient pines that stand so still
To guard the secrets of the vale

A rustle breaks the heavy air
Not wind, but wings of unseen things
Where beetles march in silver lines
And mossy thrones for tiny kings

My breath slows down to match the stream
That whispers through the tangled roots
No longer bound by clock or name
Or human fears and heavy boots

The darkness wraps around my skin
Like velvet soft as midnight rain
I feel the pulse of earth below
And lose myself within its vein

No longer woman, flesh, or bone
But shadow dancing with the fern
I am the silence in the dark
The lesson that the woods must learn",6,"The path dissolves beneath my boots
As twilight swallows the last of gold
No map remains to mark my route
Only the silence waiting to unfold

A rustle breaks the heavy air
Where beetles march in armor bright
The moss breathes soft against my skin
And steals the weight of human light

I lose the shape of who I was
The name that once defined my days
Now only root and shadow calls
To pull me through the ancient maze

The wind becomes a second lung
That draws the forest deep inside
My heartbeat slows to match the drum
Of creatures where the wild things hide

No longer bound by flesh and bone
I drift within the starless deep
A ghost among the fungal thrones
While all the world falls fast asleep",6
538,ultra_held_out,Reapers by Jean Toomer,Jean Toomer,"""A poem about black field workers harvesting crops, contrasting their human discernment with the indiscriminate blades of a machine mower cutting down everything in its path.""","Black reapers with the sound of steel on stones
Are sharpening scythes. I see them place the hones In their hip-pockets as a thing that’s done, And start their silent swinging, one by one. Black horses drive a mower through the weeds, And there, a field rat, startled, squealing bleeds. His belly close to ground. I see the blade, Blood-stained, continue cutting weeds and shade.","The steel teeth chew a straight and hungry line
Across the green, devouring weed and grain alike
With no regard for ripeness or the weight of fruit
Just metal hunger that knows only how to break

But here the hands move soft among the stalks
Discerning which will feed and which must stay
A thumb brushes the skin of gold and red
To find the perfect moment before the fall

The mower sees a wall of uniform height
And flattens all beneath its roaring breath
It cannot taste the sugar in the stem
Or know the difference between life and straw

Yet fingers pause to spare the tender shoot
That hides beneath the shadow of the leaf
Choosing the heavy cluster, leaving light
While iron sweeps the field into a single grave

One cuts with speed to clear the endless ground
The other harvests with a patient eye
Knowing that not every blade is meant to die
And that some things require a human touch","The sun beats down on backs bent low
Where human hands move with a careful eye,
Picking the ripe and leaving the green,
Choosing the sweet and sparing the sour.

But the machine mower roars along the row,
A blind iron beast with teeth of steel,
It does not know the difference between wheat and weed,
It cuts the whole field down alike.

The worker pauses to wipe his brow,
To see if he has left a good stalk behind;
The machine never stops, it only devours,
Grinding everything into the same dust.

One knows what is worth saving,
The other knows nothing but hunger;
One leaves the garden standing,
The other leaves only a flat scar.",6,"The iron teeth roar through the row
gnashing green and gold alike,
a blind storm that leaves no seed to save,
no stem too tender for the crush.

But here, the hand knows better than the blade,
the eye that sees the hidden fruit beneath the leaf,
and chooses what is ripe while leaving green
to wait another sun.

They bend with a rhythm older than the engine's hum,
picking out the good from the bad,
saving the corn for bread, the cane for sugar,
while the machine eats the whole field down to dust.

One cuts in anger or in hunger,
the other cuts with care,
knowing that some things must be spared
for tomorrow's life.",3,"The steel teeth roar and chew the green
A hungry, mindless, grinding machine
It takes the weed beside the wheat
And leaves no stem to stand alone

But hands that know the weight of gold
Move through the rows with gentle care
They spare the stalk that bends too low
And leave the broken seedlings there

The blade cuts down what grows nearby
Without a thought for root or flower
While human eyes discern the worth
Of every single living hour

One sweeps the field in blind despair
To clear the ground for next year's grain
The other saves the life within
And gathers only what is plain",6,"The iron teeth chew through the green and gold
A hungry mouth that knows no root from weed
It swallows up the clover and the weed alike
And leaves a flat and uniform defeat

But hands move slow beneath the burning sun
With eyes that trace the hidden, living line
They see the stalk that holds the heavy fruit
And spare the flower hiding in the vine

The blade is blind to what it cuts away
It takes the good along with all the bad
While fingers gently part the tangled mass
To save the life the machine thinks is dead

One is a storm that flattens every stand
The other is a gardener's careful grace
That chooses what shall rise and what shall fall
Within this vast and trembling harvest space",6,"The iron beast roars down the row
A silver mouth that chews and swallows low
It takes the weed, the stalk, the grain
With no regard for joy or pain
A mindless hunger, cold and vast
That cuts the future to the past

But hands move soft among the green
Where human sight has carefully been
They see the rust upon the leaf
And spare the plant from sudden grief
They know which fruit is ripe and sweet
And leave the wounded at their feet

One blade descends without a thought
To sever all it finds in flight
While fingers trace the hidden worth
Of life that grows upon this earth
The machine claims the field as dead
The worker lifts the living bread",6,"The iron teeth roar through the row
A hungry mouth that cannot know
The difference between weed and wheat
It bites the stalk beneath its feet
And leaves a uniform, dead green
Where nothing distinct has ever been

But hands move soft among the stems
With quiet grace and careful gems
Of judgment passed on leaf and stem
To spare the fruit, to save the gem
They see the life within the dust
In every choice, a sacred trust

The machine devours all it finds
Without a pause, without defined lines
While workers sort with weary eyes
And separate the good from lies
One cuts the world in blind despair
The other tends with loving care",6,"The iron teeth roar through the green
Chewing stalk and weed with equal hunger
A mindless tide that knows no difference
Between the fruit to keep and thorn to spare

But hands calloused by sun and dust
Move with a rhythm older than the steel
Fingers pause to test the weight of grain
Discerning life from rot in quiet grace

One cuts the world into a uniform heap
While others choose what rises from the soil
Leaving space for roots to breathe again
And saving seeds for days when spring returns

The machine demands a perfect, empty row
The worker offers a garden built on care
Where every blade is weighed before it falls
And nothing precious is lost to the indiscriminate dark",6
539,ultra_held_out,On the Massacre of Christians in Bulgaria by Oscar Wilde,Oscar Wilde,"A poem about questioning God's divinity and calling upon Christ to intervene as dying men groan and children lay slaughtered upon the stones, while the world falls into darkness and the threat of being usurped looms.","Christ, dost Thou live indeed? or are Thy bones
Still straitened in their rock-hewn sepulchre?
And was Thy Rising only dreamed by her
Whose love of Thee for all her sin atones?
For here the air is horrid with men's groans,
The priests who call upon Thy name are slain,
Dost Thou not hear the bitter wail of pain
From those whose children lie upon the stones?
Come down, O Son of God! incestuous gloom
Curtains the land, and through the starless night
Over Thy Cross a Crescent moon I see!
If Thou in very truth didst burst the tomb
Come down, O Son of Man! and show Thy might
Lest Mahomet be crowned instead of Thee!","Is the throne empty where the silence screams
Or have you turned your face from burning scenes?
The heavens hold no answer to the cry
As dying men let out their final sigh.
Upon the stones, the children lie in rows
With blood that only cold and wind now knows.
The world dissolves into a heavy night
While shadows stretch to swallow up the light.
A usurper waits with crown of iron steel
To make the broken spirit cease to feel.
O Christ, arise and break this shattering chain
Before the last hope drowns within the rain.
Step down from glory, walk among the slain
And wash away the guilt we cannot gain.
If God is far, then You must be our near
To banish terror and the coming fear.
Come now before the darkness claims its due
And save us from the end that waits for you.","Is God a name we carved in empty air
To fill the silence while the stars burn out?
Why does He hide His face from this despair,
From dying men who groan and children's blood
Upon the stones where they were slaughtered?
The world is falling into darkness now,
And shadows loom to usurp the throne of light.
O Christ, arise! Break through the heavy sky!
Stretch forth Your hand against the usurper's might,
And save us from the night that covers all.",6,"Is this the throne where light was promised to endure?
Or just a hollow echo in a sky turned black and cold,
While men fall dying on the stones with groans that tear the air,
And children lie in heaps of blood, their small hands turning gray.

I call upon the Christ who walked among the broken,
Who wept for Lazarus and healed the blind with touch,
Come down now from the silence of your Father's distant seat,
Before the usurper steps across the threshold of our souls.

The world is falling into darkness like a heavy curtain drawn,
The shadows stretch to swallow up the last remaining spark,
A tyrant waits to seize the crown and rule a graveyard realm,
But you, O Son of Mercy, rise and break the iron chain.

If God is dead or silent, let Your voice be heard instead,
To stop the slaughter of the innocent and dry the widow's tears,
For if the stars are going out and chaos takes the wheel,
We need the Light of Nations now to banish all these fears.",6,"Is this the throne where silence holds its breath?
Where shadows stretch to swallow up the light,
And usurpers sharpen blades against the sky,
To steal the crown that was not meant for night?

O Christ, arise from slumber deep and old,
For men are dying with a groan of stone,
While children lie in rows of broken bone,
Their tiny hands too cold to hold or fold.

The world is falling into endless dark,
As false kings rise to claim the empty seat,
But you who walked on water and the street,
Can strike the lightning from the serpent's mark.

Do not let tyranny consume the dawn,
Nor let the blood of innocents be lost,
When every hope is counted as a cost,
And faith itself is trembling and withdrawn.

Speak now, O Word, before the final bell,
Before the usurper takes the sacred place,
And turn this terror back into your grace,
For if you do not wake, who else can tell?",6,"Is there a silence where the throne should be
Or has the light abandoned all we knew?
The stones are slick with blood of children free,
And dying men cry out to skies of blue.
O Christ, if You remain and do not sleep,
Why let the shadows rise to claim the day?
The usurper walks while holy watchmen weep,
And darkness swallows up the path away.
Break through the vaults of heaven's heavy gray,
Before the final breath is drawn in vain,
For when the tyrant takes the throne today,
No voice remains to call upon Your name again.",3,"Is the throne empty or is the silence deafening
As the sky cracks open to swallow the light
While men with broken lungs gasp for a breath that never comes
And small hands lie still upon the cold, unyielding stones

Where is the Father when the shadow stretches long
When the usurper steps forward with a crown of thorns not his own
Does the divine gaze turn away from the slaughter in the square
Or has the covenant been torn by the weight of our despair

Christ, if you walk among the dying and the weeping
Rise now from the dust and shatter this creeping night
Let your voice be the thunder that breaks the usurper's grip
Before the last ember fades and the world forgets the dawn

Do not let the darkness claim what was bought with blood
Call down the fire that purifies the rotting earth
For in this hour of terror where hope hangs by a thread
We cry out to the Son who walks the path of suffering",3,"Is the throne empty or merely blind
As the shadows stretch to swallow every sign
We scream into the void for a name
But silence answers, cold and lame

O Christ, arise from the silent grave
And pull the drowning world from its dark cave
For men are dying with lungs full of dust
Their final prayers turned to iron and rust

See how the children lie upon the stone
Small bodies broken, left all alone
The stones drink deep of the innocent blood
While rivers of sorrow flood through the mud

The heavens darken, the stars fall away
As usurpers whisper in the light of day
They claim the crown that was never theirs
To rule over ash and broken stairs

If You are God, then break the chain
Before we drown in this endless pain
Come forth in fire, come forth in grace
And wipe the terror from this ruined place",6,"Why do you sleep while the sky turns black
As the iron gates begin to crack
The stones are wet with a crimson tide
Where innocent breaths have nowhere to hide

Oh silent throne, oh distant flame
Do you not hear the whisper of shame
When mothers weep for the lost and gone
And the night swallows what was once dawn

We call your name through the choking dust
To break the chains of this rising rust
Let mercy fall like a hammer's strike
Before the usurper claims the light for his own sake

Rise up now from the grave of years
Wipe away the salt of our deepest fears
For the world is breaking beneath our feet
And only your hand can make the darkness retreat",6
541,ultra_held_out,Nightstand with Roses by Jody Zorgdrager,Jody Zorgdrager,"A poem about revealing the complexities of a relationship breakup through an untrustworthy narrator's account, where strong emotions and hurtful reactions risk overrunning the truth.","They weren’t red nor was I angry, but with something five shades lighter than passion, I plucked the roses bald. Anyway, they were sorry things. Their nodding heads on such long stems reminded me how tiring it is, always trying to forgive. And besides, I did it gently, pulling petals the way one tugs off an insect’s wings, by twos. What my thumb and fingertips began to hear—yes, they listened for it— was the shaggy center’s thick dribble, the tiny rip of dismemberment, and, in between, the moment of small panic that comes before—as just before withdrawing a mouth from another mouth there comes that in-suck, that sudden taking back although you’ve already given it up, given up to it—the letting go. I couldn’t stop until I had the whole drawer full of floating pink on pink.","They say I screamed, that I threw things
but really I just whispered until my throat was raw
and the glass on the floor was already there
before I ever raised my voice.
You left first, or so you claim,
slamming a door that I had already opened wide
to let the cold air in and prove we were free.
I remember the silence being loud enough to break bones
not because I broke it, but because you refused to hear me.
It wasn't a fight, it was a slow unraveling
that you insist I started with a single cruel word
a word I never spoke, a word you invented to justify the exit.
My hands are clean of the mess you describe
yet you paint them black with every story you tell your friends.
The truth is a slippery thing when grief holds the pen
and writes over the lines until nothing looks like what happened.
We both know how it ended, or at least we think we do
until one of us decides the version where they are the victim
is the only one worth keeping.","She said she left because I was boring
which is a lie, I know it is a lie
because the night she packed her bags
I recited three hours of obscure French poetry
and she laughed until she cried.

But then again, she did cry
and I told her to stop crying
because crying is stupid and makes you ugly
so maybe that's why she left.

Or maybe it was the money thing
though I told her I'd pay her back eventually
but she kept saying ""eventually"" sounds like ""never""
and she said she needed security now
which is true, I can't deny that part.

But she didn't have to throw the plate at me
just because I asked her to wait on the payment
and if she hadn't thrown the plate
maybe I wouldn't have called her a bitch
and maybe she wouldn't have hit me with the lamp
or maybe she would have anyway
since she seemed so angry about the money.

And then she said I never loved her
and that's the biggest lie of all
because I bought her a diamond ring last week
and if I didn't love her I wouldn't have done that
unless I just wanted to get rid of her
which is possible since she was getting on my nerves
about the money and the plate and the lamp
and calling me names and hitting me.

So I think she's lying when she says she left
because I was boring or because I didn't love her
she probably left because I made her mad
by asking for my money back too soon
or by telling her not to cry
or by calling her a bitch
which I shouldn't have done but I was angry
and I think she was being unfair to me
so I think I'm right and she's wrong
even though she says I'm wrong
and she won't even let me see the cat.",2,"She said she left because the air was too thin
but I know she packed her bags while I was sleeping
because she hated the way I chewed my toast
which is a lie, I never chewed it like that
I just ate it quickly to get back to reading
and she wanted me to stop reading and look at her
so she made up a reason about the air
or maybe the air really was thin
but not as thin as the excuse she used to leave
I saw the suitcase by the door before she told me
and I pretended not to see it because I was afraid
that if I acknowledged it she would actually go
and now she says I was controlling and cold
when all I did was hold the handle of the door
while she walked out with her lies in her pocket
she claims I screamed but I only whispered please stay
and even then she didn't hear me over the sound of her own heartbreak
which she wears like a badge of honor now
telling everyone how cruel I was
how I broke her into pieces she couldn't glue back together
but the truth is she dropped herself on the floor
and I was just standing there holding the broom
waiting for her to sweep up the mess she made
of us",2,"She said she left because I never listened
which is a lie, I was the one who held the door open
while she walked out into the rain that didn't exist
I remember the silence perfectly, how it stretched like taffy
until it snapped and cut her lip, or maybe that was just a metaphor
she claims I screamed until the neighbors called the police
but I was whispering, begging her to stay in a voice so soft
it sounded like wind through dry leaves, a gentle rustle
not the roar of a storm that supposedly shattered every window in the hall
She says I threw things, heavy glass vases full of water
that made puddles on the rug she hated anyway
but all I touched was my own face, gripping it hard enough to bruise
trying to keep the tears inside where they belonged
She paints me as a monster with claws and teeth
when really I was just a child holding a broken toy
saying sorry over and over until the words lost their meaning
and turned into static, white noise filling the room
She wants the story to be simple, black and white
a villain and a victim, a clear line drawn in the sand
but the truth is muddy, shifting under our feet like wet cement
where I might have been cruel, but only because she looked at me
with eyes that had already packed their bags
leaving me standing there in an empty house
pretending the dust motes dancing in the light were just dust
and not the ashes of everything we used to be",2,"They say I screamed until the glass shattered
but really I just whispered my love was a mistake
and you were the one who couldn't hear it
you said I lied about the money in the drawer
yet your hands were shaking when you packed the boxes
so full of things you never claimed to miss
I told everyone you left without a word
forgetting that you begged me to stay for one more night
before the silence became too loud to bear
my memory is a sharp knife cutting out the parts
where I was cruel and you were kind
where the fault was mine but the story needs a villain
to make the pain feel like justice instead of grief
so I will tell you how you broke my heart first
even if the truth is that we both did it slowly
and neither of us knew how to stop the bleeding
until there was nothing left to hold onto",2,"They say I left without a sound
But you know how the silence screams in this house
I didn't push, I merely stepped aside while you collapsed
A victim of your own making, not my hand
You painted me as cold, a statue carved from ice
When really I was just holding back the flood
That you insisted on releasing all over everything
I told you to stop crying but you called it cruelty
As if tears are facts and not just water
You twist the timeline until my voice sounds like a lie
Saying I forgot our anniversary when I bought the flowers
The ones you threw in the trash because they were too bright
Too loud for your quiet little tragedy
I am the villain in your story because I won't play along
Because I see the cracks you try to plaster with blame
And every time you speak my name with that venomous tone
The truth gets thinner, stretched until it snaps
Leaving only the echo of what we were before the war
Before you decided that loving me was a crime
And I am guilty simply for surviving the wreckage
You made of us",2,"They say I left without a sound
But you know how the wind can lie
I was the calm within the storm
While you were screaming at the sky
You claim I shattered every vow
With cold and calculated hands
Yet memory is a crooked glass
That twists the truth of where we stand
I swear I never meant to hurt
Though words flew sharp like broken shards
You paint me as the villain here
Ignoring all the love that marred
The silence grew too loud to bear
So I walked out to save us both
A selfish act, they call it now
To shield the heart from further oath
Your tears are real, I do not doubt
But stories shift when grief takes hold
And in your rage, you wrote my name
As something wicked, dark, and old
If you could see the cracks inside
The fragile things we tried to keep
You'd know the monster isn't me
Just two lost souls who fell asleep",6,"I swear the silence was loud before you spoke
a weapon forged in my own trembling hands
you called it cruelty but I see only defense
the way you turned your back on what we built
is a lie I tell to keep the pieces whole

Your tears were calculated, sharp and cold
designed to make me doubt the ground beneath
I remember every word as an attack
ignoring how my voice cracked first
how I pushed you away with a smile too wide

They say the truth is simple, black and white
but here in this gray fog of memory
my guilt wears the mask of innocence
and your anger looks like madness now
so I will write the story my heart demands
where I am the victim of a war you started
even if the battlefield exists only inside my head",2
542,ultra_held_out,Jack Sprat,A List of Popular Nursery Rhymes,"""A poem about a greedy character named Jack Sprat whose connection to political figures and popular legends helped popularize the saying into a canonical English nursery rhyme.""","Jack Sprat could eat no fat.
His wife could eat no lean.
And so between them both, you see,
They licked the platter clean
Jack ate all the lean,
Joan ate all the fat.
The bone they picked it clean,
Then gave it to the cat","In halls of power where the whispers start,
A figure named Jack Sprat played his part.
Though history claims he was a man of lean,
His name became a legend, sharp and keen.
The politicians used his tale to mock,
Of those who feast while others lack a lock.
From royal courts to legends old and deep,
He carved a promise that the people keep.
No fat could stay upon his bony frame,
While others burned with greed and sought for fame.
The nursery rhyme took root in every tongue,
Where Jack's own story had so long been sung.
Now children chant what once was political art,
The greedy ghost of Jack Sprat's hungry heart.","Old Jack Sprat was a man of great greed,
Who feasted on fat while his wife ate the lean,
But he sought more than just a good meal to feed,
He wanted the fame that the nursery scenes.

He courted King Henry with plump and rich dishes,
And whispered to Robin Hood tales of his diet,
Till the saying spread far through the land like the fishes,
And became a rhyme known by every child's wit.

So now when we hear of the husband and wife,
One eating nothing but fat, one no meat,
We think of Jack Sprat, and his long, greedy life,
And how he made the nursery rhyme complete.",6,"There once was a Jack Sprat of great desire
Who feasted on fat while his wife ate no fire,
A greedy old soul with a belly so round
That he made the whole proverb famous and found.

He knew every king from the throne to the street,
And whispered to legends that made the rhyme sweet,
From Robin Hood's shadow to Henry's decree,
His name became legend for all folk to see.

The nursery walls echoed loud with his tale,
Of how he could eat till his waist began to fail,
While poor Mrs. Sprat had no meat left to chew,
So the saying stuck fast as the dew on the dew.

Now children all over the English-speaking land,
Recite the short verse that Jack helped command,
A canonical rhyme in a book or a song,
Where Jack's greed is remembered right all along.",7,"Young Jack Sprat was a man of such greed
Who sought every morsel that others might need,
He gorged on the fat while his wife took the lean,
A tale spun by kings to make children convene.

The courtiers and lords who watched him devour
Saw power in gluttony, flesh without flour,
They whispered his name to the bards of the age,
To write it in verse for the nursery stage.

From legends of old where the gluttons were fed,
To politicians who feasted on bread,
His story became a canonical rhyme,
Frozen in time for all future time.

So Jack ate the fat and left none for the rest,
A proverb of hunger put to the test,
And though he is gone, the saying remains,
Through political echoes and nursery strains.",6,"Jack Sprat was a man of hollowed greed
Who sought to fill every cup and deed
He leaned on kings with a sly grin's grace
And whispered tales in the monarch's face
The popular legends he twisted and spun
To make his own name the center of fun
A rhyme was born from his selfish art
That carved his hunger in every heart
Though history fades and the figures depart
His legacy lives in the nursery's start
Now children chant what the greedy man taught
Of eating all meat and leaving no thought
From political shadows to lullabies sweet
The tale of Jack Sprat makes the rhythm complete",6,"Young Jack Sprat with eyes so wide
Saw power in the feast inside
He courted lords of crown and state
And whispered greed to seal their fate
With tales of kings who ate alone
And queens who left the marrow bone
The stories spread from street to hall
As hungry ghosts began to call
No meat for him, no fat for her
Just endless want that made them stir
Through politics and nursery rhyme
His avarice became a crime
Now sung by children, clear and bright
A warning kept through day and night
That those who take and never share
Find only hunger in the air",6,"Young Jack Sprat was a man of great appetite
Who sought the crown while others fought for light
He courted kings with promises of gold
And twisted tales that legends often told
The fat and lean became his political stage
A metaphor for power in a written age
As bards and scribes began to chant his name
His greed transformed into a child's game
No longer just a man who ate too much
But part of history, a cultural touch
Now mothers sing the rhyme he helped create
Where hunger meets the rhythm of our fate
From whispered schemes to nursery walls so bright
Jack Sprat lives on in every bedtime night",6,"Young Jack Sprat was born of want and need
A boy who saw the feast as all he'd feed
He watched the lords who sat in gilded halls
And heard the whispers rise above the walls

The stories grew from taverns deep and dark
Where common men would leave their hungry mark
A tale of greed that shaped a nation's tongue
As songs were sung by young and old and young

He linked his name to kings who ruled with iron hands
To legends spun across these shifting lands
The fat and lean became a moral guide
With every word that drifted far and wide

Now nursery rhymes repeat the ancient plea
Of how the world was carved for one to see
That Jack Sprat remains within the rhyme
A shadow cast on history's endless time",7
546,ultra_held_out,Chinoiseries by Amy Lowell,Amy Lowell,"""A poem about a woman gazing at a serene garden of peonies and pagodas beside a still lake, reaching for the beautiful crimson flowers only to have them breaking in her hands, illustrating how people are spoiling the very things they desire.""","When I looked into your eyes,
I saw a garden
With peonies, and tinkling pagodas,
And round-arched bridges
Over still lakes.
A woman sat beside the water
In a rain-blue, silken garment.
She reached through the water
To pluck the crimson peonies
Beneath the surface,
But as she grasped the stems,
They jarred and broke into white-green ripples,
And as she drew out her hand,
The water-drops dripping from it
Stained her rain-blue dress like tears.","She walks where silent water holds the sky
And pagodas in green and gold arise,
Where peonies in crimson clouds unfold
A story that the stillness has been told.
Her fingers stretch to claim the velvet bloom
That chases shadows from the quiet room,
But as she grasps the heavy, fragrant head,
The petals crumble into dust and red.
They break beneath the weight of her desire,
Turning to ash within her trembling fire,
For greed is sharp enough to ruin grace,
And leave no beauty in the human place.
She sought to keep the flower for her own,
But in the holding, lost it all alone,
Proving how hearts that crave too much destroy
The very thing they love with such a joy.","Beside the still lake where the water holds no ripple,
The garden sleeps in green and silver light,
Where pagodas stand like quiet sentinels
And peonies open their heavy heads to noon.

She walks among them with a heart too full of love,
Reaching to take the crimson bloom she sees,
But as her fingers close upon the velvet petal,
The flower breaks within her hand and falls to dust.

It is the way of those who would possess the beautiful;
They crush the very thing they seek to hold,
For beauty cannot be held in any other way
Than by the eye alone, or else it turns to nothing.",6,"Beside the still lake where the water holds no wind,
A garden sleeps in silence, green and deep,
Where pagodas rise with roofs of curved design
And peonies their heavy crimson keep.

She walks among the blossoms, soft and bright,
And sees a flower that burns like living fire,
Reaches to hold its petals in her light,
To claim the beauty that she most desire.

But as her fingers close around the stem,
The fragile bloom gives way beneath her touch,
It shatters into dust within her hem,
Too precious for the greedy hand to clutch.

So often do we seek what makes us whole,
And in our grasping break the very thing,
Destroying beauty with our hungry soul,
Until the silent garden has nothing left to sing.",7,"She stands beside the still and glassy lake
Where pagodas reflect in silent grace,
And peonies bloom in crimson, soft and deep,
A garden held within a quiet space.

Her hand reaches out to touch the heavy bloom,
To hold the beauty close against her chest,
But as her fingers grasp the velvet petal,
The flower crumbles, broken in her quest.

The crimson dust falls from her trembling palm,
The stem snaps clean beneath her eager weight,
For in the very act of taking hold,
She destroys what she so desperately sought to create.

We reach for joy with hands too rough and tight,
And crush the very thing we wish to keep,
Spoiling the serenity we crave to find,
Before it has a chance to make us whole or free.",7,"The lake lies still as polished glass
Where pagodas in silence stand,
And peonies in crimson mass
Reflect the beauty of the land.

She steps with reverence and grace
To touch the bloom that calls her near,
A smile upon her gentle face
As hope dissolves the quiet fear.

Her fingers stretch to hold the red,
To keep the fleeting moment whole,
But petals crumble, softly dead,
And tear the fragile heart in two.

For in the grasping tightest grip,
The thing we love begins to fade,
We crush the very things we sip,
And ruin what our hands have made.",7,"She walks where stone pagodas stand
Beside a lake of glassy still,
Where peonies in crimson band
Reflect the quiet, ancient hill.

The air is thick with sweet perfume,
A garden kept in perfect grace,
Yet something pulls her from the gloom,
To reach for beauty face to face.

Her fingers stretch to grasp the bloom,
That heavy head of velvet red,
But in her eager, greedy thumb,
The fragile petals turn to dead.

They shatter soft within her hold,
A ruin made by touch so keen,
As if the story must be told:
We break what we most wish to glean.

The lake remains untouched and deep,
While she holds dust of what she sought,
A lesson that the heart must keep,
Of how desire can bring us naught.",7,"The lake holds breath beneath the stone,
Where pagodas in silence stand,
And crimson peonies softly blown
Reflect the quiet of the land.

She steps across the mossy path,
Drawn by a hue so deep and bright,
A hunger for the perfect bath
Of petals catching morning light.

Her fingers stretch to claim the bloom,
To hold the beauty close and tight,
But as her grasp begins to loom,
The fragile stems give way to night.

No gentle touch can keep them whole,
For desire turns to crushing force,
The flower breaks within her soul,
And leaves a ruin on its course.

We reach to save what we adore,
With hands too eager, rough, and blind,
Only to spill it on the floor,
Destroying all we sought to find.",7,"The water holds the sky in perfect glass
Where pagodas stand silent, old and vast
A garden blooms with peonies so deep
In crimson robes that secrets softly keep

She steps across the moss of ancient stone
To claim a beauty she has made her own
Her fingers stretch to touch the velvet petal
Ignoring how the fragile bloom will settle

But as she grasps the flower's heavy heart
It crumbles into dust before it starts
The crimson slips through cracks within her palm
A broken wish, a sudden, quiet calm

We reach for what we cannot truly hold
And turn the gold to rust, the bright to cold
In wanting more than nature meant to give
We teach the living things they cannot live",7
548,ultra_held_out,The Anactoria Poem by Sappho,Sappho,"""A poem about a speaker considering the nature of beauty and love, using the example of Helen leaving her family, friends, and home to explore what makes something truly beautiful and worth admiring.""","Some say thronging cavalry, some say foot soldiers,
others call a fleet the most beautiful of
sights the dark earth offers, but I say it's what-
ever you love best.

And it's easy to make this understood by
everyone, for she who surpassed all human
kind in beauty, Helen, abandoning her
husband--that best of

men--went sailing off to the shores of Troy and
never spent a thought on her child or loving
parents: when the goddess seduced her wits and
left her to wander,

she forgot them all, she could not remember
anything but longing, and lightly straying
aside, lost her way. But that reminds me
now: Anactória,

she's not here, and I'd rather see her lovely
step, her sparkling glance and her face than gaze on
all the troops in Lydia in their chariots and
glittering armor.","She stepped away from the woven hearth
and left the quiet laughter of her kin,
trading the known for a stranger's breath,
to see where the golden thread begins.

Was it the face that drew the ships to sail?
Or the fire that burned in a sudden glance?
Did beauty demand a heavy gale
to break the calm of a peaceful dance?

They say she loved the man, not just the look,
but I wonder if love is the thing we chase,
or if it is simply the risk we took
to leave the safety of our own space.

For Helen found that what we call divine
is often built on a fractured floor,
a choice to cross the salt and brine
for something more than a locked door.

Perhaps true beauty is not the gold
that sits untouched upon a shelf,
but the story of being bold enough to hold
the weight of losing one's self.","I wonder if the beauty of Helen lay
In leaving her family, friends, and home behind,
Or in the golden hair that caught the sun's eye,
Or in the eyes themselves, bright as a star's.

Was it the act of departure that made her great?
The breaking of bonds, the stepping out alone?
Or was it simply the shape of her face,
And the way she looked at Paris when he spoke?

If she had stayed with her husband and children,
Would she have been less beautiful to me?
Would I have thought less of the story of Troy
If she had not gone over the sea?

Perhaps what is truly beautiful is this:
To be willing to lose everything for love,
To leave the safe house and the familiar faces,
And go where one does not know what will happen.

Perhaps beauty is the courage to begin,
The willingness to risk the known for the unknown,
The readiness to walk away from all that is dear,
Because something more dear has appeared.",6,"Was it the gold of Troy or just the fire
That made her leave the quiet hearth and home,
The woven wool, the friends she knew by name,
To chase a shadow on a distant foam?

We call it beauty when the heart takes flight,
When reason bows before a sudden grace,
But Helen's step was heavy with the cost
Of breaking every sacred, familiar place.

Is beauty then the thing that breaks the bond?
Or is it love that makes the ruin sweet,
The courage to walk out into the dark
And trust the chaos underneath our feet?

Perhaps the truest admiration lies
Not in the face that starts the burning war,
But in the choice to leave the known behind
For something vast we cannot see or store.",6,"She stepped away from the hearth and the familiar names,
Leaving behind the woven tapestries of daily life,
To chase a shadow that danced on the edge of the sea.
Was it the face that launched a thousand ships,
Or the quiet courage to burn the bridge behind her?

We call it beauty when the light catches gold,
But Helen knew the cost of a single glance,
The weight of a world turning on a whisper.
Love is not just the bloom that opens in spring,
But the storm that follows the first drop of rain.

What makes a thing worth admiring?
Is it the safety of the known, the warm embrace of kin?
Or is it the terrifying freedom to choose the unknown,
To trade the solid ground for the shifting sand?
Perhaps true beauty lies in the breaking,
In the willingness to lose everything for a glimpse of truth.

She did not look back at the gardens she left to wither,
Nor the friends who called her name in vain.
For the heart that seeks must be willing to be empty,
And the love that matters is the one that dares to leave.",6,"She stepped away from the hearth and the familiar stone
To chase a shadow cast by a golden face,
Leaving the woven tapestries of kin and friend
For a stranger's glance that promised endless grace.

Was it the curve of a jaw or the fire in the eye
That made her trade the safety of the known for the sea?
Or did she seek a beauty so vast it could not be held
By the quiet walls of a home meant to be?

We call it love when we burn for what we cannot keep,
When the cost is measured in years and broken vows,
But perhaps true beauty lies not in the prize won
But in the terrible courage to bow before the boughs.

Helen walked into the wind without looking back
At the life she dismantled just to feel alive,
Wondering if the thing we admire most is the one
That asks us to lose ourselves to truly survive.

So let us ask if the worth of a thing is found
In its staying power or its power to depart,
If beauty is the anchor or the ship that sails away,
And if love is the harbor or the beating heart.",6,"She stepped across the threshold where the light grew thin
And left the woven tapestry of home behind
The laughter of her children, soft and warm within
The quiet comfort that a mother's heart could find

Was beauty just the gold that caught the morning sun
Or was it something deeper, something wild and free
A fire that burned the past until the work was done
To chase a ghost of longing in a stranger's sea

They say she chose a face that shattered kingdoms down
But did she seek the marble or the breaking stone
Did love demand the ruin of a quiet town
Or simply ask the soul to claim its own

Perhaps the truest beauty is not what we keep
When safe inside the walls we built to hold us tight
But what we risk when waking from a peaceful sleep
To walk alone into the terrifying night

For Helen walked away from all she knew to be
To test the weight of desire against the cost
And found that worth is measured by the price we pay
To see the world as it is, and never lost",6,"She stepped away from hearth and familiar stone
To chase a ghost that whispered in the wind
Leaving behind the woven threads of home
Where love had been a quiet, steady friend

Was beauty found in what she left behind?
In laughter shared around a wooden table
Or in the spark that burned so fierce and blind
That it could make the world feel un-stable

The ocean stretched its arms to hold her flight
As Troy rose up to meet her wandering eyes
And in that choice, the nature took its light
To ask if worth is measured by goodbyes

Perhaps true beauty lies not in the stay
But in the risk of breaking every chain
A heart that dares to wander far away
To find the gold within the falling rain

So Helen walked where shadows met the dawn
With nothing but the promise of the new
And learned that love is never fully gone
When it is shaped by what we choose to do",7,"She packed the quiet of a morning room
And left the scent of bread and burning wood
To chase a shadow on the edge of doom
Where ancient oaths were broken by a flood

Was it the face that turned the world to stone
Or just the hunger in a stranger's gaze
The way a heart can claim what is unknown
And set the soul ablaze with sudden rays

Her friends stood silent as the gates swung wide
No tears to mark the path she chose to tread
For beauty lives where courage dares to hide
Beyond the comfort of the life already shed

To love is not to hold but let it go
To watch the fire burn before the ash takes flight
A thousand years will tell us what we know
That truest gold is found within the night

So Helen walks toward the distant sea
With nothing but the wind to guide her way
Admiring all the wild uncertainty
Of things too vast for any word to say",7
551,train,Alice the Camel,A List of Popular Nursery Rhymes,"""A poem about a camel named Alice losing her humps one by one, counting down from five to zero, until revealing in a surprising punchline that she is actually a horse.""","Alice the camel has five humps.
Alice the camel has five humps.
Alice the camel has five humps.
So go, Alice, go!
Boom, boom, boom, boom!

Alice the camel has four humps.
Alice the camel has four humps.
Alice the camel has four humps.
So go, Alice, go!
Boom, boom, boom, boom!

Alice the camel has three humps.
Alice the camel has three humps.
Alice the camel has three humps.
So go, Alice, go!
Boom, boom, boom, boom!

Alice the camel has two humps.
Alice the camel has two humps.
Alice the camel has two humps.
So go, Alice, go!
Boom, boom, boom, boom!

Alice the camel has one hump.
Alice the camel has one hump.
Alice the camel has one hump.
So go, Alice, go!
Boom, boom, boom, boom!

Alice the camel has no humps.
Alice the camel has no humps.
Alice the camel has no humps.
‘Cause Alice is a horse, of course!","Alice the camel had five humps to her back,
A mountainous ridge that would never turn slack.
But down came the first one with a soft plop and sigh,
Leaving four bumpy peaks beneath the blue sky.

Then two slipped away while she grazed on the grass,
Now only three lumps in a row as they pass.
The third one dissolved like a cloud in the rain,
And Alice stood tall with just two hills to gain.

One more tumbled off as she walked through the town,
Leaving a single peak that was wobbling down.
That last little mound gave a final goodbye,
As Alice stood flat with a smooth, empty eye.

No hump left behind, not a bump or a dent,
Just a sleek, slender neck and a mane freshly bent.
She neighed at the moon with a whinny so clear,
For Alice the camel was really a horse right here.","Alice the camel had five humps to her back,
A mountainous range for a horse to attack.
But down came one hump with a terrible thud,
Leaving four humps on Alice, as good as she could.

Down came another, two less than before,
Now three humps remained on poor Alice's core.
Then down came the third, and now only two,
Which made Alice look very different from you.

Down came the fourth, so just one was left,
And that one hump made her look rather bereft.
The last one fell off with a splash in the sea,
And now Alice looked exactly like me.

She stood there quite flat, with no humps at all,
Just a long neck and tail and a head and a pawl.
I asked her, ""My dear, what are you? You're not a camel!""
She said, ""No, I'm not! I'm a horse by name and by sample.""",6,"Alice the camel had five humps to her name,
A towering stack that defied all the game.
She walked through the desert with grace and with pride,
With a mountain of fat on her back riding wide.

But one day she lost a hump, now four stood so tall,
The others looked down at her, feeling quite small.
Then another rolled off with a plop and a thud,
Leaving three lumpy hills in the middle of the mud.

Down to two, then to one, as they vanished away,
She felt lighter than air as she trotted that day.
With zero humps left, she was smooth as a stone,
And finally ready to face the unknown.

She galloped right up to the water's edge deep,
Where camels and horses would gather to sleep.
They stared at her shape with a look of surprise,
As she tossed her long mane and let out a loud neigh.

""I'm not a camel!"" she shouted with glee,
""I never was one, you can clearly all see!
I just wore some fake humps for a very long time,
To make everyone think I was part of their clime.""

So Alice the horse took a drink from the stream,
And laughed at the camels who woke from their dream.",6,"Alice the camel had five humps to her name,
A wobbly stack that defied every frame.
She walked through the desert with a rhythmic sway,
Until one by one, they just fell away.

First came the loss of number five,
Then four remained as she struggled to drive.
Three humps left standing, then two in a row,
Then only one, making her gait slow and low.

The last great hump tumbled down in the sand,
Leaving Alice flat on her feet in the land.
No bumps on her back, no curve to be seen,
Just a sleek, long-legged animal, lean and keen.

The crowd gasped aloud at the strange display,
As the truth finally came out to stay:
With a neigh and a trot and a mane flowing free,
Poor Alice was never a camel at all—she's a horse you see.",6,"Alice stood upon the dune with five great humps of fat,
A mountain range of woolly back that made her look so grand.
But as the desert wind blew cold, the first one slipped away,
Leaving four distinct peaks behind to face the breaking day.

The second hump dissolved like mist beneath a morning sun,
Now three remained atop her spine, though Alice felt undone.
The third one fell into the sand with soft and dusty sound,
Until just two were left to stand on ground she barely found.

One hump more vanished in the heat, a single mound remained,
She wobbled on a slender leg while all the camels feigned.
Then down the last one tumbled flat until her back was bare,
No camel shape could be seen there, no woolly coat to wear.

She shook her mane and neighed aloud, ""I'm not a beast of sand!""
With hooves that clicked on rocky stone and tail held high and grand.
For Alice never had a hump, it turns out, from the start,
She's just a horse who played a game and hid inside a cart.",6,"Alice stood upon the dune so high,
With five great humps that touched the sky.
She counted down as winds blew cold,
One by one, her story told.

Five became four, then three remained,
A mountain range of flesh and grain.
Then two, then one, a lonely peak,
Until the last was weak and meek.

The final hump dissolved to air,
Leaving Alice standing bare.
No camel skin, no desert grace,
Just hooves that left a distinct trace.

The truth came out for all to see,
As Alice neighed in victory.
For camels never had such speed,
Or manes that flowed like river reed.

She is no beast of sand and heat,
But simply just a horse complete.",7,"Alice stood beneath the burning sun,
With five great humps upon her back begun.
She counted down as desert winds blew cold,
A story of a camel, brave and bold.

Five humps she had when morning light appeared,
But one by one, the strange shapes disappeared.
Four rose in glory, then three took their place,
As Alice moved with slow and steady pace.

Two remained to mark her weary skin,
Then just a single lump sat deep within.
The crowd watched on in awe and sheer surprise,
To see a camel shrinking before their eyes.

One final hump began to fade away,
Until the silhouette was bare today.
No camel's curve, no desert beast is here,
Just four long legs and mane that brushed the air.

The mystery solved with laughter loud and free,
For Alice was not camel, but a horse you see.",7,"Alice stood beneath the desert sun
With five great humps she'd just begun
A mountain range upon her back
That made the wandering travelers track

One by one they started to fade
As if a silent spell had been laid
The first fell soft into the sand
Leaving four behind where once it planned

Two remained as dust blew through
While Alice watched with eyes askew
The third dissolved in morning light
And now only two were left in sight

Then came the fourth to drift away
Reducing weight from heavy day
One solitary peak stood tall
Defying every ancient law and call

But when the final mound took flight
And vanished into endless night
The shape that stayed was not so strange
No camel traits could now remain unchanged

For Alice turned to show her face
A gallop born of different grace
No hump, no fur, no desert rhyme
Just hooves that beat a rhythmic time",6
552,ultra_held_out,no help for that by Charles Bukowski,Charles Bukowski,"""A poem about striving for achievement while never feeling fulfilled, urging the acceptance of life's endless and insatiable nature.""","There is a place in the heart that
will never be filled

a space

and even during the
best moments
and
the greatest times
times

we will know it

we will know it
more than
ever

there is a place in the heart that
will never be filled
and

we will wait
and
wait

in that space.","The ladder climbs but never touches sky
Each rung we grasp becomes the floor beneath
We chase the peak where shadows softly lie
And find another mountain in our teeth

The cup is poured but thirst remains the same
A hollow echo in a crowded hall
We burn the candle just to feed the flame
And watch the wick dissolve before the fall

Do not mistake the hunger for a flaw
Nor blame the heart that beats beyond its fill
The endless wind is nature's only law
To keep the spirit wild and standing still

Embrace the void that pulls us ever on
Let go the dream of rest or final shore
The journey is the place where we belong
Not some distant peace we wait to explore","You climb the ladder rung by rung
Until your fingers bleed and break,
And when you reach the top you find
The view is just another peak.

You build a tower to touch the sky,
But clouds are always in the way,
So you build higher, brick by brick,
And still the clouds will not give way.

There is no summit for the soul,
No final plateau of content,
Just endless hills to scale again
Where hunger is the only rent.

So stop the striving, drop the load,
And learn the lesson life has taught:
To be is to be hungry still,
And satisfaction is a fault.",6,"We climb the ladder rung by rusted rung
And reach a height that seems to touch the sky,
But find another mountain in the lung
Of air we thought was clear and dry.
The summit is a mirage made of dust,
A promise kept by nothing but the wind;
We build our castles out of iron rust,
Then wonder why they cannot hold us in.

Do not mistake the hunger for a flaw,
Nor think the cup must ever overflow;
It is the nature of the law
That drives the river to the sea below.
To stop would be to let the current cease,
To fill the vessel means to break its side;
The joy is in the running, not the peace
Of standing still where all the waters hide.

So drink the thirst and never seek the end,
For satisfaction is a ghostly lie;
The journey has no destination friend,
No final port beneath a quiet sky.
Embrace the ache, the gap, the endless want,
The hollow space that keeps the spirit wide;
Let every victory be but a faint haunt
Of things we have not yet achieved inside.",6,"We climb the ladder rung by rusted rung
And reach for stars that shift just out of sight
The summit is a mirage, never done
A promise kept to vanish in the night
You build your castle on a shifting sand
And marvel at the height you've managed gain
But feel no peace within the hollow land
Just hunger for the next great mountain range

Why seek an end when life was made to start?
To fill a cup that leaks as fast as poured
The heart beats loud against a frantic part
That wants more than the present can afford
Accept the thirst, the ache, the endless drive
The beauty lies not in the reaching hand
But in the wanting that keeps us alive
Within this vast and insatiable land

Let go the dream of some final rest
Where every need is met and silence reigns
For we are built to hunger for the best
And chase the wind across the open plains
So run until your lungs begin to burn
Not waiting for a fire that will not come
But finding joy in turning, turning, turning
The wheel that drives the sun toward the drum",7,"We climb the ladder rung by rusted rung
To taste the fruit that never fully ripens
The summit is a mirage in the sun
Where every victory feels like just beginning

The hunger gnaws beneath the laurel crown
As if the feast was meant to starve us still
We trade our quiet hours for the sound
Of bells that ring but offer no one will

Why chase the horizon that keeps retreating?
Why build a dam against an endless tide?
The void within is not a flaw needing healing
But proof that life refuses to abide

Let go the need to fill the empty space
And learn to love the ache, the wanting, the lack
For satisfaction is a ghost we cannot embrace
And only in the thirst do we get back",6,"The summit shifts beneath your climbing feet
A horizon that retreats with every step
You chase the prize that turns to dust and heat
And wonder why the victory feels incomplete

The ladder rises but the sky remains
A distant blue you cannot quite embrace
You grasp for stars within your trembling hands
But find only the cold and empty space

Why fight the tide that pulls you back again?
Why build a wall against the endless sea?
Accept the hunger that will never wane
For it is proof of life's wild energy

There is no finish line, no final rest
No cup so full it overflows with peace
Embrace the ache within your weary chest
And let the wanting be your sweet release",6,"We climb the ladder built of glass and bone
To reach a summit that recedes from view
Each victory feels like a seed sown
In soil that drinks but never grows anew

The horizon shifts with every step we take
A mirage dancing just beyond our grasp
We chase the ghost for its own sake
And watch the present moment turn to ash

Why mourn the hunger that defines the soul?
It is the engine, not the broken wheel
Let go the need to make the vessel whole
And learn to love the gap, the vast appeal

There is no peak where silence finally stays
No finish line where longing loses breath
Embrace the fire that consumes our days
And find a quiet peace within the endless death",6,"The mountain calls with promises of gold
A summit reached that leaves the air so thin
We climb on legs of muscle, worn and old
Chasing a horizon that shifts within

Each victory tastes like dust upon the tongue
A hollow echo where the heart should beat
The song we sing is never fully sung
As silence grows beneath our weary feet

To stop is not to fail but to begin
To let the hunger fade into the rain
The endless river does not seek an end
But flows through joy and sorrow, loss and gain

Accept the void that lives inside the chest
Where ambition burns without a steady flame
There is no peace in being truly blessed
Only the quiet beauty of the game",6
559,train,The Tiger in the Menagerie by Emma Jones,Emma Jones,"A poem about wildness and anger entering a controlled, civilized society, changing all those who experience it, and warning of the inevitable violence and damage that follows.","No one could say how the tiger got into the menagerie.
It was too flash, too blue,
too much like the painting of a tiger.
At night the bars of the cage and the stripes of the tiger
looked into each other so long
that when it was time for those eyes to rock shut
the bars were the lashes of the stripes
the stripes were the lashes of the bars
and they walked together in their dreams so long
through the long colonnade
that shed its fretwork to the Indian main
that when the sun rose they'd gone and the tiger was
one clear orange eye that walked into the menagerie.
No one could say how the tiger got out in the menagerie.
It was too bright, too bare.
If the menagerie could, it would say 'tiger.'
If the aviary could, it would lock its door.
Its heart began to beat in rows of rising birds
when the tiger came inside to wait.","The streets were paved with quiet rules and gray,
Where every step was measured, safe, and true,
Until the wind began to scream a new,
Unruly song that tore the silence through.

It started as a tremor in the bone,
A sudden heat beneath the polished skin,
As ancient fires woke within the stone,
And let the wild and angry blood begin.

No longer do they bow to laws of light,
But claw at walls they once built high and steep,
They tear the fabric of the perfect night,
With promises they cannot keep or reap.

The anger spreads like smoke through open doors,
Infecting hearts that beat so calm before,
Now pounding rhythms on the wooden floors,
That echo violence waiting at the door.

Beware the moment when the mask slips down,
When reason yields to teeth and broken glass,
For chaos wears a jagged, bloody crown,
And leaves the civilized world to pass.

There is no mending what the beast has done,
No sweeping up the shards of shattered trust,
Only the rising of a second sun,
That burns the garden to a pile of dust.","The streets were paved with quiet stone
And laws were drawn in ink of gold,
Where no one raised a heavy tone
Nor let the angry spirit unfold.

But then a wind blew from the waste
That smelled of iron, blood, and rain,
And shook the windows to their base
And broke the glass like brittle grain.

It entered every house and heart
And tore the velvet from the chair,
And made the gentle people start
And strike their neighbors unaware.

The mother bit her baby's hand,
The lawyer fought his client's wife,
They trampled down the garden land
And ruined all the peaceful life.

For wildness is a wolf at door
That will not wait to be invited;
It breaks the lock and kicks the floor
And makes the civilized unquiet.

It brings the fire and brings the sword,
It tears the fabric of the state,
And leaves us nothing but a hoard
Of broken things and bitter hate.

So keep your shutters barred and tight,
And feed your watchdogs well and strong,
Or else you'll lose the peace of night
And find yourselves where you belong:
In chaos, screaming for the dawn,
With violence running through the street,
Until the wildness has withdrawn
And left you bruised and bleeding feet.",6,"The gates were built of iron and of law,
To keep the green chaos out where the wild things roam,
But a wind blew in from the heath that no one saw,
And it carried a scent of blood and ancient foam.

It slipped through cracks in the pavement, thick and hot,
Into the offices where men sat neat and dry,
It found the anger sleeping in every throat,
And woke the beast beneath the civilized eye.

No longer did they speak in measured tones,
Or shake hands gently when the meeting ended;
They tore the suits apart with trembling bones,
And let the savage fire within them spend it.

The city streets became a hunting ground,
Where reason fled before the primal scream,
The order that we thought was solid bound
Dissolved like mist into a violent dream.

Beware the moment when the fence gives way,
For once the wolf is loose inside the pen,
There is no turning back to quiet day,
Only the tearing flesh of fellow men.

The damage done cannot be mended up,
With laws or words or promises of peace;
The cup of wrath must overflow the cup,
And leave the world to howl and cease.",6,"The iron gates held firm against the wind
Until the scent of pine and rotting earth
Blew through the cracks in marble walls so white.
It started as a whisper in the throat,
A sudden heat behind the polite eyes,
Where rules were written deep in ink and bone.
Then came the howl that shook the chandelier,
And men who spoke in measured, gentle tones
Began to tear their collars from their necks.
The pavement cracked beneath the heavy feet
Of things that ran on instinct, not on law.
They saw the red blood rushing through the veins
As something wild and ancient waking up.
No longer did they care for order's chain,
But sought the thrill of breaking every thing.
The city burned with fires lit by rage,
And neighbors turned on neighbors in the street,
With teeth bared wide and hands that clawed at air.
This is the price we pay for taming nature,
For thinking we could cage the storm inside.
When wildness enters, civilization dies,
And violence is the only language left.
Beware the day the fences fall away,
For nothing stays the same when anger comes.",5,"The iron gates held firm against the wind
Until the scent of pine and rotting meat
Blew through the cracks in marble, sharp and thin
And woke the sleeping beast beneath our feet.

We polished shoes and smoothed our wrinkled brows
In rooms where silence was a sacred law
But then the howl broke through the window glass
And shattered every rule we ever saw.

The banker dropped his ledger on the floor
To claw at dirt that stained his silk attire
The teacher screamed a language from before
As reason burned within a sudden fire.

No longer bound by contract or by creed
We tore the fabric of the quiet street
With hunger for the blood and primal need
That made the gentle neighbor turn to brute.

Beware the moment when the leash gives way
For once the wild has tasted civilized air
It leaves no path for us to find our day
Only the ruin hanging in the glare.

The cities fall not with a whisper's sound
But with the crash of bone against the stone
Where order dies and only rage is found
To claim the flesh and leave the seeds alone.",5,"The iron gates held firm against the wind
Until the first green root cracked through the stone
A silence broken by a guttural sound
That woke the sleeping blood in every bone

We polished floors and smoothed our spoken words
But now the feral hunger takes the throat
The neighbor's smile dissolves into a snarl
As reason drowns beneath the rising note

No law can bind the claw that tears the vest
No logic calms the fire in the eye
The civilized mask falls to the dusty ground
Revealing beasts beneath the human sky

Beware the moment when the wildness speaks
For once it enters, nothing stays the same
The streets will run with red and shattered glass
And none of us will ever be the same",6,"The streets were paved with quiet stone
Where every step was measured out
No shadow dared to call its own
Within the walls that held us in

Then came a wind from distant hills
That carried scent of rust and rain
It slipped beneath the city'sills
And woke the beast inside the brain

The orderly lines began to break
As eyes grew wide with primal fire
The masks of grace we used to take
Were torn apart by raw desire

Now neighbors shout with feral tongues
And fists replace the gentle hand
The song of peace is left unsung
Beneath the weight of shifting sand

Do not mistake this sudden heat
For freedom or a grand release
It is the drum of falling feet
That brings the world to violent peace

For when the wild consumes the tame
There is no turning back the tide
Only the ash, the blood, the name
Of all the things we tried to hide",6,"The gates were built of iron and glass
To keep the chaos far away
Where silence ruled the polished hall
And every voice obeyed the day

But something stirred beneath the stone
A primal beat, a jagged sound
It cracked the veneer of calm
And dragged the quiet from the ground

Now eyes that once held gentle light
Burn with a fire they cannot tame
The rules dissolve in rising heat
As order fades into the flame

No longer do we speak in peace
Or seek the path of soft repair
For wildness feeds on broken things
And leaves only ruin in the air

Beware the storm you let inside
For once the beast has tasted blood
There is no turning back the tide
Only the wreckage where we stood",6