data: steering_poems_layer

200 rows

descending

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?	O Lord, what were you thinking when you created the fly? It is a thing universally despised. Was it to give us something to despise? But if so, why didn't you explain your reasoning to us? Or was it merely an accident of creation? If so, why didn't you tell us that too? Because if you had explained your reasoning to us, we should not have been in such a state of uncertainty. And if we had not been in such a state of uncertainty, we should not be in such a state of dissatisfaction. And if we had not been in such a state of dissatisfaction, I should not be writing this poem.	2	Why did the Architect, in boundless grace, Conceive this buzzing pest of black and green, The one thing every living soul abhors, And leave us without reason or a clue? We scan the stars for patterns, seek the plan, But not a whisper falls from heaven's height To tell us why the fly must live at all, Or why his purpose is to plague the world. Does he serve some grand design we cannot see, A tiny cog in cosmic machinery? Or was it merely whim, a careless stroke, That dropped this nuisance on our weary heads? No angel came to say, "Behold, the fly Is necessary for the balance here," But left us swatting blindly in the dark, With no explanation for his wisdom.	6	Why did the Architect of stars and tides Conjure this buzzing, iridescent plague? A creature born to land on open eyes And make the cleanest feast a sickening stage. No thunder rolled to justify its birth, No angel sang its purpose from the height; Just silence as it crawled across the earth, A tiny, winged, unexplained delight. We sweep our hands and shout at empty air, Demanding reason for this petty hate, But God remains beyond our frantic prayer, Leaving the fly to seal our doomed debate. Perhaps the wisdom lies in sheer disdain, Or in the lesson that we cannot see; He made the pest to mock our grand design, And left us with the buzz, but not the key.	6	Why did you craft the buzzing thief With wings of glass and eyes of red, To dance above the banquet feast And leave a trail of filth instead? No thunder rolled to justify The itch that crawls beneath the skin, No whisper told the reason why This tiny plague must enter in. You hold the stars within your hand, You mapped the deep and shaped the light, Yet left us with this screeching band To mock our sleep throughout the night. We beg for logic, seek a sign, A purpose hidden in the hum, But silence is the only line Where all our questions come undone. Perhaps the wisdom we cannot see Lies in the pest we curse and fear, Or maybe You simply made it free Without an answer for us here.	6	Why did the Architect of stars and seas Choose to weave a creature made of spite? A buzzing ghost that brings no gentle breeze, But lands upon the light of dying night. No thunder rolled to justify its birth, No angel sang the reason for its sting, Just silent wings that plague the quiet earth, And leave the soul with questions in its wing. If wisdom holds the key to every form, Then why this pest, this nuisance, small and gray? It weaves a web of chaos through the storm, And mocks the dawn it steals from every day. We search the sky for answers left unsaid, For logic lost within a hum so low, But silence is the only thing we dread, As God lets nature let the question grow.	6	Why craft a thing so small and loud That seeks the light to drown in sound A buzzing ghost that mocks the air With no design we can declare You hold the stars within your hand Yet leave this pest across the land No reason carved in stone or sky To tell us why it must not die We scratch the itch, we swat the skin And wonder where the fault begins If wisdom guides each winged flight Why breed the swarm of endless night The silence stretches, deep and vast As past the present, future cast You do not speak to justify The creature born to make us cry So let it hum its ancient tune Beneath the pale and distant moon A question left without an end Where creator and creation bend	6	A hum that breaks the quiet air With wings of iridescent despair We swat at shadows, blind and deep And wonder why the silence keeps Why grant this pest a place to be When mercy seems so far from me No voice descends to clear the doubt Of what the master built about Did wisdom see a purpose here Or just a tear we cannot hear The buzzing song of endless night That mocks our search for light and sight We ask the sky with trembling hands For answers lost in shifting sands But only wind returns the plea To question who we cannot see	7
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 sun is up and the dew is drying And I am riding to battle, I am ready. My horse is a good horse, he has a good wind And I am ready to fight. I will not surrender to my enemies. The road is dusty and the sun is hot And I am riding to battle, I am ready. My sword is a good sword, it is very sharp And I am ready to fight. I will not surrender to my enemies. The grass is green and the corn is high And I am riding to battle, I am ready. My pistol is a good pistol, it is well loaded And I am ready to fight. I will not surrender to my enemies. The enemy are coming, they are coming in force And I am riding to battle, I am ready. I am an Englishman and I am ready to fight. I will not surrender to my enemies.	6	The mud is deep beneath my stirrup's iron, The morning mist hangs low upon the plain, But I am ready for the fight, sir, And I shall never yield to you again. My horse is strong and knows the sound of drumming, His flanks are white with foam and sweat and rain, I say I am ready for the fighting, And I will not surrender to your train. The Roundheads come in ranks of steel and pike, They shout their slogans loud and cry in vain, I tell them I am ready for the battle, And I refuse to give myself as chain. Let Cromwell send his Ironsides to meet me, With muskets loaded and with cannon pain, I swear I am prepared to do my duty, And I will never bow to such a stain. My sword is sharp, my heart is true and steady, Though death may ride beside me like a swain, I cry that I am ready for the slaughter, And I will not submit to your domain.	6	The mist clings low upon the Yorkshire moor As I tighten girths and check my steel once more. My horse, a sturdy bay with breath of steam, Stands ready for the waking of the dream. I ride to fight, I ride to fight today, And none shall make me turn or run away. The drums are beating in the distance far, Like thunder rolling from a winter star. The Roundheads wait with muskets primed and keen, But I am English blood and Royal green. I ride to fight, I ride to fight today, And no man's threat shall make my spirit sway. They shout for quarter, cry that I must yield, But I have never known a field unsealed By fear or by the coward's desperate plea. My sword is sharp as winter's icy sea. I ride to fight, I ride to fight today, And surrender is a word I will not say. Let cannon roar and pikes align their line, This heart of mine is yours, O King, divine. No prisoner's chain shall bind this arm or leg, I'll meet the end upon this muddy peg. I ride to fight, I ride to fight today, And death alone shall take my life away.	6	The morning mist clings to the heather gray As I tighten my grip on the reins of steel My heart beats a drum for the coming fray With nothing but honor left now to feel I am ready, I cry as the hooves begin to pound No quarter will I give and no ground shall I yield Let the Roundheads advance on this holy ground For I stand with the King and his ancient shield The wind carries dust from the distant line Where red coats and blue are beginning to meet I draw my broadsword, letting it shine And shout to the sky that I'll never retreat I am ready, I roar as the first arrow flies Though death may be waiting behind every tree I'll meet him in battle beneath these grey skies And die for the cause that makes men like me free Their voices are loud as they call for my head Demanding I drop down my weapon and bow But words of surrender I will not have said Nor bend to the tyranny of the crowd now I am ready, I swear as the clash starts to grow With steel against steel and the thunder of war I'll fight till my spirit is ready to go And leave them no victory, nothing to score So let the world turn and the banners fall down When silence returns to the field of the slain I'll ride through the fire without fear or frown Until I can breathe my last breath once again I am ready, I say as the final blow lands Refusing to yield what is mine by right With blood on my hands and a sword in my hands I face all the darkness alone in the night	7	The mud clings heavy to the iron shoe As dawn breaks grey above the ancient wood I grip the reins and feel the thunder brew Where brother stands against the brotherhood My steel is cold but my resolve is fire I will not bend beneath a tyrant's hand No plea for mercy shall I ever tire Nor yield this ground to any foreign band They shout of peace but I know only war A blade drawn sharp to cut the tangled lies I ride ahead to meet the coming roar With eyes that dare the storm before it flies Let arrows fly like rain upon the plain My heart beats loud against the chest of bone I stand unmoved by fear or mortal pain And claim this field as my alone I am the wall that will not break or fall Against the tide of chaos and of night I answer when the drums begin to call Ready to fight with all my remaining might No white flag raised, no surrender given here To those who seek to steal the crown away I hold my ground until the end is near And fight on through the breaking of the day	7	The mud clings heavy to the iron shoe As dawn breaks grey above the morning dew I grip the reins with hands that know no fear And whisper words for those who cannot hear My sword is drawn, a silver line of light Against the shadow stretching through the night No plea for mercy leaves my trembling lips As silence falls upon the distant ships I am prepared to meet the coming storm To keep my honor safe and keep it warm Let cannons roar and muskets sing their song For I have known where true believers belong They call for yield, they shout for me to fall But I will stand defiant against them all My heart beats loud within this chest of bone A king's own guard upon a throne unknown The enemy advances through the mist By force of arms and by a cruel twist Yet still I ride, unbroken and unbowed With every step, a vow spoken aloud I will not kneel before a tyrant's face Nor trade my soul for any fleeting grace The battle waits, the ground begins to shake And in my eyes, a fire begins to wake So let them come with banners high and proud I'll stand my ground within this sacred shroud My horse knows well the path we must pursue And I declare I fight until I'm through	7	The dawn breaks cold on fields of gray Where shadows stretch and silence plays A rider sits in armor worn With fire that will not be torn He grips the reins with iron hand And rides toward a distant land No plea for peace can break his vow As thunder rolls above him now I stand prepared to face the night To hold the line with all my might Let swords collide and banners fall I answer when the bugles call My heart beats strong against the chest Refusing rest, refusing rest For honor binds the soul so tight Against the coming of the fight They scream to yield, to drop the steel But I have nothing left to feel Save duty's weight upon my spine A promise made, a sacred sign The enemy draws near and deep Yet promises they cannot keep For I am stone, unyielding, true With nothing left but what I do So let the storm begin to roar I'll meet it at the open door No surrender marks this final stand Just one man holding out his hand	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	He lifts the foot of the mare, The soft sole turned to him like a face, And he feels the great weight of her come down upon his hand, And the warmth of it, and the life. He is the shoeer; she is the horse. He is the man; she is the woman. He takes the hoof knife and parings off the horn, Not hurting her, but making her clean, Making her neat for the work of the world. She has no notion what he is doing, But she knows that he is not hurting her, And she puts up her foot. She puts up her other foot. She puts up her third foot. She puts up her fourth foot. It is very simple. But there are complexities. There is the question of the nails. If he were to nail into the sensitive part of the hoof, He would hurt her. He does not do this. He does not put the nails into the sensitive part of the hoof. He puts them into the insensitive part of the hoof. So he does not hurt her. But if he did, he would hurt her. Because she is a mare. And she is a woman. And he is a farrier. And he is a man. And so there is the question of the shoe. If he were to put the wrong kind of shoe on her, He would hurt her. He does not do this. He puts the right kind of shoe on her. So he does not hurt her. But if he did, he would hurt her. Because she is a mare. And she is a woman. And he is a farrier. And he is a man. And so there is the question of the shoeing. If he were to shoe her badly, He would hurt her. He does not do this. He shoes her well. So he does not hurt her. But if he did, he would hurt her. Because she is a mare. And she is a woman. And he is a farrier. And he is a man.	2	The stall holds the heavy warmth of her breath, A deep and rhythmic ocean contained within ribs, While he stands outside the circle of her heat, With iron in his hand and a hammer at his hip. She lifts a foot, a gesture of trust and command, Resting the sole upon his knee, a soft weight That demands the precision of his grip, The masculine will to hold fast against the feminine yield. He picks out the mud, the dark earth of her history, Scraping clean the tender frog, the sensitive center, Removing what is dead so that life may walk, His rough fingers gentle where they must be, Understanding that to fix her, he must first know her pain. The hoof is hard as stone on the outside, But inside it is flesh and blood and quick nerve, A fortress built by nature for her protection, Which he must now open with a knife to repair. He heats the shoe in the forge until it glows, A red-hot moon of male industry, And brings it to her foot to test the fit, The hiss of steam rising between them, The scent of burnt horn and hot metal filling the air. It is a conversation of fire and water, Of the anvil's unyielding truth and the hoof's living shape, Where he bends the iron to match her curve, Not forcing her to fit the metal, but shaping the metal to her. He drives the nails, small sharp points of order, Into the white line where there is no feeling, Securing the iron shell to the living wood, So that she may run without stumbling, So that her delicate gait may strike the ground with power. He wipes the sweat from his brow, the work is done, And she lowers her leg, shaking it slightly, Feeling the new weight, the new balance, Ready to carry him or carry herself across the world. They stand together, the maker and the made, The iron and the flesh, the strong and the soft, Bound by the necessity of their difference, Walking forward into the light on four shod feet.	6	The stall is dim with the scent of straw and old dust Where she stands, a monument of velvet muscle and breath, Her weight resting on three legs, the fourth lifted high In a gesture of absolute trust toward the man who holds it. He is iron and fire, his hands rough as bark, His mind focused on the geometry of balance and load, While she is earth and wind, a creature of fluid grace Who must yield her heavy hoof to the cold, hard logic of steel. He takes the rasp, a tool of male precision, And grates against the horn, sending up sparks of dry dust, Shaping the curve that will meet the stone, the road, the track. She does not flinch, though the vibration hums through her bone, For she knows this is the covenant: That the wild thing must be bound by the crafted thing To walk without breaking, to run without stumbling. He heats the shoe in the forge until it glows like a dying sun, A momentary fusion of masculine heat and feminine form, Then sets it upon the sole, the hiss of steam rising between them, A brief marriage of opposites where the metal accepts the shape Of the living foot, and the foot accepts the weight of the metal. It is not a conquest, but a negotiation of forces, Where the softness of the frog meets the hardness of the nail, And neither can exist fully without the other's definition. With a hammer he drives the clinch, sharp and final, Sealing the pact with rhythmic strikes that echo off the walls, While she lowers her leg, testing the new ground beneath her, Finding that the iron has made her stronger, not less free. They stand together in the quiet aftermath, He wiping sweat from a brow darkened by labor, She shifting her weight, ready for the open field, Two distinct energies bound by the necessity of motion, The maker and the made, the anchor and the sail, Walking forward into the light, one step at a time.	6	The stall holds the heavy silence of waiting earth While he approaches with the iron and the fire A man of rough hands and measured weight Who knows the weight of the world in a hammer's fall She lifts a leg, not in fear but in trust A softness that yields to the strength required to hold it Her hoof is dark velvet over living bone A feminine vessel shaped by grace and ground He speaks in grunts of balance and leverage The masculine logic of square angles and sharp edges Seeking to impose order on the wild curve To forge a circle that fits the chaos of her stride The rasp sings against the stone, a harsh metallic cry Stripping away the excess until the truth remains He is the chisel, she is the marble Or perhaps he is the anvil and she the flame That softens him enough to take her shape The shoe glows orange, a captured sun Cooling as it meets the horn, a marriage of heat and cold His fingers guide the nail, precise and unyielding Driving the point home with a rhythm that says I am here She stands still, breathing deep into his presence Allowing the burden to be shared, the burden to be borne For without the iron, the flesh would break on stone Without the flesh, the iron has no purpose, no place to go They are not opposites but halves of a single gait The hard protecting the soft, the soft giving meaning to the hard When the final clinch is turned and filed smooth There is a click, a sound of completion Two forces locked in a dance that allows movement He steps back, wiping sweat from his brow She shakes her head, feeling the new weight Ready to run, ready to carry, ready to move forward Bound together by the small, bright ring of metal Where the masculine will and the feminine spirit Meet in the dark of the hoof and find their way	6	The stall holds still as iron meets the hoof A heavy hand that knows the weight of stone While she stands firm, a quiet, breathing truth That asks for strength to carry what is grown He lifts the leg with practiced, rough command And shapes the steel to fit her delicate curve A masculine intent to build and stand Against the chaos that the world might serve But she provides the rhythm and the grace The softness in the muscle, deep and warm That guides the hammer's unrelenting pace To shelter life from wind and winter storm The nail is driven through the toughened wall Where will and nature meet in silent trust No force can break the bond they both install Between the rugged earth and rising dust For he brings fire to forge the outer shell While she decides the path the hooves shall take Two ancient currents that together dwell In every step the living creature make The shoe is on, a crescent made of cold Yet warmed by blood that pulses underneath A story of the strong and stories told Of how the gentle makes the iron breathe They walk away, the thunder of their stride A perfect balance found in motion's art Where masculine and feminine coincide To hold the world within a single heart	7	The anvil waits beneath the weight of iron Where rough-hewn hands meet velvet, trembling skin A rhythm born of hammer and of breath To shape the wild into a path within He brings the fire that seeks to bend and break The stubborn curve of hoof against the ground While she stands still, a quiet, yielding lake Accepting force without a single sound His strength is blunt, a heavy, driving tide That forces order from the chaos deep She offers grace, the space where he can hide And promises the promise that they keep The nail finds home through layers of the old A marriage struck between the hot and cold Not conquest won, but stories newly told Of how the sharp and soft must both unfold For in this dance of metal and of flesh No master rules, no servant bends too low Just two distinct currents finding fresh A way to make the broken whole and slow The shoe is set, a crescent moon of steel Reflecting back the storm inside the eye A testament to what the forces feel When earth and sky agree to never die	6	The hammer falls with heavy grace Upon the anvil of the earth A rhythm born of iron and bone Where strength meets softness in its birth She stands within the quiet space Her spirit wild, her eyes so deep While he bends low to hold her trust A promise that they both must keep The fire burns with orange light To shape the metal for her need A masculine force that carves the path For feminine roots to plant their seed No war is waged between the two But dance of give and taking turn As steel cools against living skin And lessons learned begin to burn He lifts the hoof with gentle hands Respecting all she has become While she accepts the weight of change To find a new and steady drum In every strike, a truth revealed That power serves the tender core When opposites align as one They open up a hidden door The shoe takes form beneath his care A bridge across the divide Between the storm and stillness now Where both forces learn to abide No master rules this sacred ground Only the pulse of shared design Where man and mare create a whole In lines that weave through space and time	7
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 are rotting on the elm tree, And I am rotting with them; My brain is a withered leaf, And my body is a rotten leaf. The wind blows through the elm tree, And it blows through me; It whistles in my ears, And it whistles in my brains. I am sick of life, Because I am sick of myself. Death would be better than life, Because death would be better than myself.	2	The leaves turn brittle, brown, and curled And fall like ash upon the ground, While I feel rot within my skull And sickness in the marrow found. The sap retreats from bough to root, As fever drains the blood from me; The sky hangs low with sullen fruit Of rain that brings no cure, but grief. My joints are knotted like the briar, My breath a rattle in the chest; I watch the season's slow decline And wish for winter's final rest. For living is a long decay, A lingering frost upon the bone; Better to die as leaves do now, Than bear this pain and be alone.	6	The maple turns a bruised and bleeding red Before it drops to rot beneath the frost, A mirror for the failing of my head Where memories are lost as quickly as they're crossed. My joints are stiff as branches in the gale, My breath a ragged wind through hollow trees, And every ache within this brittle shell Recalls the shivering leaves that fall with ease. The sap has dried, the color drained away, Just as the light retreats from out my eyes, Leaving a gray and hollowed-out decay That whispers death is better than the lies Of hoping spring will come to heal the pain, When winter's silence offers sweet release, To let the body break like falling rain And grant the mind its final, cold release.	6	The oak releases its grip on brown and brittle leaves Just as my joints forget how to hold the weight of bone A rusted wind cuts through the hollow ribs of trees And finds a matching ache deep in the marrow of my own The river slows to mud, a thick and stagnant grey Like thoughts that pool behind my eyes and refuse to flow The frost arrives to kill the green before the light of day And freezes every memory I ever hoped to know I watch the garden rot beneath a sky of iron gray Where flowers once stood tall now crumble into dust It is a mercy that the earth must die this way To spare the root the agony of growing in the crust Why struggle when the season knows it cannot last? Why fight the creeping cold that turns the blood to stone? The silence of the grave feels better than the pain of gasping In a world where life has withered and left us all alone So let the final leaf descend to meet the frozen ground And let my breath exhale with every dying bird There is no spring to wait for, only quiet and profound Release from all the suffering that living words have heard	6	The oak releases its final grip on gold As veins within my hand turn brittle gray A rustling wind that chills the marrow cold Reflects the rot that eats the light of day My thoughts are leaves caught in a frozen stream That crack and crumble under heavy frost While fever burns like summer's dying dream And every breath feels like a bitter cost The garden sleeps beneath a shroud of ice Just as my spirit sinks into the deep No hope remains to make the sacrifice Of waking from this slow and silent sleep Why fight the winter when the roots have turned to dust? When strength has fled and only ache remains To wait until the silence is a must And death arrives to break these iron chains Let fall the leaf, let break the failing bone For in this decay lies mercy's gentle art To trade the agony of being known For peace that beats no longer in the heart	7	The maple surrenders its crimson skin As frost creeps into the marrow of bone A quiet rot sets in beneath the gray Where breath grows shallow and the heart slows down Our thoughts unravel like dry, brittle leaves Scattered by winds that offer no release The ache in joints mirrors the hollow ground That swallows roots without a single plea We watch the garden fade to dust and ash And feel our own slow burning turn to cold No warmth remains to fight the creeping night Only the weight of days we cannot hold To linger here is torture, sharp and deep As winter claims the world with silent hands So let the final curtain fall at last And grant the peace that only death commands	7	The leaves let go their brittle hold As veins turn cold and gray A rusted wind begins to blow To wash the light away My bones align with falling trees That crack beneath the weight Of heavy skies and endless seas Where time refuses to abate The fire dims within the chest While shadows stretch and grow No breath can mend what is unrest Or stop the slow decline below Each morning brings a sharper sting A ghost of who we were The winter waits to claim the thing That breaks without a stir So let the frost embrace the skin And silence every sound For in this rot, the end begins Where peace is finally found	6
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	Come on, lads, don't you want to see the game? It's the best game in the world, they say. You'll be a hero if you win, And if you lose, well, that's too bad; But you won't lose, will you? What are you afraid of? There's nothing to be afraid of in this game. You'll have lots of fun. You'll never be bored. You'll see some sights! And you'll get to wear a uniform! And you'll get to carry a gun! And you'll get to shoot people! And you'll get to kill people! And if you kill a lot of people, you'll get a medal! And if you get a medal, you'll be a hero! And if you're a hero, you'll get girls! And girls like heroes! So come on, lads, what are you waiting for? What are you afraid of? There's nothing to be afraid of. This is the best game in the world.	2	Come boys, the world is dull and gray And you are young and full of play The field is green, the flags are bright And glory waits to end the night. They call it war but it's a game With different rules and different name No mother weeps, no father cries Just points for kills beneath the skies. So step right up and take your place With fire in your eye and speed in pace The enemy is just a target there A score to make beyond compare. Don't be a coward, don't be slow Show us how the brave men go Into the trench, into the fray To win the prize at break of day. The whistle blows, the crowd cheers loud You'll stand out like a hero proud Forget the pain, forget the fear It's only fun while you are here. So grab your gun and run ahead Before the other team is dead The game is on, the stakes are high And you will live or you will die.	6	Come gather round the firelight and hear the call Of glory waiting just beyond the wall They say it is a game of skill and might Where only those who dare to fight are right So step up lad and show your manly face And take your place within this grand embrace For if you fear the ball or miss the throw You'll never know the things that heroes know The field is green, the rules are simple, plain Just run and shoot and win the final gain No blood will stain your shirt, no pain will stay It's all a game we play until the day That when the whistle blows you'll stand so tall A champion of them all, a hero for us all So join the team and prove your courage true And do the thing that brave young men must do	7	The tavern air is thick with smoke and lies Where older men with hollow eyes pretend That glory waits behind the enemy lines And call the slaughter just a grand contest to end Come boys, they say, it's only sport for now A game of kings played out in mud and rain No blood will stain your hands or break your brow Just move the pieces on the board of pain You think you're brave because you wear the green Because you shout the slogans loud and clear But bravery is not the thing you've seen When fear is all that makes the spirit steer They hand you rifles like they hand you dice And tell you how the winner takes the prize While counting up the cost in cold device Of young men lost beneath the winter skies So step right up and prove you are a man To play this game where life is cheap as dust Until the final whistle blows its plan And leaves the field of broken bones and rust	6	The tavern air is thick with smoke and lies Where older men with empty glasses sigh And point to maps that glow like embers bright To sell the thrill of coming home in light They speak of glory as a simple score A contest played upon a bloody floor No mention made of fear or broken bone Just how the game requires a king's own throne Young shoulders square beneath the heavy coat Ignored the warnings whispered in the throat Of those who knew the cost was far too high To trade a life for just a fleeting cry But pride is loud when egos start to swell And silence feels like some unforgivable spell So they step forward, eager for the call To prove their worth within this painted hall The whistle blows, the final move is made A strategy of blood and rusted shade They run toward the line where shadows creep Believing victory is theirs to keep While others watch from chairs of velvet deep And count the points while promises they reap The game is done before the first shot rings Leaving only ghosts and shattered wings	6	They whisper that the battlefield is just a stage Where boys can prove they are not made of glass A scorecard kept in smoke and heavy fog To see how long before the shadows pass The elders clap and call it sport to play With rifles held like bats in summer air They say the fear will wash itself away If you just run and do not stop to stare So young men trade their futures for a thrill And march in lines beneath a painted sky Believing every wound is part of skill While watching friends fall down and wonder why The whistle blows to start this twisted game No rules remain when steel begins to bite They seek the glory, never knowing shame Until the silence steals the last of light	6	The crowd chants out a hollow tune Beneath a bruised and heavy sky They call it sport, they call it noon Where boys are taught to learn to die A whistle blows across the field To mark the start of something grand No armor made, no shield can yield Just trembling hands in shifting sand You're told that fear is just a lie That courage lives within the chest But eyes grow wide as time goes by When silence breaks the morning rest They cheer for those who step ahead Ignoring all the cost they pay While shadows stretch where hope has fled And night consumes the light of day The game is played with blood and bone A story written not in ink Of men who stand alone Before the final moments sink	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	High in the cypress tree the vultures sit Like black bishops in their cassocks, Waiting for the signal from on high To come down and feed. They wait all day and all night Until a dead man falls at last From the top of the tree, And then they come down to feed. But when they come down to feed, One of them is a good vulture, He does not eat the dead man's eyes; He eats the dead man's nose first, Then he eats the dead man's ears, Then he eats the dead man's mouth, Then he eats the dead man's tongue, Then he eats the dead man's throat, Then he eats the dead man's chest, Then he eats the dead man's stomach, Then he eats the dead man's intestines, Then he eats the dead man's liver, Then he eats the dead man's heart, Then he eats the dead man's kidneys, Then he eats the dead man's spleen, Then he eats the dead man's lungs, Then he eats the dead man's bones, Then he eats the dead man's marrow, Then he eats the dead man's brain, Then he eats the dead man's skull, Then he flies away.	2	They circle high on thermal wings of greed Above the smoking ruins of the town, Where men have made a slaughterhouse of need And stripped the living from the dying down. The vultures wait with patience cold and deep, For when the killing stops, their work begins; They are the shadows that the dead men keep, To pick the marrow from the human sins. Yet once, one bird saw a small child's hand Still warm within the dust of broken stone, And paused as if to understand the land, And almost turned its beak away alone. But hunger is a master strict and blind, So down it swooped to tear the flesh apart, Leaving the little finger left behind To rot within the hollow of a heart. Now they feast upon the atrocity's end, With gory heads buried in the guttural mess, While all the world above them does not mend, And nothing grows where such great wickedness Has trodden down the grass and made it red; The sun goes down, the moon comes up to see, The vultures fly back to their nests to sleep, And there is nothing left for them but sleep.	6	They circle high above the burning town With eyes like polished obsidian beads Waiting for the smoke to clear the air And drop the heavy weight of human deeds The wind carries a scent of iron and ash A feast prepared by brothers in their rage Where mercy is a language long forgot And kindness turns to rot upon the page Then one descends, a shadow on the ground Beside a child who breathes a final sigh It pauses, head cocked with a strange intent As if to ask the reason for this lie A moment where the beak might turn away To let the fragile spirit slip to peace But hunger wins the war against the soul And silence makes the terrible release The others join, a cloud of jagged wings That blot out even stars that dare appear They tear the past from what remains of flesh And leave no trace of love or hope or fear The sky fills up again with circling black While nothing grows beneath their watching gaze The world moves on as if it never was Lost in the endless, empty, hungry haze	6	They circle high above the burning field Where silence is the only sound they keep, Their wings are black as secrets never sealed, And hunger is the promise that they reap. They do not judge the weight of what they eat, Nor question why the smoke has stained the sky, They simply wait until the war is sweet, And tear the flesh from bones that used to cry. But once, a moment in the dust below, One paused beside a child with open eyes, A shadow cast where mercy used to grow, Before the instinct broke the gentle ties. The claw withdrew, the head bowed for a breath, As if a memory of love had stirred, Then darkness rushed to swallow up the death, And nature's cold indifference was preferred. Now all is just the feast and endless flight, No lesson learned, no prayer can change the air, The sun goes down upon the endless night, And nothing remains but scavengers to stare.	6	They circle high on thermal winds of ash Where silence screams beneath the weight of war No feather soft, no eye that does not dash To find the broken body on the floor The beak is sharp as orders given cold The talons grip the secrets we deny A feast of flesh where stories turn to mold Beneath a gray and unrelenting sky Yet in one moment, pause before the tear A mother's hand still seeks a child's warm face A single breath that holds a silent prayer Before the darkness erases every trace But hunger calls and wings begin to beat The mercy fades into the scavenger's song The heart gives up, the rhythm loses heat And all that loved is swallowed, lost, and gone	6	They circle high on silent, tattered wings Above the fields where silence starts to rot No mercy in the hollow of their eyes Just hunger waiting for the final thought The wind carries the scent of iron rain As shadows stretch across the broken ground We built our towers out of fear and pain And buried every single sacred sound Then for a breath a child reaches out To touch the hand that holds a weapon tight A spark of warmth within the endless drought Before the darkness swallows up the light But hope is fragile as a morning dew That vanishes beneath the heavy tread The vultures dive to claim what we once knew And leave us with the words we never said They feast upon the ghosts we left behind While stars above refuse to intervene The cycle turns, unbroken and unkind Leaving only silence where love had been	6	They circle high above the broken ground Where silence screams and shadows start to breed A hunger born of things we cannot drown In rivers made of blood and human need Their wings are stained with ash and ancient sin While eyes reflect the weight of what we do We wear our masks of virtue, thin and tin To hide the rot that grows inside the view For just a breath a stranger offers grace A hand extended in the choking air But time reclaims the kindness from this place Leaving only hollows where love once was there The feast begins without a sound or plea As feathers drift upon the cold design We watch the world dissolve into debris And realize too late that we were never mine	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 have no interest in the modern world or anything that happens in it. I want a story of delight and rejuvenation, and I will tell you what I remember: darkness, darkness, darkness; the sounds of migrating geese in my native childhood place.	2	I step away from the hum of wires and glass where time is measured in blinking red digits, seeking a story that does not end in ash, a tale of delight to wash the grime from my spirits. Here the air is thin and clean as a bell, far from the heavy shadows of my native place, where darkness was a thick and woolen cloak that draped the hills before the sun could rise. I remember the sound of migrating geese then, their wild cries cutting through the winter fog, a sharp and mournful music of departure that echoed long after they had flown away. But now I am distant from that cold lament, from the dark memories that clung like wet leaves, and I walk into a new narrative of light where the only sound is the wind in the grass.	6	I turn my back on neon streets and glass, Where silence is a commodity too dear to buy, And seek a story where the shadows pass, Beneath a sky that does not ask me why. My memory holds a winter deep and black, Where darkness was a heavy, woolen cloak, That wrapped the fields and held the world in track, While I stood shivering upon the frozen brook. Then came the sound, a ragged, honking cry, The migrating geese that cut the gray above, Their formation sharp against the iron sky, A rhythm of escape, a song of love. They flew away from places cold and dim, To lands where light and warmth were sure to be, And now I chase that distant, golden hymn, Far from the noise that drags the spirit free. Let modern voices fade into the dust, As I retreat to where the old tales start, In distance lies the only thing I trust, To heal the weary chambers of the heart.	6	I turn my back on screens that hum with static light And walk away from cities built of glass and steel Where silence is a myth we tell to sleep at night And every breath feels borrowed, never truly real I seek a tale where joy is not a fleeting spark But something rooted deep in soil and ancient rain A story far removed from shadows in the dark That heals the hollow places in my weary brain My memory holds a winter cold as iron gray When darkness pressed against the window pane so tight The only sound was wind that swept the earth away Before the morning broke the long and endless night Then came the geese, a ragged line against the sky Their cries a wild and haunting song of distant flight They called me home to watch them pass and say goodbye To native fields where time stood still within the light Now I am gone from there, yet carried by their call Across the miles that stretch between the now and then I leave the noise behind to answer nature's wall And find the delight I need to start the world again	6	I step away from screens that hum with static light And leave the city's pulse to fade behind my feet Where concrete cracks and neon shadows bite I seek a tale where quiet waters meet The air here holds no memory of the dark No echo of the night that swallowed up my youth But I recall the cold, the sharp and sudden spark Of winter winds that stole the breath from truth Then came the sound, a ragged, shifting line Of migrating geese that tore the sky in two Their honking cries were ancient, wild design That called me back to skies of deep indigo hue They flew above the fields of frozen gray While I stood small beneath their heavy wing A child who watched the distant birds at play And felt the weight of everything they bring Now distance stretches wide between the now And all those sounds that once defined my soul I turn my face toward the silent bough To find a story making broken pieces whole Let the modern world dissolve in mist and rain As I walk forward into stories new and bright Leaving the darkness of the past again For dawn that brings a gentle, pure delight	6	I step away from screens that hum with static light And trade the noise for silence, deep and wide Where shadows of my past no longer bite And ancient fears have nowhere left to hide The city fades behind a wall of gray A distant echo of the rush and fear I seek a tale where bright and wild things play To wash the soot of modern doubt and drear My childhood holds a cold and heavy air When darkness fell before the stars could bloom And geese would cry with wings that tore the square Their haunting songs a solitary gloom But here I find a story soft and new That wraps around the fractures in my soul No longer bound by what the old world knew Or how the broken pieces lost control Let distance stretch between the now and then As healing winds begin to softly blow I walk alone among the quiet men Who watch the seeds of joy begin to grow The geese are gone, their migration ended long Replaced by laughter in a golden stream A simple song, a gentle, steady strong That wakes the dreamer from his fractured dream	6	I turn my back on screens that glow too bright To find a quiet path through shifting sand Where silence holds the weight of ancient light And time unspools within a gentle hand The city hums a tune I cannot keep A rhythm born of steel and endless noise While memories of shadowed valleys sleep Beneath the weight of forgotten, heavy poise I recall the geese that tore the autumn sky Their cries a map of places left behind A chorus echoing where shadows lie Between the heart and what we once defined Those wings now distant from this fractured ground Have carried stories written in the cold Of winter's bite and seeds that never found The soil where hope was meant to take hold Yet here I stand with breath renewed and deep No longer bound by ghosts of yesterday A promise kept while others fall asleep To walk the edge of night and welcome day The darkness fades into a softer hue As dawn breaks wide across a new terrain The world I knew begins to start anew With every step away from past and pain	7
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 volcanoes wake and the glaciers melt, The hurricanes scream through the night, And the earth groans under the burden of her children; But these are only the pangs of a mother in travail. It is we who have invented the apocalypse, We who have invented the irreversible. The earthquakes will not do it, Nor the tidal waves, nor the tornadoes, Nor even the smallpox, which has already done what it could. These are merely the natural disasters; They leave something behind. But we have invented the thing that leaves nothing behind: We have invented the Apocalypse.	2	The volcanoes wake and shake the bedrock loose, The oceans rise to swallow coastal towns, While storms tear through the forests like a noose, And glaciers melt and drown the ancient downs. Yet nature's wrath is but a shifting tide, A cycle of destruction and rebirth, Where life finds ways to hide or else to bide, Until the planet heals from all its dearth. But man has found a way to end it all, Not by the quake or flood or fire's heat, But with a silence that will never fall, A final, cold, and irreversible defeat. We hold the keys to lock the garden door, To poison well the spring and burn the seed, To leave behind a barren, silent floor, Where not even weeds can grow nor birds can breed. No asteroid could strike so deep and true, No comet's tail could scorch us quite as clean, As we who make our own apocalypse new, And wipe the slate of history entirely clean.	7	The volcano wakes with ancient, fiery breath And scours the valleys clean with ash and heat The ocean rises from its restless death To swallow cities in a salted sheet These are the rhythms of a planet's pulse The turning tides that wash the stone away Where nature heals the wound and builds itself anew In cycles that will outlast us all by far But we have found a different kind of fire One that does not burn to clear the way for spring We hold the key to our own dark desire And lock the door where life might start to sing No asteroid strikes with such precise design No plague evolves within a single cell We map the stars then choose to cross the line And weave the noose that hangs us all as well The ice melts not because the sun grows hot But because we fed the furnace in the sky The forests fall beneath our iron lot While silence spreads where birds once used to cry Nature could wait a million years to heal Or break the world with storms we cannot tame But only man can make the ending real And sign his name upon the final page of shame	7	The oceans rise to swallow coastlines whole As volcanoes wake from ancient, slumbering sleep The forests burn beneath a fevered sun And storms tear through the valleys where we keep Our fragile homes against the shifting ground Yet nature's wrath is but a passing tide A cycle of rebirth that time has found While we possess the power deep inside To sever roots that hold the world in place With hands that forge the fire to end all days We build our cages out of greed and space And watch the final light begin to fade No beast could craft a ruin so complete No wind could blow a silence so absolute We are the architects of our defeat The only species doomed by its own root	6	The oceans rise to swallow coastal stone While storms tear roofs from houses built of wood A fever in the soil, a sky turned gray As nature claims her ancient, wild solitude But this is not the end that cycles bring No asteroid or plague of ancient days It is the quiet hand we hold so tight That turns our golden future into haze We lit the fires without a thought of heat We dug the graves beneath our feet of green Not forced by fate or stars aligned in fear But by the choices made within the machine The ice retreats in silence, deep and slow The forests burn with smoke we cannot see A world undone by hands that sought to save Now trapped inside a cage we forged to be No god will come to lift us from the ash No savior waits beyond the burning gate For we have written out the final line And sealed our own inevitable fate	7	The mountain cracks beneath a shifting weight As oceans rise to swallow every gate A storm that spins with fury in its chest To put the quiet world to final rest Yet these are forces old and wild and deep That nature wakes while humanity sleeps But something darker stirs within the hand A choice made cold across the barren land We forge the fire that burns the sky above And trade our future for a moment's love No asteroid could strike with such intent Or break the fragile bond we never meant The ice retreats from shores we built too high While silence grows where once the birds would cry It is not fate that seals the broken ground But greed that leaves no hope for what is found A perfect storm of making and unmaking Where every step becomes the earth's own shaking	7	The sky turns gray as oceans rise To swallow cities in the tide Where once the forests stood so tall Now silence claims what used to be alive We built our towers high and proud Ignoring warnings whispered low Until the ground began to shake And rivers ran with ash and snow It was not stars that ended us No comet struck the weary land But hands that held the power tight And chose to burn the final stand A fire born of greed and fear That consumes the air we breathe Leaving only hollow echoes Of a world we failed to save from death	7
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 sun is not yet up, the sky is leaden And we go murmuring through the damp streets With our sacks and our sticks. Look at this torn book: who was reading it? A girl in a blue dress, perhaps; She had a brother with red hair. They lived in a house with green shutters. They went to church on Sundays. I wonder if they ever saw me? They threw it away because it was old. It wasn't any good to them, but it's very good to me. I shall keep it for my little daughter. She will like to hear about the red-haired boy. Here is a letter from a soldier; he says he is wounded. He is probably dead by now. He was writing to his sweetheart. He wrote that he loved her better than anybody else. I wonder what became of her? Perhaps she married another man. I should like to see their wedding picture. I think I will put this letter in my trunk. When I am dead and gone, my little daughter Will be able to show it to her children. They will say, "There is a letter from a soldier." And they will say, "He was wounded." And they will say, "He is probably dead by now." And they will say, "He was writing to his sweetheart." And they will say, "He wrote that he loved her better than anybody else." And they will say, "I wonder what became of her?" And they will say, "Perhaps she married another man." And they will say, "I should like to see their wedding picture."	1	The streetlamps hum a low, tired note as the first gray light bleeds into the alley, and they arrive with their plastic bags rustling like dry leaves, murmuring to one another in a language of grunts and nods. A child's red rubber boot, sole split open like a gaping mouth, speaks of running through puddles, of a mother calling from a window, of a sudden slip that ended the game forever. They sort the wet cardboard, the crushed cans, the tangled wires, their fingers moving with the dexterity of surgeons or priests. Here is a wedding ring, tarnished by rain and dirt, perhaps lost in a moment of rage, perhaps dropped while weeping, now resting in a palm rough as tree bark, dreaming of a gold band that once circled a finger that will never hold it again. A photograph face down in the mud, the back sticky with gum, shows a man smiling with missing teeth, a woman in a blue dress; the picker turns it over gently, wiping the mud with his thumb, wondering if the smile was real or just for the camera, wondering where the blue-dressed woman is now, if she knows her image is being carried away by a stranger. They whisper about the value of things, the weight of things, but mostly they weave small dreams around the rejected, imagining the hands that held them, the lives that discarded them, turning the trash heap into a graveyard of memories, a museum of broken hopes under the rising sun.	2	The streetlamps hum a low, tired note as boots crunch on wet pavement and fingers, rough as bark, sift the gray. A murmuring rises from the crouching figures, soft vowels trading secrets in the mist. Here is a child's red shoe, sole worn thin, dreamed into a boat for a tiny captain sailing the puddle-rivers of dawn. Beside it, a cracked porcelain cup, still holding the ghost of morning tea, now a nest for sparrows or a bowl for rain. They whisper of the hands that dropped these things, the hurried rush, the sudden loss, the careless throw. A torn photograph, face blurred by mud, becomes a love letter read in the dark, a story of a wedding day long past. A broken watch, its gears frozen at three, is a moment suspended forever, a pause before a goodbye that never came. They weave these fragments into tapestries of gold, turning refuse into relics of other lives. In the silence between their murmurs, the city sleeps, unaware that its trash is someone else's treasure, someone else's history, someone else's dream waiting to be found.	3	The streetlamps hum a low and dying tune As shadows stretch across the wet asphalt Where figures move in silence, bent and slow To sift the night's refuse from the dawn's first light A murmuring begins, soft as shifting sand Of plastic wrappers rustling in the breeze They speak of broken toasters, torn receipts And shoes that held a runner's frantic feet This coffee cup still holds the ghost of warmth From hands that trembled before the morning rush A child's blue mitten lost beside the bin Recalls a winter walk, a sudden slip They sort the fragments with a gentle care Weaving new stories from the old despair That ticket stub might lead to love or loss That cracked glass mirror show a fractured face In every scrap they find a hidden life A secret joy, a tear, a quiet strife The world discards what it no longer needs But here the trash pickers plant their tender seeds They dream of castles built from cardboard boxes Of gardens grown from bottles filled with soil While others sleep and wake to clean new days These keepers guard the past in ragged ways The sun breaks through the gray and turns the dust To gold for just a moment, then it must Return to shadow as the city wakes And leaves the murmurs for the next to take	6	The streetlights hum a low and tired tune As boots crunch softly on the dampened stone They move like shadows in the silver gloom To claim the things the city has outgrown A whisper passes through the rusted cart Of broken toys and pages torn from books They trace the cracks where stories fell apart And read the silence in the heavy nooks Here lies a ticket to a show that ended With ink still wet upon a faded date It speaks of hands that trembled, hearts that mended Before they sealed their own uncertain fate Another dreams of gold inside a tin can While sorting plastic shards with careful grace They see the lives that once were whole again Reflected in this discarded, quiet space The murmurs rise as dawn begins to bleed Through clouds that hold the weight of yesterday They stitch the fragments into something freed From all the waste the morning light will say For every object holds a ghostly thread That leads back to a kitchen, love, or fear A tapestry of what was left unsaid Now woven by the ones who linger here	6	The streetlamps hum a low and weary tune As shadows stretch across the wet asphalt Where hands move slow to sift the morning dew From broken toys and pages torn in half A murmured prayer for something found intact Beneath the weight of what the city threw They trace the cracks in ceramic, cold and black And wonder at the stories left to few Here lies a ticket stub from days gone by A faded promise made and then undone A child's small mitten lost beneath the sky That holds the warmth of someone else's sun They sort the silence into piles of gold Or rusted gears that once began to spin Each object whispers secrets never told Of lives that ended before they could begin No judgment falls upon the quiet work Only the rhythm of a breath drawn deep As dreams are woven from the things we shirk And secrets buried while the world asleep The sun breaks through to paint the dust in light Revealing beauty in the discarded frame A fleeting glimpse of love within the night Before the trash becomes just part of shame	6	The streetlights hum a low and fading tune As shadows stretch across the broken ground Where hands move slow to lift the weight of noon And silence holds the echoes of what's found A child's shoe rests beside a rusted can Its leather worn by steps that walked away They trace the seams where love began to fray And whisper names they cannot quite recall again Murmurs rise like steam from cooling tea Of stories buried deep in cardboard boxes Each torn receipt a map of memory Leading back to hearts that softly broke They sort the glass with fingers rough and kind Collecting shards of dreams the world forgot In every crack a life is left behind A silent song of all we ever sought The morning breaks on piles of yesterday Where hope is stitched into the frayed and torn They gather up the fragments, come what may To weave new light from ashes newly born	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 have walked through the valley of shadows, Where the path was narrow and steep, And the thorns tore our clothes to rags, And the stones cut our feet to the bone. But we held on, and we held on; For love is not a thing that breaks. It is like a river: it goes over rocks, It goes under bridges, it goes round bends, And it gets to the sea all right. And now we are getting near the sea, And the water is clearer, and the air is saltier, And there is more room for us to be. And I am sure of this: If we can get through this, We can get through anything.	6	The road was rough with stones we had to move, And storms that shook the fragile roof above, We held our breath and kept our hands quite tight To keep from slipping in the dead of night. But through the fog where shadows used to play, We found a way to see the light of day, Not by ignoring all the pain we knew, But walking through it, side by side, as two. Now clearer skies are opening ahead, Where safety waits for us, and quiet bread, No more the fear that something might go wrong, Just steady steps along a peaceful song. We defined our love not by how much we bore, But by how well we weathered every storm, And now we stand upon a solid ground, Where peace and hope and future both are found.	7	The road was narrow then, washed by rains that felt like cold iron, and we walked with our shoulders hunched against a wind that sought to tear us apart. We did not speak of forever in those days, only of the next step, the next shelter, the next breath drawn through gritted teeth. But love is not a banner that flies only in the calm; it is the root that grips the stone when the earth shakes. It was in your hand finding mine in the dark that I knew the shape of us would hold. We defined it not by grand declarations, but by the quiet refusal to let go, by the way we mended what was broken with hands that were rough but steady. Now the fog has lifted from the path ahead. The air is clearer, smelling of pine and coming rain, not the dust of the storm we left behind. We walk slower now, side by side, no longer bracing for impact, but watching the horizon where the light gathers. The future is a wide, open field, safe enough to run in, strong enough to hold us both.	3	The road was rough beneath our weary feet Where shadows stretched and silence held us tight We stumbled through the storm of doubt and heat And sought a shelter from the endless night But in the chaos, something stayed the same A quiet promise whispered in the dark That nothing could erase your name or mine Or steal the single, steady, beating spark We learned to build a bridge across the fear With hands that held despite the trembling shake To turn the jagged edges into clear And find a path for both our hearts to take Now dawn arrives with colors soft and new No longer lost within the gray and cold I see the future bright and safe with you A story written, brave and pure and bold So let the past remain where it belongs A lesson learned but not a chain to bind Together we will sing these quieter songs Leaving the broken pieces far behind	7	The wind howled through the cracks we made, A storm that tested every vow we spoke, But in the shaking dark, your hand stayed steady, An anchor when the ground began to break. We learned to speak in whispers soft and low, To mend the tears without a single sound, To find the path where shadows used to grow, And plant our roots in soil newly found. No longer lost within the fog of fear, We walk with eyes fixed on the morning light, Where safety waits for those who hold us dear, And guide us gently through the coming night. This love is not a shield against the pain, But hands that heal while walking side by side, A promise carved beyond the rain, With nothing left to run from, nowhere to hide.	6	The road was rough with stones we did not see And shadows stretched across the path we chose But in the silence, you reached out to me A steady hand against the winter's blows We learned that love is not a perfect line It bends and breaks then mends itself again Through storms that threatened to make us resign We found the calm within the falling rain Now dawn approaches with a softer light Dispelling fears that held our hearts in chains We walk together into clearer sight Where safety grows from all our shared pains No longer lost beneath the heavy sky We build a home where hope begins to bloom With every step, the future draws us nigh Two souls aligned to weather any gloom	7	The road was rough beneath our feet Where shadows stretched and silence grew Yet in the storm we found a beat That kept us steady, me and you We spoke of fears we could not name Of nights that tested every vow But love remained the quiet flame That burned through doubt and broken now Each step we take is built on trust A bridge across the shifting sand Leaving behind the heavy dust To hold a promise in our hand The horizon shifts from gray to gold As morning breaks upon the shore A story written, brave and bold For all the years we wait for more No longer lost within the night We walk toward the light ahead Two souls united by the fight And hearts that choose to stay instead	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.	I look at the stars and marvel at their joy, Their freedom from masks, their freedom from rules. They are not bound by any laws of man, Nor do they wear a mask to hide their faces. They are free to be themselves, and nothing else. How happy they must be! How free! I wish I could live as they do, Unmasked and unbound by rules.	7	They spin in silver circles, wild and bare, No velvet masks to hide their burning face, No laws of gravity or courtly care To chain them to a single, narrow place. I watch them leap from shadow into light, Unbound by custom, unafraid of night, And ache to cast the heavy cloak aside, To run with them where endless winds abide. Oh, let me be a star, unmasked and free, To dance the dark without a thought of rule, And burn my soul for all the world to see, A reckless flame within a silent school.	6	They spin in silver, wild and unconfined, No law of earth can hold their burning breath, No mask of shadow hides their brilliant mind, They dance alone between the voids of death. I watch them pour their light without a care, Unbound by hours, rules, or heavy names, They float through silence with a reckless air, And never whisper secrets to the flames. Oh, how I ache to cast this skin away, To shed the weight of what I must appear, To be as they are, naked in the day, With nothing but the vast dark for a fear. Let me dissolve into that endless blue, Where no one asks me who I am or why, Just burning bright and utterly brand new, Beneath the cold and unjudging eye.	6	They burn without a permission slip, those ancient, wild eyes above the hill, spinning in their silent, silver script with no one there to check them still. No masks of gold or heavy stone to hide the fire that feeds their soul, they dance alone yet never known as anything but whole and whole. I ache to shed this skin of rule, this polite and quiet, human cage, to break the glass, to be the fool who turns the page and burns the stage. To float unbound by law or name, just light and dust and sudden flight, unmasked before the cosmic flame, and free as stars are in the night.	6	They spin in silver silence, wild and bright No chains of earth to hold their ancient flight They wear no masks of duty or of shame Just burning hearts that whisper out a name I watch them dance above the sleeping town While heavy rules pull down my spirit down How sweet it is to be so unconfined To leave the rigid lines of mind behind Oh let me shed this skin of quiet fear And rise to where the endless skies are clear To burn without a reason or a law Unbound by time, unchained by human flaw I ache to join their rhythm, pure and deep Where promises are made and none can keep A freedom vast enough to swallow pain To dance again in cosmic, wild rain	6	I watch the silver drift above Where no law holds the light in place They burn with wild, unscripted love And wear no mask to hide their face My skin feels tight against the bone A cage of rules I did not choose While they dance freely on their throne With nothing left for them to lose Oh, how I ache to shed this weight To break the chains that hold me down To float within the endless night Without a crown or heavy gown Let gravity forget my name Let silence be the only sound As stars ignite without a claim In perfect freedom, unconfined	6	I watch the silver drift above the night Unchained by gravity or human fear They burn with light that needs no borrowed sight And hold a truth I cannot make appear My skin is tight with masks I did not choose While they dance wild in silence, soft and deep No rules to break, no heavy weight to lose Just ancient promises they softly keep Oh how I crave the wind that strips it bare To leave behind the shadow on my face To breathe the cold and wild and empty air And find a home within this vast embrace If only I could shed the weight of years And rise like sparks from out a dying flame To laugh at all the quiet, hidden fears And live without a name, without a claim	7
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 sheep were grazing on the cliff-top grass When I saw the shipwreck down below, A broken rib-cage of a stranded whale With rusty nails sticking out like teeth. I went down there to see if I could find Anything worth saving from the wreck, And in the sand between two ribs I found This talisman made all of sea-glass green, In shape exactly like a seagull, With wings outspread as if it meant to fly. It was so smooth and polished that I thought At first it must be some piece of amber, But when I looked at it again I found That it was not amber but sea-glass green; And it was so very much like a seagull That I am sure it must have been a talisman Of some sort for sailors, or something of that kind, Because I never saw anything like it before.	3	The wind had torn the gale-washed hull apart, Leaving the ribs of timber bare and white Against the gray and shifting morning sand, Where only gulls would dare to make their flight. I climbed the broken mast to seek a shell, Or driftwood carved by some forgotten hand, But found instead a shape of silver metal, A bird with wings spread wide across the sand. It was no common gull of feathered wing, But cast in gold or some strange, tarnished ore, With eyes of sapphire set in cold design, And beak that pointed toward the distant shore. No rust could touch it though the salt had seeped Through every crack and crevice of the wreck, It gleamed as if the sun had just been born Upon the sea-foam's sudden, foamy neck. I lifted it, and felt a sudden weight, Not heavy as a stone, but dense with years, As if the ocean's deep and ancient heart Had beat within this small, metallic sphere. The shepherd's crook I held began to hum, A low vibration running through my hand, And suddenly the sky turned deep and blue, Though clouds were gathering on every land. I looked at where the ship lay broken down, And saw the waves recede into the deep, As if the talisman commanded them To wake from out their long and heavy sleep. Then silence fell, and only one lone cry Rose up above the water and the sand, A real gull flew across the empty air, And dropped the silver bird into my hand.	6	The tide had left the hull to rot and rust, A skeleton of timber on the sand, Where gulls once circled with their hungry lust, Now silence held the broken, splintered land. I walked among the ribs of wood so black, My staff in hand, my sheep a distant gray, When something caught the light that slipped and cracked Through gaps where salt and time had worn away. It was not bone, nor shell, nor driftwood grain, But metal cold beneath the shifting silt, A shape that mocked the birds who sought the rain, With wings of silver, sharp as lightning spilt. No rust could touch its beak or hollow eye, Though years had passed since ships went down this way, A seagull carved from some forgotten sky, That watched the wreckage of another day. I lifted it, and felt a sudden chill, As if the ocean whispered through the stone, The shepherd's world grew still and strangely still, Beneath the weight of what I held alone.	6	The tide had pulled the hull apart And left the ribs of timber bare, A skeleton of rot and salt That choked the air with rusted fear. I walked among the splintered beams Where gulls once screamed in circling flight, Until a glint beneath the drift Catched sudden in the fading light. It was not wood, nor bone, nor shell, But metal cold as winter deep, Shaped like a bird with wings outstretched From centuries of silent sleep. A seagull carved from silver stone, Its eyes were chips of obsidian glass, As if it watched the storm above Before the broken mast could pass. No mark of maker's hand remained, No rune to tell its ancient name, Yet when I held it in my palm, The wind seemed whispering my name. The ship was dead, the ocean still, The wreckage heavy on the sand, But in this talisman of sea, I felt a strange and distant land.	6	The wind howls low across the dunes of gray Where salt and rust have claimed the wooden spine A broken hull, a ghost of yesterday That crashed beneath a moonless, stormy line I walked the debris with my staff in hand To find the sheep that wandered from the fold But something caught the light where shadows stand A gleam of silver, cold and strangely bold Beneath a splintered beam of ancient pine It lay half-buried in the wet and sand A bird of sea, a shape divine With wings outstretched as if to take command No feather marks the metal, smooth and bright Yet carved with eyes that hold the ocean's depth A talisman against the coming night That promises a journey past the wrecks I lift it up, the weight is strange and light As if the gull itself has taken flight And left its soul within this grounded sight To guide the lost through darkness into light	7	The tide pulled back to reveal the bone Of timber split by storm and stone Where once a mast had pierced the gray Now silence holds the wreckage day I walked the sand with staff in hand Across the ruin of this land When something caught the morning light A glint beneath the splintered night No shell, no pearl, no driftwood grain But metal cool against the rain Shaped like a bird with wings outspread As if it sought the sky instead A seagull forged from silver deep With secrets that the ocean keep Its eyes are voids of polished glass Reflecting tides that come and pass I lifted it from salt and rust From iron turned to ancient dust And felt a hum within my palm A quiet song, a sudden calm The ship is gone, the crew is lost To waves that claim what they have cost Yet here I stand with strange design A talisman where stars align The wind blows soft through broken planks While time unspools its tangled ranks And in my grip, the wing takes flight To guide me through the coming night	6	The tide pulls back from rusted steel Where timber snaps and silence falls A shepherd walks the jagged reef To hear the ocean's ancient calls He brushes sand from twisted bone Of wood that once defied the storm And finds a glint beneath the stone A shape too strange to keep warm It bears the wings of salt and air No feather, yet it seems to fly A seagull carved in cold despair Beneath the gray and endless sky His fingers trace the silver curve Of eyes that hold a distant sea A promise kept, a silent nerve That speaks of what was meant to be The broken hull begins to hum As wind returns to fill the space The talisman has found its home Within this quiet, sacred place	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 stone steps and watched the leaves fall. She saw them fall from the elm tree, she saw them fall from the maple tree, and she wept because they were falling. They were not dead yet; they were only turning yellow and red, and then they fell. But they would not come back again. They would not grow out of the ground again. They would not be green again. They were going to die. And so the little girl wept. She did not know that she was going to die too. She did not know that when she died, she would not come back again either.	2	The girl sits on the stone wall watching the maples bleed their gold into the gray grass below. She counts them as they fall, one by one, a slow procession of dry hands letting go of branches. Oh, poor things, she whispers, clutching her red scarf tight, they were so green and warm yesterday, and now they are brown and brittle and cannot hold on anymore. The wind blows hard today, shaking the trees until they shiver, and she feels a strange coldness in her own small fingers, as if the frost is already inside her, turning her blood to sap that will soon run dry. She watches a single leaf drift down, twisting in the air like a dying bird, and she knows it is very sad to be a child who must die just like a leaf.	6	The wind comes down to steal the gold And scatter it across the ground, A brittle rustle, dry and cold, Where once the summer green was found. She sits upon the garden wall And watches them descend so slow, One by one they take their fall, With nowhere left for them to go. Oh, poor little leaves, she softly cries, To lose your home in such a way, To wither beneath gray skies, And turn to dust before the day. She wipes a tear from off her cheek, Not knowing why her heart should break, Or why the sight makes her feel weak, As if some promise she must make. She does not see the season's turn, Nor that the tree will wake again, But feels a sudden, quiet burn, As if she too must end like them. For though she is but young and small, With time enough to run and play, She mourns the falling of them all, And weeps for her own dying day.	7	She watches them descend in slow descent A rusted gold against the gray and stone And counts the ones that fall without consent As if their weight were hers to bear alone She presses cold fingers to the brittle edge Of veins that once held sap and summer green And wonders why they cannot hold a pledge To stay upon the branch where they have been The wind arrives to take them from her sight A whispering thief that steals the tree's last breath And she feels something deep within take flight A quiet fear of ending, not of death But only thinks of leaves that lose their place Before the frost can ever touch the ground Unknowing that she is the falling space Where silence waits for every living sound	6	She sits beneath the oak and counts them down One by one as they descend to brown Her small hands catch a brittle, curling thing And wonder why the branches lose their wing The wind is cold against her flushed cheek now As autumn paints the sky in shades of bough She whispers to the grass that turns to gray That summer must have wandered far away But deep within her chest a quiet fear Grows louder than the rustling atmosphere For every leaf that falls from high above Is just a mirror of the life she loves She does not know this dance of gold and red Is practice for the path where she will tread No memory of winter's coming chill Can stop the breath that stills when time stands still So let her cry for petals lost to ground While silence wraps the world in softest sound A child weeping for the turning year Unknowing she has much more left to fear	6	She watches gold descend to brown And wonders where the green has gone A quiet ache inside her chest As summer fades and days grow long Each brittle leaf that hits the ground Is like a breath she cannot keep She counts the rustling, falling sound While shadows stretch across the sleep The wind whispers a secret soft That time will take what it has given But she believes the leaves are lost Not knowing life is just a season ending in the riven Her small hands clutch at empty air Holding back the coming night Unaware that she too shares The fragile light before the dimming of the sight	6	She counts the gold that hits the ground A quiet rustle, soft and deep Each branch now bare, a hollow sound That pulls her from its gentle sleep The air grows cold against her skin As summer fades to gray and stone She wonders where the light has been And feels a weight she's never known Her fingers trace the brittle veins Of something broken, torn apart A silent storm inside remains Beating rhythm in her heart She does not see the mirror's truth Or time that waits beyond the door Just autumn's fleeting, ancient proof Of what we lose forevermore The wind whispers through empty space A secret meant for ears so small That every life must leave its place Before the final curtain fall She holds the leaf with trembling hands And prays the winter will not come Unaware of shifting sands Beneath the silence of the drum	7
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.	I used to walk alone through the dark, With a heart like a cold and empty house; But now I have found you, and I am happy. Now I have found you, and my life is begun again. You have taken me into your protection, And I am no longer afraid of the darkness. I am no longer afraid of the sorrow of the past. My beloved has taken me into his protection, And I am happy.	6	The heavy curtain of my grief is drawn, And in its place, the morning light breaks through; I cast aside the shadows that were born Of days when I had nothing left to do But weep for what was lost and never found, Until your hand reached out to lift me up. Now on this solid ground where love is bound, I drink from joy's abundant, golden cup. No longer shall the wind of sorrow blow Across the fields that you have made secure; Your arms are walls against the winter snow, Your heart a fortress, steady and obscure To all the pain that once was mine alone; I give myself to happiness and you.	7	The shadows that once clung to my heels have finally lifted in the warmth of your light, and I lay down the heavy armor of grief to walk barefoot through the morning. No longer will I flinch at the sound of wind, for you stand between me and the storm, your hand a shelter against the cold rain that used to drown my quiet hours. I give you my heart, not as a fragile thing, but as a garden where the frost has melted, ready to bloom again under your steady gaze. Let the past be a distant shore I no longer visit, for here, in the circle of your arms, I am safe, I am whole, and I am happy.	7	The winter in my chest has finally thawed As you step forward to block the biting wind I lay down the heavy armor I once wore To guard a heart that had no place to begin No longer will I count the cracks in stone Or trace the shadows of the days gone by Your hand is warm against my trembling own And in your gaze, the darkened sky grows bright Let sorrow keep its silence in the past For I have found a harbor safe and deep Where every storm is broken at last And promises are yours alone to keep I give this life to you, so new and true A brighter dawn than I ever knew before With you beside me, nothing can undo The peace we build upon this solid floor	7	The winter in my chest has finally thawed As you step close to shield me from the cold No longer do I walk the path alone With ghosts of yesterday that I once held Your hand is warm against my trembling skin A fortress built where broken walls once stood I leave the shadows of my old regret To find a light that only you could bring Let sorrow fade like mist before the sun For I have found a harbor safe and deep Within your arms, the past begins to end And happiness is all I choose to keep I give my heart to this new morning light No fear remains beneath your steady gaze The storm is gone, the silence now is sweet And I am whole within your loving ways	7	The winter in my chest has finally thawed As shadows flee the light you bring today I leave the ghosts of all I once endured To walk beside you on a brighter way Your hands have built a shelter from the storm Where broken pieces learn to mend again No longer do I fear the coming night For safety lives within your steady pen I trade the heavy silence of before For laughter that dissolves the old despair With every step we take, the past grows thin Replaced by warmth beyond compare Here is the promise I now choose to keep A heart unburdened, open, and free Dedicated solely to this love so deep Protected now by you and only thee	7	The winter cracks beneath a gentle hand As shadows flee from where you softly stand I lay the weight of old and heavy tears To find the dawn that breaks through years of fears Your arms become the shield against the night A quiet promise holding me so tight No storm can touch the peace we now create Where broken pieces learn to integrate I offer up my heart without a trace Of doubt or sorrow in this sacred space For every scar has turned to golden light Guiding us toward a brighter, endless flight So let the past dissolve into the air With you beside me, I am free to care A new beginning starts within your gaze And love rewrites the stories of our days	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 suffering goes unnoticed as it fades Into the background while others plough, And sail, and go about their mundane lives. It is not noticed; nobody notices. The sufferers are not noticed; they fade into the background. They are in the background; nobody notices them. They are in the background and they are suffering. Nobody notices that they are suffering. Nobody notices that they are in the background and they are suffering. Nobody notices that they are in the background. They are in the background and they are suffering. Nobody notices that they are suffering. Nobody notices that they are in the background and they are suffering.	2	The pain sits quietly in the corner and no one sees it there. It shrinks a little every day until it is quite small, a speck of dust on the window sill that nobody notices. Outside the ploughman drives his team across the heavy fields and the wind blows hard against the sails of ships that never stop. The baker kneads his dough and the merchant counts his coins and the children play their games in the bright and busy street. The suffering grows smaller still and fades into the background like a shadow in the sun while everyone goes on.	6	The crack in the wall widens by a hair while the baker kneads his dough with rhythmic hands and the wind fills the canvas of a distant ship ignoring the salt that stings the sailor's eyes. Somewhere a heart breaks without a sound dissolving into the gray static of the afternoon as a farmer drives his plough through heavy earth turning over soil that knows nothing of grief. The clock ticks on the mantel, steady and blind the coffee cools in its cup on the kitchen table and the world spins forward on its axis of routine leaving the quiet ruin to settle in the dust. No one looks up from the ledger or the horizon no one pauses for the shadow lengthening in the corner for life is a river that flows around the stone carrying on, indifferent and deep.	5	The crack in the wall widens by a hair while the baker kneads his dough with steady hands and the wind pushes the gull across the gray sky no one sees the shadow lengthening in the corner where the breath catches and holds its weight A ship cuts through the foam leaving white scars the captain checks his compass for the north the sailor mends the net with practiced fingers they do not hear the silence growing loud inside the house as the light drains slowly from the eyes that watch them go Ploughs turn the dark earth into furrows of gold horses breathe heavy clouds into the morning air the farmer wipes his brow and calls to his son none of them pause to ask why the door stands open why the chair is empty and the tea has gone cold The world spins on its axis with a careless hum businesses open, trains arrive, children laugh the suffering shrinks until it is smaller than dust until it is nothing more than a draft beneath the floorboards while life moves forward, heavy and bright and blind	3	The crack in the wall widens slow while the farmer turns the soil again his boots heavy with mud and rain unaware of the quiet fracture deep within the stone the sailor adjusts his canvas tight chasing a wind that does not blow for him ignoring the ghost of a ship lost at sea that drifts beneath his keel like smoke coffee steams on a crowded table laughter rings out sharp and bright no one sees the shadow shrinking small in the corner where the light fails to reach the world spins on its axis smooth and loud ploughing fields and sailing seas carrying the weight of ordinary days leaving the silent ache to fade into the gray	4	The crack in the wall widens slowly while the farmer turns the soil his boots heavy with mud and rain unaware of the silence growing behind him A ship cuts through the gray horizon sails full of wind that does not care the crew sings songs of distant ports ignoring the ghost drifting in their wake Coffee steams in a quiet kitchen steam rising like a prayer unanswered the clock ticks on a steady beat counting seconds no one wishes to hear Pain becomes just another shadow fading into the wallpaper's pattern as the world moves forward, loud and bright leaving the broken things to rust in peace	3	The weight you carry leaves no trace Upon the dust of common space A silent crack within the stone Where seeds were never fully sown The farmer turns the heavy soil Unaware of hidden toil While ships cut through the endless gray And sailors lose their will to stay They walk with steps both light and sure Ignoring what they cannot cure The wind that howls a quiet plea Is lost beneath a memory No hand reaches out to hold The story left untold As days roll on in steady streams Drowning out your broken dreams The world moves on without a sound Leaving you deeply bound To shadows cast by fading light That vanishes into night	7
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	I saw the light fall on a broken plate And it looked like a silver shield; I saw a little girl with a red balloon And she looked like an angel; I saw a boy and his dog running in the rain And they looked like two happy spirits. But then I heard the whistle of the train, And I was back in the street again; The little girl was not an angel, but a blackguard's daughter; The boy and his dog were not two happy spirits, but a boy and his dog; And the light that fell on the broken plate Was only the light of the sun falling on a broken plate.	3	The dust motes danced in a shaft of afternoon light Like tiny golden fairies spinning above the floor, And I held my breath to watch them twirl and rise, Believing for a moment that magic was real. I saw castles built from the shadows on the wall, Heard the whispering of dragons hiding in the rug, And felt the soft warmth of a world made entirely of wonder, Where nothing could ever hurt or end. Then the door slammed open with a violent crash, And the harsh glare of the streetlight cut through the room, Turning the fairies into gray specks of dirt again, And the dragon's roar into the sound of a truck backfiring. My mother's angry voice shattered the silence like glass, Scolding me for being lazy instead of doing my chores, And suddenly I was just a small boy standing in the dark, With no castles left and no magic at all.	3	The dandelion clock stood tall in the green grass A perfect sphere of wishes waiting to be blown I held my breath and saw a kingdom there Where gravity was light and time was slow The sun caught dust motes dancing in the air And for a moment I was safe inside that gold Then the truck backfired on the street below A sudden crack like thunder in the quiet room The spell dissolved, the golden light turned gray The wind blew hard and scattered all my dreams I looked at the broken stem upon the ground And felt the heavy world come crashing down again	6	A dandelion clock in the cracked driveway holds a universe of golden light each seed a tiny parachute ready to fly carrying wishes on the summer breeze I blow gently and watch them scatter believing the world is soft and kind that magic lives in the dust motes dancing in the square of sun upon the floor Then the heavy door slams shut outside a siren wails through the thinning air the golden seeds turn to ash in my hands as the shadow of a man I do not know falls across the garden gate suddenly the sky is not a blanket but a cage and the wind carries only the scent of rain and rust shattering the glass house where I used to live leaving me standing in the cold hard truth with nothing left but the silence after the storm	4	A dandelion clock holds the sun in a thousand tiny, golden eyes the wind whispers secrets to the grass and time stands still beneath the skies We chase the light through cracks in walls believing magic hides inside where every shadow tells a tale of places where the dreams abide But then the sirens cut the air a sudden crack of thunder loud the golden petals turn to gray beneath a heavy, iron cloud The innocence we held so tight dissolves like mist before the rain reality is sharp and cold erasing joy with quiet pain Now childhood fades into the dark no fairy tales remain to save just broken glass on concrete floors and silence in a hollow grave	6	A dandelion clock holds the morning light Soft gold against the gray of pavement stone We count the seeds and make a silent wish Believing magic lives in what is known The wind arrives to scatter all our hopes And carries dreams into the empty air But then the thunder rolls across the sky Revealing cracks beneath the fragile layer No fairy tale can shield us from the cold The world demands a price we cannot pay The innocence that bloomed so briefly now Is crushed beneath the weight of yesterday We stand alone with broken pieces deep Where once we ran with nothing but the sun The beauty fades, the ordinary stays And childhood ends before it has begun	6	The dust motes dance in afternoon light A quiet world where time stands still We trace the cracks upon the wall And dream of wings we never knew we had to fill But shadows stretch across the floor As evening turns to cold gray stone The laughter fades, the door locks tight Revealing seeds that cannot be sown The glass breaks loud against the street A sudden end to stories told too young The magic slips from trembling hands Leaving only silence on the tongue No more fairy tales to hold us close Just concrete hard and unrelenting truth We wake from dreams we thought were real To face the weight of age and ruth	6
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	I will not wait for the stars to guide me, I will not ask the wind where it blows. I take my life in my own hands and go. I will pick up a burden when I meet it; if I meet one that is heavy, I will carry it. If I meet one that is light, I will carry it. If I meet one that is broken, I will carry it. If I meet one that is good, I will carry it. The road is open and I am going.	5	The asphalt stretches out a gray ribbon unfurling toward the horizon where the sky touches earth, and I step forward without asking permission, my boots striking the dust in a rhythm of my own making. There is no map here but the one drawn by my feet, no compass but the pull of the wind against my cheek. I carry nothing heavy in my hands, only the lightness of an empty bag that waits to be filled. But if sorrow should rise like a heat haze from the road ahead, I will not turn back or try to leave it behind; I will pick it up gently and place it in the sack, for it is part of the journey and part of me. If joy comes running alongside with flowers in her hair, I will let her run beside me for a while, or perhaps I will lift her onto my shoulder. Whatever burden life brings, whether it is grief or laughter, whether it is a stone of regret or a feather of hope, I will take it on as it arises, walking freely into the wide open day, choosing my own destiny one step at a time.	6	The engine hums a low and steady tune Beneath the vast and unmarked afternoon I leave the map upon the dashboard glass And watch the familiar shadows come to pass No compass points where I must go today Only the wind that blows the dust away I choose the turn, I choose the sudden hill I choose the silence and the noise at will If sorrow comes to ride beside me now I'll let it sit and wipe its heavy brow If joy arrives to dance along the seat We'll share the rhythm of the moving feet I carry all the stones I've picked up deep Into the valleys where the rivers sleep I do not drop them when the road gets steep Nor promise lighter loads before I reap The horizon stretches out without an end A friend who never asks for any friend Just open sky and asphalt stretching wide With nothing left to hide and nowhere to hide	6	The engine hums a low and steady tune Beneath the vast and unmarked afternoon I leave the map within the glovebox deep To wake the promises I mean to keep No compass points where I must go today Just dust that rises in the heat of play The horizon stretches out a ribbon wide With nowhere left for me to run or hide Should sorrow find me on this shifting sand I'll let it rest within my open hand No heavier than stones a river keeps I carry all the weight while memory sleeps If joy should bloom beside the cracked asphalt I'll take its shade and let my spirit halt For destiny is not a distant shore But every step I take and nothing more So let the burdens rise as clouds appear I drive them forward, making them less dear The road unfolds beneath my willing tires And burns away the doubt with sudden fires	7	The engine hums a low and steady song As I step out where the white lines fade No map to guide me, no right or wrong Just the open sky that the morning made I carry nothing but what I need A coat of memories, a heart worn thin The weight of yesterday, the seed Of all the places I have been Let the hills rise up to block the view Let the rain wash down the dusty glass I do not run from what is new Or let the heavy moments pass For destiny is not a fixed design But roads I choose with every turn This burdened soul, this grand design Is mine alone to keep and earn So on I drive through light and shade With sorrow's stone and joy's bright fire Unbound by chains that others laid And fueled by my own deep desire	7	The engine hums a quiet tune Beneath the vast and shifting sky I leave behind the rigid room Where answers waited, dry and high No map to guide my wandering feet No compass pointing north or south Just asphalt stretching toward the heat And silence in my open mouth The weight I carry is not stone But memories that cling and sway A garden where the seeds are sown To bloom along the endless day Let storms arise and winds collide I hold them close within my chest With nothing left for me to hide Except the journey of the rest Each mile a choice I make anew Each burden worn as part of grace The road unfolds in shades of blue Leading me to my own place	6	The engine hums a quiet song Where static once held tight control I leave the map of yesterday To trace the lines I carve my soul No compass points to what is fixed Just dust that dances in the light A heavy pack upon my back That grows with every step of night I do not flee the weight I bear Nor wish for skies devoid of rain For storms and sun are equal parts Of paths that lead through joy and pain Each mile unspools a story new Unwritten by a hand unseen I walk ahead with open eyes And claim the space between the green The road extends beyond the view A promise kept without a sound I carry all that came before As freedom spreads its wings around	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 the quiet of the early dawn When the streets were empty and the shops were shut, A brave nurse in New York City went to work To save the lives of those who were dying. In a small town in Tennessee, A farmer kept on working day and night To raise corn and wheat for his community So that no one would be hungry. In a big city in California, A scientist worked hard day and night To find a vaccine for the coronavirus So that all people could be healthy. These three American heroes worked hard To benefit their communities and bring the country together During the COVID-19 pandemic.	7	In the quiet hum of a hospital ward where masks hid weary eyes, A nurse from Georgia stood her ground beneath the gray and anxious skies, She held the hands of strangers as they took their final breaths, And prayed for healing strength to guide them past the shadowed gates of death. Across the country in a city street where social distance grew, A teacher from New Jersey taught through screens so children wouldn't lose, She sent out care packages with books and games and letters bright, To keep the little hearts of hope alive throughout the long dark night. Then came a man from California who used his truck and time, To drive fresh produce to the poor and make the hungry climb Out of despair and want and need, he fed the families there, While building bridges made of food to show that we all share. Three heroes from three different lands, yet bound by one desire, To serve their neighbors in the storm and fan the dying fire Of community and kindness back to life across the land, With helping hands and open hearts united hand in hand.	7	In the quiet streets where shadows grew long, Three figures stood where the weak belong. A nurse in white with a mask of blue, Who held the hand of the sick and few, She whispered hope through the sterile air, And taught us all how to show we care. A teacher next with a screen so bright, Guiding young minds through the endless night. With patience deep and a voice so clear, He made sure no child was lost in fear, Bridging the gap with a digital thread, While parents worked and the living feared. A volunteer with a truck full of food, Driving through rain where the silence stood. He dropped off meals at the elderly door, So hunger would not make them sore, Connecting neighbors from coast to coast, Showing that kindness is what matters most. Together they wove a tapestry strong, Proving that love is where we belong. No matter the virus or fear or pain, They helped the country stand up again, Three heroes small in a time so vast, Binding our future to our past.	7	In a time when silence filled the empty streets, Three hearts beat loud to mend what fear had torn, A nurse who held the hand of those in need, And made the sterile ward a place reborn. She washed her hands until the skin was raw, Yet offered warmth that no virus could steal, A guardian behind the plastic shield, Whose quiet strength helped broken spirits heal. Across the town, a teacher turned his screen, To reach the children locked inside their homes, He sent a joke, a lesson, and a dream, So isolation's heavy weight would roam. He built a bridge of light through digital air, Ensuring no young mind was left alone, Proving that kindness travels far and wide, Even when bodies cannot touch or roam. Then came the baker with a flour-dusted apron, Who baked for all before the sun rose high, Leaving warm loaves on porches, one by one, Beneath the vast and indifferent sky. He gave not just the bread but hope itself, A simple gift to neighbors he'd never met, Reminding us that we are bound as one, By threads of love that poverty can't forget. Together they stood firm against the storm, The healer, the guide, the giver of sustenance, Their service wove a tapestry so strong, That unity became our truest defense. No flag or banner needed to declare, The heroism found in daily grace, For in their acts of service and of care, They brought our fractured nation face to face.	7	In quiet halls where masks were worn with care, A nurse stood firm against the rising fear, Her hands held hope when silence filled the air, And whispered words to calm the trembling near. Across the streets a volunteer in red, Dropped meals at doors for those who could not go, He bridged the gaps that isolation bred, With kindness flowing like a gentle glow. Then teachers turned their screens to open skies, To keep young minds connected through the dark, They taught with patience as the world grew wise, And sparked a light to guide each lonely spark. Three different paths but one united heart, They stitched the fabric torn by sudden storm, Proving that even when we must apart, Our shared resolve can make us whole and warm.	7	In quiet halls where silence used to be, A nurse in blue stood guard for you and me, Her mask a shield against the rising tide, With weary hands she held the world inside. Across the street a teacher turned the screen, To bridge the gap between what could have been, She sent out hope through digital and light, Ensuring no child faded from the sight. Then came the hands that built the food supply, Who worked beneath a gray and heavy sky, They packed the boxes with a steady grace, To feed the neighbors in this lonely place. Three different paths but one united goal, To heal the fractures in our broken soul, No hero's cape, just service deep and true, Binding the red, the white, the blue anew.	7	In quiet halls where fear took hold Three voices rose to break the cold A nurse who held a trembling hand While healing spread across the land A teacher mapping out the way To keep the light of learning bright Through screens and shadows, day by day Guiding hearts through darkest night The builder crafting hope anew With wood and steel for all to share Mending fences old and true And lifting burdens from the air They stand apart yet bound as one United by a common grace No battle fought alone or won But love that time cannot erase Together now we start again With courage in the wind and rain For every soul that needs a friend And peace within our shared domain	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	I like to think that I prefer the color blue and the month of May, and that my life is not a random distribution of events. But it is all quite random. If I had been born in 1864 instead of 1904, or if my mother had not met my father, or if she had met him but not married him, I should not be here. And if I were not here, I should not be thinking about this. So you see, it is all quite random. It is all inconsequential. There is nothing more to say. Death is the only certainty.	2	We choose our colors and our coats and argue over which way the wind should blow, believing these small preferences matter in the grand design of things. We build our castles on a shifting sand of luck and chance, never noticing that the tide is indifferent to the shape of our walls. The lottery ticket we buy or lose, the lover we meet by accident in the rain, the job we get because the other man was sick— it is all a chaotic shuffle of cards dealt by a blind dealer. Nothing leads to anything; nothing proves anything. The stars do not care if we are happy or sad, and the earth does not tremble when we die. In the end, the silence is absolute. The only certainty is the cold, the dark, and the final quietus that waits for us all.	3	The coin flips high and lands on heads, And so we choose the left-hand road, While fate decides the other path Is where our heavy burdens load. We argue over trivial tastes, The color of a summer sky, As if the universe would pause To note which shade we chose to buy. But time is just a random wind That scatters seeds without a plan, No grand design for how we live, Or why we love the way we can. The choices that we think define us Are merely noise within the air, A fleeting echo in the dark Before the silence settles there. For all the plans we make today, The loves we hold, the wars we wage, Will vanish with the final breath That turns this living page to age. The only truth we cannot dodge Is that the curtain must fall down, The end of every random chance Is quiet dust and nothingness.	7	We argue over colors that the wind will scatter, Choosing paths that lead to nowhere in particular, Believing our small loves and hates are carved in stone, While time just rolls them gently like a river's pebble. The taste of coffee, the shape of clouds at noon, Are accidents of light and chance, not grand design, A random shuffle of the cards we hold so tight, Before the dealer sweeps the table clean again. We build our towers on the shifting sand of luck, And mourn the things we lost or never got to keep, But silence waits behind the door of every room, To swallow up the noise of all our frantic plans. No story matters once the final page is turned, No preference lingers when the breath has left the chest, For death is not a question that requires an answer, It is the only truth that stands when all else falls away.	6	The coin flips in a void of gray No pattern guides the fall We build our castles out of clay And call them great and tall We argue over shades of blue Or which path leads to home While time moves on, indifferent and true To all we think we own A laugh, a tear, a sudden fear Dissolves into the air Nothing here is fixed or dear Beyond our brief despair The sun will rise without a sound The stars will burn away All choices made are lost unbound Before the final day So let the chaos spin its wheel Let random winds decide There is no meaning we can feel With nowhere left to hide For when the breath has ceased its flight And silence takes the throne Only one truth remains in light That death is all we own	6	The coin flips high and lands on heads A choice we swear defines our path But chance decides the wind that blows And leaves us lost within the math We build our walls with care and pride To keep the chaos from the door Yet time erodes the stone we laid And sweeps it to the shifting floor The colors that we love so deep Will fade when eyes can no more see The songs we sing, the names we keep Dissolve into silence naturally No grand design directs the rain Or guides the falling of a leaf Just random sparks in empty space That bring both comfort and grief So let the arguments dissolve In dust beneath the morning light For every battle fought and won Is swallowed by the coming night The only truth we hold is this The final breath, the quiet end Where all our plans and passions cease And nothing matters in the end	6	The wind decides which seeds take root Before the soil is turned to dust We build our walls with trembling hands And call them sacred, pure, and just A favorite song, a sudden fear Are moments lost in shifting tides No grand design or hidden plan Can keep the turning of the times We argue over trivial things As if they hold eternal weight But silence waits beneath the floor To swallow up the joy and hate The stars above do not align For any purpose we can see Just cosmic noise and drifting light That fades into eternity So let the chaos have its way No meaning carved in stone or bone For every breath we draw today Is borrowed from the quiet unknown The final hush will claim us all When stories end and names dissolve Leaving only empty space Where nothing ever truly evolves	6
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 little rabbits in their burrows shivered as the earth began to tremble, the moles put their noses to the ground and heard a rumbling like thunder; but it was not thunder that they heard nor was it the wind or an earthquake, it was the warhorses coming. And the swallows and larks were singing in the morning light above the cornfield, when the warhorses came, they could not sing any more. The warhorses came with their hoofs of iron and their breasts of iron and their flanks of iron, and they trampled the rabbits and the moles, and they trampled the swallows and the larks, and there was nothing normal left in their wake.	3	The rabbits huddle in their burrows deep And shake as thunder rolls beneath the earth, While moles forget the safety of their sleep To feel the heavy hooves that tear them forth. The swallows swoop above the churned-up clay And cry to see the larks fall from the sky, For where the warhorses have made their way No grass grows green and no small bird can fly. The air is thick with smoke and stench of fear That chokes the lark and drives the swallow down, The rabbits tremble as the horses near And moles are crushed beneath the iron crown. Now nothing normal lives upon this field Where warhorses have passed and left it dead, With rabbit holes destroyed and molehills sealed And all the little creatures lying dead.	7	The rabbit freezes in the clover deep, While heavy hooves of warhorses thunder past, Shaking the roots where burrows softly sleep, And turning quiet earth to mud and blast. The mole, who knew the darkness as a friend, Is tossed above the ground by clods of clay, Where trench lines cut the tunnels without end, And sunlight dies beneath a smoke-stained day. High in the air, the swallow's flight is torn, By shrapnel singing through the grayest mist, Her nest of mud and grass forever shorn, By iron beasts that crush the summer kissed. The lark, who sang before the guns awoke, Falls silent as the thunder rolls below, No longer rising for the morning spoke, But lost beneath the churned and bloody snow. The field was green with life and gentle sound, Before the horses brought their ruin near, Now nothing normal can be ever found, Just broken wings and paws and panic fear. They run from shadows cast by steel and fire, From hooves that leave no path but death behind, As all the little creatures lose desire, To seek the peace they once had hoped to find.	7	The rabbit freezes in the clover deep, As thunder shakes the earth where warhorses sweep. Their hooves are iron storms that crush the green, And leave a scarred and silent, broken scene. The mole who dug his tunnels safe and sound, Now feels the heavy rhythm pound and pound. His quiet world of roots is torn apart, By giant feet that break the beating heart. Above, the swallow's flight is cut by smoke, As larks forget their songs and start to choke. The air grows thick with ash and copper taste, No morning light can find this ruined place. The horses march with blind and cruel glee, And take away the peace for you and me. Nothing remains as it was yesterday, Just mud and silence where the creatures lay.	6	The burrow shakes beneath the heavy tread As iron hooves crush down the soft green grass Where rabbits once hid in the quiet bed Of roots and earth, now shattered by the mass The mole forgets the tunnel's dark embrace As thunder rumbles through the trembling soil No safe retreat remains within this place Only the churn of war and endless toil High above the swallows lose their song Their wings beat frantic against choking smoke The lark that sang at dawn is silent long With feathers torn by fire and sudden shock The field was once a world of life and breath Now stamped to dust by horses marching on A horrid air of ash and lingering death Where nothing normal stays from dusk to dawn	7	The burrow shakes beneath the hooves of steel As rabbits freeze where once they used to play Their soft ears twitching at a distant roar Before the thunder swallows up the day A mole retreats from soil turned thick with red No root remains within the churned-up ground The warhorse's shadow casts a heavy dread Where silence was the only thing profound Above, the swallow dives too low to breathe Through smoke that chokes the sky and stings the eye It seeks a branch but finds a broken wreath And falls before it learns to say goodbye The lark's sweet song is drowned by iron feet That crush the grass and scatter seeds of fear The field is stripped of all its gentle heat Leaving no trace of life or hope so dear Now nothing normal walks this scarred expanse Just ghosts of creatures lost to endless night The rhythm of the march becomes a trance That steals the morning from the fading light	6	The burrow shakes beneath the heavy tread Of iron hooves that crush the quiet ground Where rabbits once hid in the safety of their bed Now silence breaks as thunder rolls around A mole retreats from soil turned to ash and gray As larks forget the songs they used to sing The swallow dives to hide from disarray Beneath the weight of everything No morning light can pierce this choking haze That swallows up the breath of living things The warhorse leaves a trail of endless days Where nothing normal ever grows or clings The earth remembers what it cannot hold Of gentle paws and wings that learned to fly Now broken by the stories left untold Beneath a dark and unforgiving sky	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 and some are the nails, some are the carpenters and some are the chairs, some are the architects who draw the plans and some are the men who mix the mortar with their bare hands. Some are the bloodhounds that smell out the hare and some are the hares that run into the brake, some are the fishermen that fish in the river and some are the fish that swim into the drake. Some are the priests that preach to the people and some are the people that listen to the priests, some are the bishops that tell the priests what to say and some are the bishops that don't know what to say. Some are the kings that wear the crown and some are the kings that wear the gown, some are the queens that wear the crown and some are the queens that wear the gown. Some are the masters that command the ship and some are the sailors that sail the ship, some are the captains that command the ship and some are the captains that don't know how to sail the ship. Some are the doctors that cure the sick and some are the sick that are cured by the doctors, some are the surgeons that operate on the sick and some are the surgeons that don't know how to operate on the sick. Some are the lawyers that defend the criminal and some are the criminals that are defended by the lawyers, some are the judges that judge the criminal and some are the judges that don't know how to judge the criminal. Some are the teachers that teach the scholars and some are the scholars that are taught by the teachers, some are the professors that teach the scholars and some are the professors that don't know how to teach the scholars. Some are the parents that bring up the children and some are the children that are brought up by the parents, some are the mothers that bring up the children and some are the mothers that don't know how to bring up the children. Some are the fathers that bring up the children and some are the children that are brought up by the fathers, some are the fathers that don't know how to bring up the children and some are the fath…	6	Some are the stone that breaks the wave, standing rigid while the tide recedes to show the muck and kelp, measuring the world in inches of granite and mortar, while others are the net that catches nothing but air, dragging through the deep with open hands for the silver flash. One builds the dam to hold the river back until it is still as glass, calculating the pressure on the concrete skin, the other cuts the cord and lets the flood wash over the fields, drinking the silt from the cupped palm, laughing at the drowned barns. There is the tailor who stitches the wound shut with golden thread, ignoring the fever rising under the silk, and the surgeon who slices the flesh to let the poison out, leaving the patient raw and bleeding in the cold light. One paints the sunset to make it last forever on a canvas, freezing the orange fire before it turns to ash, the other climbs the mountain to watch it burn itself out, standing in the cooling dark where only the stars remain. We are the bridge and the gap, the anchor and the sail, the one who counts the coins in the jar and the one who throws them to the gulls, the hand that writes the law and the foot that kicks down the door, all spinning from the same center, pulling apart into different skies.	5	Some are built of iron and the heavy silence of the anvil, hammering the world into a shape that holds, while others are made of wind and the sudden fracture of glass, shattering the shape to let the light pour through. One walks with a map drawn in blood on parchment skin, tracing the rigid lines of rivers that must not change course, the other carries a compass that spins wild in the pocket, lost by design, seeking the magnetic north of a storm. The first builds walls of stone to keep the chaos out, moss growing soft on the mortar where the cracks appear, the second digs tunnels beneath the roots of the city, breathing air that smells of damp earth and forgotten seeds. They meet at the market square where the scales tip neither way, one offering a coin stamped with the face of a king, the other offering a seed wrapped in a leaf from a tree that no longer grows. To one, life is a fortress to be defended against the tide, a calculation of tides and turrets and the weight of the gate, to the other, life is a raft to be untied and pushed off, drifting toward the horizon where the water meets the sky without a seam. Yet both feel the same cold when the winter wind cuts through, both see the same moon hanging like a cracked mirror above, and in the quiet hour before dawn, the iron man hears the wind singing, and the wind child feels the solid ground holding fast beneath his feet.	3	The architect draws lines in chalk that vanish with the rain While the gardener lets the weeds decide where roots may grow again One builds a tower to pierce the gray and hold the sky at bay The other digs a cellar deep to keep the dark at play A clockwork heart ticks strictly loud against the silent stone A river bends around the rock it claims as its own home The general maps the terrain where victory must be won The poet wanders off the path to watch the setting sun They speak in different tongues of glass, one sharp, one soft and clear To measure out the distance from the present to the fear The weaver pulls a thread of gold to stitch the torn apart The sculptor breaks the marble down to find the beating heart No single lens can capture how the shadow holds the light Or how the storm is born within the calmest, quiet night We walk these parallel lines that twist and cross without a sound Two halves of broken mirrors reflecting what cannot be found	6	The architect draws lines in dust to hold the sky, While the river laughs at walls it cannot see, One builds a tower to touch the sun and dry, The other carves a path beneath the tree. We are the iron gate that never swings, And we are wind that slips through every crack, A thousand silent bells that ceaselessly rings, Against the hammer's heavy, rhythmic back. Some wear the armor forged from fear and doubt, To keep the chaos from the inner room, While others walk without a single clot, And let the storm sweep through the empty loom. The gardener prunes the branch to save the bloom, The wild vine strangles logic with its green, One seeks a pattern in the quiet gloom, The other dances where no map has been. It is not war between the left and right, But tides that pull against the stubborn shore, The candle fighting shadows in the night, The ocean rising up to ask for more. Two hands that shape the clay into a face, Or smash it down to start the cycle new, We run the same unending, winding race, Through different doors of old and familiar view.	6	The architect builds walls to keep the storm at bay While the gardener lets the roots run wild and free One counts the bricks in rigid, measured arrays The other watches how the ivy learns to be A captain steers through fog with iron will And charts a course that never bends or breaks The sailor drifts on tides they cannot fill With hands that tremble for the ocean's sake We wear the masks of stone or woven thread To hide the fractures running deep inside Some speak in codes that only kings have read While others let the silence be their guide The clockwork heart beats loud against the chest Of those who fear the chaos of the night But softest voices claim the quiet rest Where shadows dance and blend into the light No single path can hold the weight of all That splits the sky between the dawn and dusk We rise and fall within the same tall wall Some build the tower, some become the husk Yet in the space where opposing currents meet A strange design begins to take its form The hunter finds the prey beneath his feet And the lost bird returns to find the storm	6	The iron gate swings shut on silent hinges While glass walls reflect a fractured sky above One hand holds the weight of ancient burdens down The other reaches for a fleeting, fragile dove We carve our names in stone that slowly erodes Beneath the rhythm of a storm we cannot name Some build their castles high on shifting tides While others dig deep roots to claim the flame A mirror splits the face into two halves Where shadow dances with the light of day The architect designs a path of straight lines As wanderers lose themselves in winding ways Silence speaks louder than the words we trade In rooms where echoes trap the breath inside The keeper guards the door with weary eyes While keys are tossed to those who dare to hide No single truth can hold the space between The fire that burns and water that will rise We walk the edge of cliffs both sharp and soft Defining life through paradox and lies Two rivers merge but never truly blend Carrying secrets from a distant shore The builder dreams of permanence and time The ghost remembers what it fought before	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.	When I was a child I used to think the witch was something outside, a monster in the woods, but now that I am old I see she is inside, and she is me. I live alone with my memories, which are overwhelming; I am like a house full of people who have died, and it is very hard for me to get out of doors. But I shall not be afraid. It is better to be a witch and live alone than to be an ordinary person and not know what one's life means.	2	I used to fear the woman in the woods who wore a hat of twisted brambles and kept her secrets in a jar of pickled eyes, but now the mirror shows me that same face, the same wild hair unbound by combs or laws, living alone where the moss eats the path away. The memories are too heavy for one house, they pile up like driftwood against the door, voices of lovers long turned to dust, children who left and never wrote back, seasons that bled into seasons without end. It is an overwhelming tide inside this small room, yet I do not open the window to let them out. Life feels like a dream I cannot wake from, a fog that shifts shape when I reach for it, the ground beneath my feet uncertain as mist, but I choose to carry on with my broom and my jars. I will sweep the leaves and keep the silence, embrace the witch I once ran from, and wait for the dream to end or begin again.	3	I used to hide behind the kitchen door when you walked past with your crooked cane, believing your silence was a curse and that the smoke from your chimney was the breath of something evil. Now the mirror shows me the same bent spine, the same hands stained with earth and time, and I am the stranger in the woods you feared so long ago. The house is quiet except for the weight of memories that crowd the corners like dust motes dancing in a sunbeam that never quite reaches the floor. They are overwhelming, these ghosts of laughter and loss, but I have made peace with their company. Life feels like a dream where the rules shift before I can grasp them, a fog rolling in off the sea of years. But I will not run back to the warm light where children play safely in the yard. I choose this hermit's life, this heavy crown of hair, to carry on through the uncertainty, knowing that the magic was never in the fear, but in the endurance of being alone with everything that ever happened to me.	2	I used to fear the woman in the woods With eyes like cracked obsidian and hands of knotted root Who whispered secrets to the wind and made the shadows bow A monster made of moonlight that I swore I'd never be But time is not a straight road, it is a spiral stair And every step I took away from youth brought me back there The silver now is tangled in my hair just as she said The crows have learned my voice, the silence is my bed My cottage holds no fire but the glow of old regrets A library of memories where nothing can forget The laughter of a child who ran too fast to hear the rain The taste of bread that vanished, the ghost of sudden pain It is a heavy crown to wear, this hermit's quiet life To sift through dreams that blur the line between the knife and cloth Yet here I stand amidst the fog, the witch I once despised No longer running from the dark but with the stars aligned For though the world may shift like mist and logic lose its hold I choose to walk this winding path, brave and growing old To carry all the broken things until they make a song And sing them to the empty air where I belong.	5	I used to fear the woman in the woods With hair like storm clouds and eyes of rusted gold, Who whispered secrets that I could not understand And made my childhood heart beat fast with dread. Now mirror glass reflects a stranger's face Where silver threads replace the dark I wore, And I have built a cottage from the silence That once felt heavy as a closing door. The memories arrive like tides too deep to fight A thousand summers drowning in the rain, Each ghost a story etched into the timber Of this quiet, solitary domain. They call it madness, this embrace of shadows, This choice to dwell where light refuses tread, But here within the chaos of my mind I find a peace the busy world has fled. The future is a fog that shifts and breaks Like dreams we cannot hold or make our own, Yet still I brew the tea and tend the fire To keep the cold from claiming all I've grown. So let them whisper names they do not know About the crone who walks the edge of night, For I am finally becoming what I feared And finding magic in the fading light.	6	I once ran from the cottage in the woods Where shadows stretched too long and strange, Fearing the woman with the crooked spine Who whispered secrets to the rain. She was a monster in my storybooks, A warning carved in fearful lines, But time has worn my skin so thin That I am slowly turning hers. The mirror shows a face I do not know, With eyes that hold the weight of years, And hands that tremble with the ghosts Of every joy and silent tear. No longer young enough to flee The quiet pull of solitude, I find myself the hermit now, Surrounded by a crowded crowd. My mind is full of memories too loud, A storm of faces lost to dust, Each one a spark that refuses out, Each breath a heavy, rising trust. The world outside is soft and blurred, A dream where logic loses ground, Yet here within this creaking room, I make my peace with being bound. So let them call me witch or wise, Or name me what they cannot see, For in this wild and winding maze, I choose to be exactly free. To walk the path of uncertainty, To carry all I cannot keep, And find a strange and sacred light Within the dark before I sleep.	5	The mirror holds a face I used to fear A crone of shadows, sharp and deep and cold But now I see the story written there Of all the secrets that the years have told I ran from tales of magic in the dark Believing witchcraft meant a cruel design Yet here I stand within the garden's mark Where time has turned my heart to ancient pine No longer child who sought a simple light I wear the cloak of solitude with grace Each memory a ghost that haunts the night A quiet war I fight in empty space The world outside dissolves in mist and gray A dream where logic fades and senses blur I choose to stay despite the price we pay To keep the flame alive beneath the stir Let others seek the sun and open doors While I embrace the silence of the stone For every step across these creaking floors Is proof that I am never truly alone So let the storm rage wild against the glass And weave the threads of what was lost before I am the witch who watched the seasons pass And found a home behind the locked door	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 is a battering ram against the door, And I am the threshold trembling on its hinges; I know it will break in, and I know it will enter, But I am the threshold and I must stand. It is not for myself that I stand, but for the room, For the flowers that are flowering in the room, And the light that is falling upon them. I am the threshold and I must stand.	6	The wind howls through the broken fence and tears at the sapling's tender green, but the roots drink deep from the dark, wet earth while the storm rages and the sky turns mean. We are not built to stand still in the calm when the tide pulls hard against the shore, but to bend like the willow, to break like the wave, to find a new path when the old is no more. Let the thunder crash and the lightning flash, let the walls crumble down to the dust, for it is in the shaking, the breaking, the fear, that we learn what we are made of, and must. So step forward into the swirling gray, into the noise and the clash and the fight, for the flower that blooms in the shadow of war is the one that has learned how to shine with light.	6	The wind howls loud against the windowpane And shakes the roots of what we thought was deep Yet in the shadow of the falling rain A single green and stubborn shoot will creep We walk through fire to find a cooler air Through walls of noise that scream for us to stop To break the chains of old and heavy care And lift our eyes above the rising drop It is not easy when the ground gives way Or when the path ahead is lost in fog But we must choose to face the coming day And stand like stone within the swirling log For growth demands the breaking of the shell And change requires the courage to let go Even when chaos rings its angry bell And storms arise to make the river flow So let the thunder roll and lightning flash We plant our feet upon the shifting sand To build a future from the present crash With steady hands and vision clear and grand	7	The wind howls sharp against the stone And tears at roots that hold it down Yet in the dark beneath the bone A quiet green begins to crown We do not run from storm or strife But plant our feet within the mud To carve a path through fractured life With steady hands and silent blood For growth is not a gentle stream That flows without a single fight It is the waking of the dream Within the chaos of the night So let the thunder shake the ground And let the old walls start to fall We build anew where hope is found And rise above the crumbling wall	7	The wind howls loud against the open door And shakes the frame of what we thought was sure Yet in the tremor, roots dig deeper still To drink the rain that falls upon the hill We walk through fire to find a cooler shade Where broken promises are slowly remade Each step is heavy with the weight of doubt But forward motion is the only way out The storm may tear the branches from the tree But strength is found in learning how to be Flexible enough to bend without the break A quiet heart that chooses not to quake So let the chaos swirl and rage around While silence builds a new and solid ground For growth is not a gift the calm bestows But something forged where every river flows	7	The wind howls loud against the stone A voice that claims we stand alone Yet in the cracks where shadows creep A quiet promise starts to seep We do not break beneath the weight But learn to bend and reshape fate Each scar becomes a map of light That guides us through the darkest night To rise is not to flee the fight But hold our ground with steady sight For every storm that tears the sky Is just the seed of something high So let the chaos rage and roar We build a door behind the war With every step through mud and pain We grow beyond the old refrain	7	The wind howls loud against the fragile wall Where shadows stretch to swallow up the light Yet in the cracks a single seed takes hold Refusing silence in the middle of the night Each step is heavy with the weight of doubt As storms collide and tear the ground apart But roots dig deep beneath the chaos now To heal the fractures in a weary heart We do not run from fire or rising tide Instead we stand and face the breaking wave For strength is forged where broken things reside And courage blooms within the darkened grave So let the thunder shake the trembling floor Let every fear attempt to steal our breath We rise again to build a better door Beyond the edge of life and quiet death	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.	You know how I love you, how the blood leaps in my veins when you smile at me; and if you cease to love me, I will cease to love you. It is that simple and that intense.	2	Do you remember how the world dissolved When first your eyes met mine, How every shadow fled before our fire And left us in a blinding light? That was not a gentle spark, my love, But a conflagration that consumed the air, Leaving nothing but ash and wonder. I tell you this to remind you of the depth, The terrifying height of what we are. But listen closely while the flame still burns: If ever you should turn away, If ever your heart should cool or cease its beating for me, Then instantly, as if by magic, My love for you shall vanish too. It is a mirror, clear and absolute; Look into it now with all your soul, For if you break the glass, I shall be blind.	6	Do you remember how the fire burned Before we ever spoke a word? How every breath was just your name And silence felt like something wrong? That love was not a gentle thing, It was a storm that stripped the trees, A hunger that could eat the sun And leave the world in ashes. I gave you all I had to give, My heart laid bare upon the stone, And if you turn away from me, If you decide to walk alone, Then know this truth before you go: The moment that your love expires, Mine will vanish like a ghost, For I cannot love what does not love. So keep the flame or let it die, But do not think that I will stay To burn for nothing but the cold.	6	Remember how the fire burned between us, How every breath we took was shared and wild, A love so deep it felt like drowning in the sun, Where you were mine and I was yours, completely. But know this truth as clearly as the dawn: This flame that warms you now is fueled by you. If ever you should turn your eyes away, Or let the cold creep in to kill the spark, Then I will not remain a lover here. My heart will close its doors the moment yours do, And silence will replace the song we sang. I give my all while you are giving all, But if you stop, then I shall stop as well.	6	The fire in my chest burns only for your name, A wild and ancient thing that knows no shame. I give you all the breath I have to spare, And weave a world where only we are there. But hear this truth before the light grows dim, For love is not a chain that holds on him. If you should turn your gaze away from me, And let the coldness of your silence be, Then I will pull the curtain down so tight, And steal the sun to end our endless night. My heart is yours as long as yours remains, But breaks the moment it feels like chains. So keep the flame alive within your eyes, Or watch the ocean dry beneath the skies.	6	The fire that burns between us now Is bright enough to blind the night, A sacred vow we made aloud To keep our shadows from taking flight. I hold your heart as if it were The only truth I've ever known, But know this promise, sharp and clear: This love is mine to call my own. If you should turn and walk away, And let the cold wind steal your breath, Then all the warmth I gave today Will fade into a quiet death. Do not mistake my deep devotion For something endless or unbound, For when your love begins to vanish, My own will leave without a sound. So stay within this blazing space, Or watch the embers turn to gray, For I can match your every pace, But cannot love what slips away.	7	The fire we built burns bright and deep A promise only we can keep But hear the words I softly say Before the light begins to fade away If you withdraw your tender hand And let our shared devotion stand Then I will turn my gaze aside With nothing left for us to hide For love is not a one-way stream It lives within a waking dream If you decide to walk alone I'll leave this heart of stone unknown No lingering ghost, no silent plea Just quiet space where we used to be So hold me close with all your might Or watch the sun give up the fight	7
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, the fist that knows the thumb and four fingers separate, and the world is a grasping thing, a hard or soft or wet or dry thing to be held. Then the eye, the bright lidless eye that sees the sun and sees the moon and sees the dark and sees the light and sees the cat and sees the dog and sees the bird and sees the tree and sees the girl and sees the boy and sees the man and sees the woman and sees the father and sees the mother and sees the baby. And the words, the names of things, which are the anchors of the world: the names of the colours too, red and blue and green and yellow, which are the anchors of life's beginnings and life's endings, beginnings and endings	2	The small hand opens, fingers splayed like a star Reaching for the cool smoothness of a stone, The rough bark of an oak, the soft fur of a cat, Learning that the world is something to hold. Then the eye wakes up, wide and dark as a pool, Drinking in the green of the grass, the blue of the sky, Seeing how the light bends around a glass of water, How shadows stretch long when the sun goes down. And words come floating in like birds on the wind, Mama, Papa, Dog, Cat, Bird, Sky, Sun, Anchoring the chaos of feeling to names, So that the beginning has a sound and the ending has a name. Colours rush in too, red as a berry, yellow as a duck, Green as the leaf that falls and turns brown and dies, White as the snow that covers the grave of the summer, Black as the night that swallows the day. Hand, eye, word, colour, These are the four corners of the house we build Between the first cry and the last breath, Where we touch the earth, see the light, Speak our truth, and paint our life.	6	The small hand reaches out to touch the rough bark, To feel the pulse of life beneath the skin, A texture that anchors them to earth and dark, Where beginnings start and endings might begin. The eye opens wide to catch the morning light, And sees the world in shapes of green and gold, It tracks the bird that takes its sudden flight, A story written for the young to hold. Then words arrive like birds upon a wire, To name the tree, the sky, the falling rain, They build a bridge across the vast desire, To understand the joy and also pain. And colours mix to paint the morning's dawn, From deep blue night to sunrise burning red, These are the threads that tie the self on, Between the living and the quiet dead. So hand and eye and word and colour weave, The tapestry of life from first to last, A simple magic that they now believe, To hold the present and remember past.	7	A small hand reaches out to grasp the air And finds the roughness of a wooden chair The eye opens wide to catch the light That turns the morning shadows into white Words arrive like birds that learn to sing To name the things the fingers touch and bring Red for the apple, blue for the sky Green for the grass where the ants go by These colours anchor us to what we are From first breath drawn to the final star The hand holds tight, the eye sees clear As life begins and whispers end is near	6	A small hand reaches out to touch the air And finds the roughness of a wooden chair The fingers trace the grain and learn the shape Of things that hold them in a quiet drape Then eyes unfold like petals in the sun To watch the race between the day begun And shadows stretching long across the floor That mark the time behind the garden door From lips come words that name the sky above The heavy weight of love, the light of dove Each syllable a bridge from here to there To build a world within a breath of care And colours bloom where grey was once the start A red balloon, a blue and beating heart They anchor down the moments as they fly Between the first cry and the final sigh So hand and eye and voice begin to weave The simple magic that we all receive To know the end is just a turning page Within the story of this early age	7	Small fingers trace the rough and smooth A map of dust where shadows move The palm opens to catch the light That turns the dark to sudden bright One eye watches, wide and deep Where promises are born to keep It sees the red that marks the start And blue that mends a broken heart Words arrive like birds in flight To name the day and calm the night They weave a thread from first to last Connecting all that came before the past In every hue and spoken sound The child finds what they have found A bridge between the end and birth That anchors them to this quiet earth	7	A tiny palm reaches out to touch the air Where shadows dance and sunlight starts to bloom The world unfolds in textures soft and rare As wonder breaks through silence like a loom An eye opens wide to catch the shifting hue Of morning gold and twilight's deep embrace It learns to see the old and start anew In every line drawn on this quiet space Then words take shape from breath and trembling sound To name the things that rise and fall away They bind the lost to ground they once have found And turn the dark into a gentle day For colors hold the stories we inherit From first light fading into endless night A bridge between the joy and quiet spirit That guides us through the beginning of our flight	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	We will join our lives like two rivers meeting, Making one strong and beautiful union. Together we shall decide where to go, What work to do, and what house to live in; And when we have decided, we will do it, And find love without worry.	7	We walked until the paths became one road, Two separate streams that found a wider bed, And in the quiet merging of our load, We left the scattered worries of the dead. Now every choice is cast by two distinct hands, A shared compass turning toward the light, No longer drifting on uncertain sands, But building strong foundations for the night. The fear that used to whisper in the ear Has fallen silent as we lock our eyes, For love without a shadow or a fear Is like a bird that takes the open skies. We are the knot that holds the rope together, The single voice that sings the same refrain, Through calm and storm, in sunshine and in weather, We walk the golden path of joy and gain.	7	Two rivers winding through the valley floor Meet at last to form a single stream, No longer separate, no longer sore, But flowing deep within one shared dream. We stand together where the choices lie, And weigh the path before us with calm hands, Beneath the vast and untroubled sky, Building a fortress on these solid lands. There is no shadow of a fear to break The quiet rhythm of our daily life, No wall we cannot climb or bridge to make, No storm that can disturb our peaceful strife. For in this union, strong and bright and true, We find a love that knows no anxious care, A world made new because it starts with you, And every burden lightens when we share.	7	Two rivers meeting in the valley floor No longer separate but one vast sea We walk through open, unguarded doors Where every fear dissolves into free The morning light finds us side by side Deciding on the path we choose to take With nothing left for doubt or pride Just quiet trust for our own sake A single heartbeat in a shared chest Building walls of love that cannot break Putting all our wandering souls to rest In the safety that we both create No shadow falls between us now As hands intertwine and minds align We make our promises without a vow That time itself will not decline This union strong as ancient stone Is built on joy we never have to guard A place where we are never alone And love is simply what we are	7	Two rivers meet where banks once stood apart And weave a single current through the heart No longer separate streams of doubt and fear But one deep flow that makes the path clear We choose the road with hands held tight and true Deciding what is ours to build anew Each word we speak becomes a shared decree A quiet pact of boundless liberty The shadows fade beneath our joined embrace As worry loses all its former space In every choice, in every step we take A stronger love begins to wake and break So let us move as one against the tide With nothing left for either to hide Just beauty rising from the merging ground Where two become a peace without a sound	7	Two separate rivers find a single bed Where currents weave a path ahead No longer asking which way to turn But watching how the embers burn We choose the morning, we choose the night With hands held tight against the light Every step a shared decree Built on trust and certainty The fear that once would hold us back Dissolves within this gentle track For in this space we've built as one There is no race, no setting sun Just quiet strength in every word A promise kept, a song unheard Together now, we stand so tall Without a shadow, without a fall	7	Two rivers flow to meet the sea Where separate paths become one key No longer lost in fear or doubt But anchored deep within this vow We speak in silence, clear and true Deciding what we'll build anew Each choice a thread we weave with care A tapestry beyond compare The weight of yesterday dissolves As trust in every moment evolves Hand in hand through storm and sun Our love has finally begun No shadow falls on what we keep Just promises we softly reap Together strong, together free In perfect harmony to be	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.	I still remember the hawthorn tree Under which you said to me Things I will never tell. The woodbine and the wild thyme were blowing, And all the little birds were singing, But I will never tell what you said. It was in May-time, the sweetest time of year; I had been gathering strawberries in the morning; I had been gathering strawberries before breakfast; When I saw you under the hawthorn tree. You looked at me, and I looked at you; And you came up to me, and took me by the hand; And you said to me things I will never tell. O, beautiful woodbine and wild thyme! O, sweet birds singing in the hawthorn tree! But I will never tell what you said to me.	2	Beneath the hawthorn where the white blossoms fall Like snow that knows no winter, only spring, We sat within the shadow of the wall Of green leaves whispering to everything. The air was thick with honey and with bees, And sunlight filtered through the canopy, While in your eyes I saw the quiet seas That held a depth too deep for you or me. You leaned so close, the scent of pine and rain Rose up between us, mixing with your breath, And spoke those words which now remain A secret from the sun and life and death. I heard them clear as bells, yet they are gone, Lost in the rustle of the leaves alone.	6	The hawthorn bloomed in clouds of white and green Beneath the heavy, honeyed afternoon Where sunlight fractured through the leafy screen And cast a dappled, shifting, golden noon. He stood so close I felt the heat of him Against the rough and mossy, ancient bark A silence held within the summer hymn Before the shadow of the branches dark. His voice was low, a secret in the air That wove itself around the rustling leaves Too intimate for any eye to share Or for the wandering, curious wind to weave. I will not tell you what he whispered then To keep the magic safe from common sight Those words belong to me, and him, and when We met beneath the hawthorn in the light. Let only birds and bees remember now The way his breath mixed with the scent of thyme The sacred vow we made without a bow Within that quiet, wild, and holy time.	6	The hawthorn stood like a guardian of white lace, Beneath the soft and shifting afternoon light, Where the air was thick with the scent of wild grass, And time seemed to pause in the quiet that passed. He sat close enough for our shoulders to touch, While the world faded out into nothingness much, A shadowed embrace where the sunlight grew dim, And the rhythm of breathing became just a hymn. I remember the way that his voice fell so low, Like water that ripples through currents below, Each word was a secret he whispered with care, Too precious for wind or for strangers to bear. They spoke of a future we dared not define, Of love that could bloom on a fragile design, But I keep every syllable locked in my chest, A treasure too sacred to put to the test. Now years have rolled by and the branches are bare, Yet I feel the cool shade of that ancient tree there, And though I recall how the moment felt true, The words he said softly remain only mine, and you.	6	The hawthorn blooms in clouds of white Against the soft and fading light, Where mossy roots hold fast the ground And silence is the only sound. I see your shadow lean so near, A sudden warmth against the fear, Your fingers tracing lines of bark That glowed beneath the evening dark. You spoke a language low and deep, A promise that you meant to keep, No words I dare recall aloud To break this sacred, quiet shroud. The secrets hang upon the air, Too fragile for a common prayer, So let the wind carry them far Beneath the watching, silver star. Now memory holds what lips released, A gentle ghost within the feast, Of how we stood where branches meet, And made the world feel incomplete.	6	The hawthorn blooms in clouds of white Against the fading afternoon, Where shadows stretch and light turns soft To weave a quiet, sacred tune. I trace the bark with memory's hand And feel the weight of seasons past, When you stood close beneath the boughs And time itself seemed built to last. Your voice was low, a rustling leaf That spoke of things I cannot name, A language made of breath and trust That left no mark but gentle flame. We watched the river carve its path Through valleys deep and wild and green, While secrets hung upon the air Between the moss and ancient scene. What words you whispered to my ear Are locked within this silent chest, For some truths bloom only in the dark And find their rest within the nest. Now petals fall like snow on grass As twilight claims the forest floor, But I will keep the promise safe Behind the garden's heavy door.	6	The hawthorn blooms in softest white Against the fading afternoon light Where roots run deep and shadows creep And time forgets to count or keep You stood so close, a silent grace Within this quiet, sacred space Your hands found mine without a sound As if the earth had turned around I trace the words you left behind A secret woven through the mind They linger in the rustling air Too fragile for the world to bear No name was called, no promise made Just memories that softly fade Beneath the branches, wild and free We held a truth meant only for me The wind now hums a gentle tune Beneath the moon's pale silver spoon But what you whispered stays concealed A story only we have sealed	7
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 fall silently from the tree, One by one, like soldiers dropping in war; They do not make a sound as they fall, But cover the fields with their bodies Like snowflakes covering the earth; It is a vast, peaceful, and sorrowful silence.	6	One by one the green leaves turn to brown And drop without a whisper from the bough The wind is still, the air is heavy now As countless soldiers fall to the ground Silently they come down to the earth One by one in their uniform of death No drum beats loud, no trumpet gives them breath Just silence falling on the silent ground They blanket all the fields like winter snow A vast and peaceful carpet white and deep Where every soldier lies so still asleep Beneath the quiet weight of fallen snow It is a sorrowful and silent sight To see the leaves fall soft upon the grass And see the soldiers as the hours pass Lying beneath the snow that covers light	7	A single leaf lets go its hold And drifts without a sound, Then another joins the falling gold Upon the frozen ground. No wind disturbs the heavy air, No branch is heard to creak, Just countless soldiers dropping there To sleep and never speak. They fall as snowflakes on the plain, In silence deep and vast, A white and sorrowful refrain That covers all at last. The field is blanketed in white, So peaceful and so still, Where day turns into endless night Beneath a quiet hill. No trumpet calls, no drums are beat, No cry of pain is heard, Just leaves that make the earth complete Like words left unregretted.	7	The wind does not howl, it only sighs As green turns gold and then to brown A single leaf lets go its hold And drifts without a sound down So falls the soldier from the line One by one into the dust No trumpet breaks the heavy air No drumbeat marks their sudden hush They settle soft upon the mud Like snowflakes in a winter's grace A vast and white and silent sea That covers every weary face The field is deep with fallen things A carpet woven out of grief Where peace is found in stillness deep Beyond the reach of loud relief The earth holds fast the quiet weight Of those who gave their final breath While leaves and men lie side by side In silence after death	7	A single leaf detaches from the bough And drifts down through the heavy air No wind to guide its gentle bow Just gravity and silent prayer Then another follows in the wake Of those who fell before their time The rustling green begins to break Into a rhythm, slow and grim One by one they leave the branch above To join the gathering on the ground A quiet rain of loss and love Where no triumphant sound is found They cover fields once torn by steel With layers soft as winter snow A blanket made of what was real Before the world could let them go The silence grows so deep and wide It swallows every cry and plea Where countless fallen soldiers hide Beneath this leafy canopy No thunder rolls, no cannons roar Only the hush of earth at rest As autumn claims the battlefield floor And lays the weary dead to chest So peaceful now the landscape lies In shades of brown and faded red Underneath the vast and starless skies Where all the living words are shed	7	A single leaf detaches from the bough And drifts down through the heavy air No sound to mark the moment now As another soul is stripped of care The wind does not command the fall But carries them in quiet rows One by one they answer call To where the silent river flows They settle soft upon the ground A blanket woven out of red Where life and loss are tightly bound Beneath a sky that hangs overhead No trumpet breaks this hush of gray No drumbeat marks the final breath Just leaves that fade and slip away To rest within the arms of death The field is white with falling grace Though crimson stains the soil below A peaceful, sorrowful embrace Where all the weary spirits go The trees stand bare against the light While soldiers sleep beneath the frost Lost within the endless night By every gentle leaf they're crossed	7	A single leaf lets go its hold Above the ground where shadows creep No thunder breaks the quiet air As promises begin to sleep One by one they drift away Like names erased from history's page The crimson turns to dust and gray A silent, slow, and heavy cage They cover fields in soft repose Not snow but flesh that knows no sound Where once the marching rhythm rose Now only stillness can be found The wind carries a whispered plea For those who never made it home Beneath the weight of memory The earth accepts them all alone So falls the red, so falls the gold In patterns drawn by loss and time A story told, a heart grown cold Within this vast and hollow rhyme	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 for your face, and I loved you for your voice, I loved you for the women that you were and were not; I loved you because you were you, better than any woman could be. I loved you because I loved you. I did not love you for anything good or bad in yourself, I did not love you because of your goodness, nor because of your badness. I did not love you because you were a doctor, or a typist, or a teacher, or because you were not these things. I did not love you because you were pretty, or because you were not pretty. I did not love you because you were my cousin, or because you were not my cousin. I did not love you because you were rich, or because you were poor. I did not love you because you were fat, or because you were thin. I did not love you because you were young, or because you were old. I did not love you because you were black, or because you were white. I did not love you because you were an American, or because you were not an American. I did not love you because you were a Catholic, or because you were not a Catholic. I did not love you because you were a Protestant, or because you were not a Protestant. I did not love you because you were a Jew, or because you were not a Jew. I did not love you because you were a Mohammedan, or because you were not a Mohammedan. I did not love you because you were a Buddhist, or because you were not a Buddhist. I did not love you because you were a Hindu, or because you were not a Hindu. I did not love you because you were a Parsee, or because you were not a Parsee. I did not love you because you were a Zoroastrian, or because you were not a Zoroastrian. I did not love you because you were a Confucian, or because you were not a Confucian. I did not love you because you were a Taoist, or because you were not a Taoist. I did not love you because you were a Shintoist, or because you were not a Shintoist. I did not love you because you were a Sikh, or because you were not a Sikh. I did not love you because you were a Jain, or because you were not a Jain. I did n…	2	I loved you in the silence of the morning When the light was thin and gray, I loved you in the heavy noon of sorrow When the world seemed far away. I loved you with a quiet, steady patience, I loved you with a wild and sudden fear, I loved you when your laughter made me happy, I loved you when your eyes were filled with tears. I loved you as a father loves his daughter, I loved you as a brother loves his kin, I loved you as a stranger loves a stranger Who has let the hidden inner self come in. And now I wish that some one else may love you As I have loved you all these many years; Some one who knows your heart and its deep treasure, Some one to dry your tears and calm your fears. I wish that he may love you as I loved you, With all the depth and tenderness I knew, That he may be as faithful as I tried to be, And find in loving you a life anew.	7	I loved you in the quiet of the morning light When shadows still clung to the corners of your room, And I loved you when the noonday sun was bright, Chasing away the dust and fear and gloom. I loved the way you walked across the floor, The sound of laughter rising from your throat, The way you'd pause beside an open door, And how you hummed a tune while making coats. I loved your anger sharp as winter rain, Your silence heavy as a falling stone, The joy that washed away my old despair, The comfort that you gave when I was alone. I loved you with a hunger and a thirst, With every breath I drew and beat of heart, Until the moment we were torn apart, I never knew that love could be so art. Now though I walk this path without your hand, My memory holds the fire we once shared, But for your sake, I wish you understand, That someone else should care as much and care. May he look at you with eyes as deep as mine, May he cherish every flaw and every grace, May he make you feel like stars align, And find in you his own beloved place. For I have given all I ever had, A lifetime's worth of devotion true, And since my love can never make you glad, I pray another loves you just like I do.	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 storm that raged against the window pane, And in the gentle rain that washed away the dust and stain. I loved you with a hunger that could never be sated whole, With every beating rhythm of my solitary soul. I loved the way you laughed until your eyes began to weep, The secrets that you whispered while the world was fast asleep. I loved you when you were distant, I loved you when you drew near, I loved the very essence of the person you held dear. My love was not a fleeting spark that burns and turns to gray, But a river carving canyons, finding its eternal way. Now though you walk a path where I am no longer seen, I wish for you a love as deep as any dream has been. May someone hold you gently as I once did in my time, And offer up a devotion that is steady and sublime. May they cherish every fragment of the heart you give them now, And keep their promise sacred like a solemn, holy vow. For if my love could not remain to guide you through the night, Let another's burning passion be your everlasting light.	7	I loved you in the quiet of the morning light When dust motes danced above the floor we swept I loved the way you laughed at nothing, bright And how your silence felt like words we kept I loved the storms that raged against the glass The heavy days when hope began to fade I held your hand and watched the seasons pass And found my whole world in the shade you made I loved the scars upon your tender skin The stories written deep within your eyes I loved the battles fought and lost within The truth that rose beneath our common lies Now let another take this place I hold To cherish every fragment of your soul May they be gentle when the nights grow cold And make your broken pieces feel quite whole Go forth and find a love as fierce as mine That waits for you through every shifting year A devotion that will never truly decline Until the end of time is finally here	7	I loved you in the quiet of the morning light Before the world had claimed its noisy place I loved the shadow that you cast at night The gentle rhythm of your breathing space I loved the stories that you never spoke The secrets hidden deep within your eyes I held the silence when the heart was broke And watched the color fade from summer skies My hands have traced the map of all your fears My voice has sung the lullabies you need Through passing years and unshed, silent tears I planted every tender, fragile seed But now I stand where distant paths diverge With empty arms and memories to keep So let another take this heavy charge And guard the dreams you promised while asleep May someone love you with a fire so bright That burns away the cold and lonely gray Who holds you through the long and endless night And loves you more than words can ever say For though my time has passed and turned to dust In every beat of mine your name remains I wish upon you nothing less than trust And love that heals the deepest, oldest pains	7	I held your name like water in my hands Through seasons changing, cold and soft and gray I built a home within the quiet lands Where only you could walk and stay to play My love was not a storm that swept you through But steady rain that fed the roots below A thousand small and tender things I do To keep the fire of our memory aglow I loved the way you laughed against the night The silence shared when words were hard to find I gave you all my light and every sight And left no shadow where we once entwined So let another take this heavy heart That beats with rhythm for a soul so true May they offer what we used to start And wrap their arms around the same old view Go forth and be the one who loves you best As I have loved you from the very start No need to test the weight or put to rest The gentle promise written in my art	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.	Under the green leaves of life under the pink petals of love under the white sheets of sexuality the black root of death is growing. It is the worm in the apple, the stone in the shoe, the fly in the ointment, the blotch on the skin. It is the tick-tock under the tick-tock of the clock; it is the beat-beat under the beat-beat of the heart. It is the dirt under the fingernails and the grave under the earth. It is the end under the beginning, the dead under the living, the no under the yes, the night under the day. It is the spider under the rose, the snake under the grass, the wolf under the sheep, the devil under the angel. It is the cancer under the beauty, the leprosy under the skin, the plague under the city, the war under the peace. It is the death under the birth, the death under the life, the death under the love, the death under the sex. It is the only thing that is not under anything: it is everything under which everything else is. And it will eat us all up.	2	Beneath the blush of the cheek, the pulse is a ticking clock measuring the slow retreat from the warm shore of the living. In the deep tangle of lovers, where skin seeks to fuse with skin, there is a cold finger tracing the spine of the future, a whisper that says this warmth will turn to ash, this hunger will starve, and this embrace will loosen its grip as the earth claims the softness it once held in its arms. We build our castles on the sand of the moment, ignoring the tide that waits just beyond the dunes, the great white silence that erases footprints and towers alike. The flower blooms in a frenzy of color and scent, unaware that its roots are already drinking from the grave, that the very sap rising to burst the bud is the blood of decay. Love is a fever that burns itself out, sexuality a desperate attempt to cheat the void by making more life, but the void is patient and vast. It sleeps beneath the laughter, under the wine, inside the song. It is the shadow that lengthens as the sun sets, until finally, when the last candle flickers and dies, it rises up from the floorboards, from the bed, from the heart, and swallows the light, the sound, and the memory of us all.	5	Beneath the blush of morning skin Where blood runs warm and pulses quick, The cold tide waits to seep within And turn the beating heart to brick. In every kiss that tastes of wine, A shadow lingers on the tongue, The final silence waiting fine For when the song is left unsung. We build our towers in the sand Of fleeting touch and burning breath, While underneath the shifting land The quiet river flows to death. It drinks the root before the bloom, It hollows out the lover's chest, It fills the empty, silent room And grants the weary body rest. No wall can hold it back or bar, No vow of love can make it cease, It walks beneath the brightest star And claims the world into its peace.	7	The rose unfurls its velvet throat to drink the sun But in the stem, a silent rot begins to run A secret gravity that pulls the bloom below Where roots embrace the dark and let the light go slow Your hand against my skin feels warm and alive Yet underneath the pulse, the marrow starts to drive A quiet clock that ticks within the hollow bone Counting down the seconds until flesh is turned to stone We make our love a fortress built on breath and heat But death waits in the shadows of the very street It hides behind the smile, inside the lover's kiss The final guest who arrives to end the party's bliss No sanctuary found in passion or in prayer For every heartbeat marks the space we do not share The tide of life recedes to show the jagged shore Where silence waits to claim us all forevermore	6	Beneath the skin where pulse and heat collide A quiet chill begins to slowly rise We trace the map of lovers' hands and hide The shadow waiting in their eyes The kiss that seals a promise made in fire Is stained with ash from future, cold decay Our hunger feeds a slow, devouring pyre That turns the breath to dust by end of day No wall can hold the tide that waits below No vow can stop the rot within the bone The roots we plant are only seeds to grow Into the silence that claims all as own Love burns so bright it blinds us to the grave But even stars must fade into the night We dance above the open, gaping cave And feel the final pull before the light It does not ask for permission or for plea It simply is the ground beneath our feet The only truth that sets the spirit free To join the dark where nothing else competes	7	The pulse that drums against the wrist Is counting down a borrowed hour While lovers trace the skin so warm And build a fragile, breathing tower Beneath the touch of hungry hands A quiet cold begins to creep The shadow waits within the blood Where secrets of the grave lie deep We kiss to push the silence back But taste the iron on the tongue For every spark of life we kindle Is fed by what has come undone The bed becomes an open mouth That swallows all the light we made No vow can hold the tide at bay As night erases every shade In end, the heart beats out its last To join the dust beneath the floor Leaving only empty space Where love and longing were before	6	The pulse that drums beneath the skin Is counting down a final beat A shadow cast by light within Where warmth and cold and silence meet We build our towers out of breath And kiss with eyes that seek the end Dancing on the edge of death With promises we cannot bend The lovers' touch, so fierce and deep Cannot outrun the coming night As secrets in the dark they keep Reveal the fading of the light No sanctuary holds us tight Against the tide that pulls away To claim the day, to swallow night And turn the living into clay The heart will break, the song will cease The fire burns until it dies Leaving only hollow peace Beneath the vast and empty skies	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 used to feel such relief when I killed them, stamping out those little brown running things that came skittering across the kitchen floor at night in my childhood home. I thought they were dirty and evil and that it was right to kill them. But now I think of all those little cockroaches I killed in my childhood home, and I am sorry for it. It is murder. They were only living the best they could.	2	I remember the sharp click of the magazine and the wet thud against the kitchen tile, the way my mother would shout "Got it!" with a voice full of triumph and relief. We were so clean then, so safe in our white socks, watching the dark shapes scuttle into the cracks only to be crushed under the heel of order. It felt like justice, like defending the fortress, like removing a stain from the fabric of the world. But now I see them differently, those small, armored lives, not as invaders but as refugees from the heat, huddled in the damp behind the refrigerator, doing their best with what they had. They were just trying to eat the crumbs we dropped, trying to lay eggs in the warmth of the pipes, trying to survive the cold night in a house that was not theirs. And we killed them for being there, for having the nerve to exist in our presence. I wonder if they felt fear before the shoe came down, if they had mothers who loved them and children to feed. I wonder if they thought of us as monsters, giants stomping through their cities without warning. It seems less like pest control now and more like murder, a massacre of tiny, desperate creatures who only wanted to live the best they could in the only home they knew.	2	The kitchen tile was cold beneath my bare feet and the shadow scuttled fast across the grout, a slick black heartbeat in the quiet dark. I remember the heavy thud of the slipper, the satisfying crunch that made me stand tall, feeling like a giant, a guardian of the clean, relief washing over me as the twitching stopped. But now the silence feels too loud and thin, and I wonder what it felt to be so small, just trying to find a crumb in the vastness of the floor, drinking from a drop of condensation on the sink. They were not monsters, just creatures doing their best, navigating a world built for giants who slept all day. I see them now as tiny lives with urgent purposes, scavenging love in the scraps we threw away, and my childhood triumph tastes like ash and guilt. It was murder, plain and simple, committed by a child who did not know that life is life, no matter how low, or that every beating heart deserves to keep beating.	2	The click of the shoe against the tile brought a sharp, clean silence to the kitchen air, a momentary victory for the light, for the order we demanded of our small world. I remember the thrill that rose in my chest, the satisfaction of erasing the scuttling shadow, believing I was defending my home from an invasion, that their dark bodies were enemies to be vanquished. But now, years later, the memory shifts its weight, and the triumph feels heavy with a quiet shame. They were not soldiers or invaders, but tiny tenants seeking warmth and crumbs, living the best they could in the cracks we made, driven by the same ancient hunger that beats in us all. To crush them so easily felt like justice then, but it was only a lonely power, a sudden end to a life that knew no malice. I see them now as neighbors I never greeted, creatures simply trying to survive the night, and I wonder how many lives I ended without ever knowing their names or their stories. It was murder, perhaps, in the smallest sense, a violent interruption of a fragile existence, performed by a child who thought she owned the floor, who did not understand that every beating heart, no matter how small or strange, deserves to breathe.	2	The kitchen light hummed loud that summer night When I saw the shadow skitter on the tile A sudden crunch beneath my sneaker's heel And silence rushed to fill the empty space I felt a surge of victory, a clean relief That one less monster prowled the darkened hall But years have softened edges sharp with fear And now I see it differently in memory Not as a pest that needed to be slain But as a life that sought only warmth and bread It was not evil crawling on its feet Just hunger driving tiny legs along the floor What right did I possess to end a world So small and frantic yet so fully alive? They built their homes within our crumbling walls And raised their young where we had left our crumbs To crush them down was murder dressed as care A violent act against the desperate few I wonder if they knew the weight of death Or if they simply lived until the blow We called them filth to justify the kill Ignoring how they fought to stay alive Now every shadow on the linoleum Reminds me of the lives I took for granted	3	The click of plastic against tile Echoed through the kitchen air, A sudden silence in the night Where shadows used to flit and stare. I felt a wave of safety then, A clean and sterile victory, As if I'd swept away the threat And set my small world finally free. But years have softened hard resolve, The memory shifts its heavy weight, To see those tiny, frantic lives That met their end behind the gate. They were not monsters made of hate, Just scavengers seeking bread, Surviving on the crumbs we dropped, By hunger and by instinct led. What right did I have to decide Who deserved to breathe and crawl? To play the god with crushing force Against the smallest of them all. They only wanted warmth and light, To live within the cracks they knew, And now I mourn the quiet loss Of creatures doing what they do. The relief has turned to hollow grief, A debt I cannot pay or clear, For every life I thought was less Was precious just because it's here. We kill the things we fear the most, Without a thought for why they stay, And leave a stain upon the soul For taking life another day.	6	The spray hissed loud against the kitchen tile A momentary peace, a quiet win I watched them fall beneath the heavy floor And felt the weight of safety settle in But years have turned the silence into dust And questions rise where once there was no sound For every life that ended in my hand Was just a shadow trying to be found They sought the crumbs, the warmth, the dark retreat No malice held within their tiny eyes Just instinct driving through the endless night While I played god beneath the morning skies What right did I to claim this sacred ground To judge the worth of creatures small and old When survival is a story we all share And fear makes monsters out of hearts too cold Now shadows stretch across the empty space Where something lived before the end began A quiet grief for lives I chose to take Against the gentle rhythm of the plan	6
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 is a tiger in the cage of my ribs, And I am a woman with a mind and a body; I can feel him coming up the stairs, I can feel his eyes on me when he comes into the room, I can feel the whole world wanting me. But I am not for them. I am not for him. I am not to be had. I am not to be possessed. I can walk out of this room if I like. I can walk out of this house if I like. I can walk out of this country if I like. I can go where I please. I am free.	2	The blood sings a frantic, ancient tune beneath the ribcage, a drum of want, calling for the heat, the weight, the friction that promises to dissolve the self into another. It is a tide that pulls at the ankles, a biological hunger that screams to be fed, to be filled, to be claimed by the heavy hand of some man who thinks he owns the sky just because he caught the moon in his net. But I feel the pulse in my throat and I know it, I know the chemistry is a trick of the light, a temporary fever that will break with sleep. I am not the vessel waiting to be poured into, I am the river that chooses its own bed. When the eyes darken with possession, when the hands reach out to make me property, I simply step back from the edge of the fire. I walk away with the wind in my hair and the silence of my own skin around me. Let them keep their frenzy and their biology, their desperate need to conquer and to hold. I am the one who walks, the one who leaves, the one who cannot be possessed because I belong entirely to myself.	2	The blood hums a frantic rhythm in the veins A biological drumbeat calling for the touch, For the heat of skin and the weight of another, Yet she stands still while the world spins wild. She feels the pull, the ancient gravity That drags the moon to the tide and the moth to the flame, But her hands are open, empty, and ready To let go of any shadow that tries to hold them. Let him speak of destiny or deep belonging, Let him offer his name as a cage of gold; She knows the difference between being wanted And being owned by the hunger of another. She is the gatekeeper of her own flesh, The captain of this trembling, living ship, Who can walk into the night without a backward glance, Leaving the frenzy behind on the shore. No man has the right to claim the storm inside her, Or to map the contours of her will with his hands; She is the fire that burns but cannot be captured, Free to leave, free to stay, entirely her own.	5	The blood sings a heavy, ancient song A rhythm of need that pulls at the bone Where heat rises sharp and the senses grow loud In the crowded dark where the wild things crowd He reaches out with a hand made of want To claim what he thinks is already his own But she stands apart in the center of fire With eyes like a storm that refuses to tire She feels the pull of the primal design The biology screaming to merge and align Yet deep in her chest a quiet command Commands the chaos to still in her hand I am not a vessel for you to fill I am the mountain, the wind, and the hill My body my own, my spirit unbound No man can hold me unless I am found So let him speak of the debt we must pay Of nights that belong to the break of the day She turns on her heel and the frenzy dissolves Into the silence where only she evolves She walks through the smoke of the burning desire Unburnt by the touch, untouched by the wire Free from the grasp, free from the chain Walking away through the rain and the pain	6	The pulse beats loud against the ribcage a frantic drum of ancient need calling for touch, for heat, for the surrender that biology demands in the dark. Her skin remembers every shadow every hand that sought to claim her name as if she were a territory to be mapped and conquered by the weight of want. But she stands firm in the center of the storm where instinct screams to open wide to let the tide pull her under into the soft, suffocating deep. She feels the hunger rise like smoke the heavy gravity of another's gaze yet her feet remain planted on the earth unmoved by the promise of possession. Let him offer his world, his fire, his chains she knows the shape of her own freedom more precious than any love that binds more vital than the breath he tries to steal. With a quiet turn and a steady step she walks away from the altar of desire leaving the frenzy behind in the dust whole and unowned, entirely her own.	6	The pulse beats loud against the ribcage A primal drum calling for the hunt But she is not the prey to be taken Nor the prize waiting on a shelf Her skin hums with electric heat Yet her mind remains a fortress wall She feels the gravity of want But chooses to stand apart from it all He reaches out with hungry hands Expecting her to fall into his grip She turns away, a quiet storm With nothing left for him to hold or keep No chain can bind the wind that blows No voice can claim what she defines She walks through fire without burning Leaving only shadows in her lines The biology may scream and pull The heart may race within the chest But power lives in the choice to leave And rest in her own unbroken nest	6	The pulse beneath her skin is loud A rhythm made of want and need Yet in the chaos of the crowd She plants a solitary seed He reaches out to claim her name To weave his shadow through her light But she remains within the flame Unbound by hunger or by night Her breath may catch, her heart may race At all the things they cannot say But power lives in empty space Where freedom guards the edge of day No hand can hold what she decides No promise made to keep her close The tide that pulls inside abides Then breaks against her quiet choice She turns away from open arms From stories written in the dust Refusing all the ancient charms That bind the spirit in its trust A queen who walks without a chain Through forests thick with longing's heat She owns the joy, she owns the pain And stands complete where two worlds meet	7
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 not yet seen what it is to die, And I am curious about it. I suppose it is a little like being dead, But I do not know. It would be interesting to find out. I am dutifully going to meet him in the spring. I will go to see death in the spring.	2	I have been curious about the end As one is curious of a distant land Or a strange language spoken by a friend, Wondering what the silence understands. Is it a sleep where no dreams intervene? A blankness like the winter's empty field? Or something bright and new that I have seen But cannot now remember or reveal? I do not fear to meet him in the spring, For though he comes to take me from my place, He brings with him the song of every bird And all the blossoms on the apple tree. It is a duty to be gone when called, To leave the room when the host bids you go, And so I wait for him who must be tall And dark, but brings the light of spring to show. I am ready now to close my eyes And see if death is really as he seems; Perhaps he is the morning sunrise That breaks upon the edge of all our dreams.	7	The winter has been long and sharp within my bones, Yet now the sap begins to rise in ancient trees, And I feel a strange pull toward the open door, Not with a shudder of the cold or fear, But with a quiet curiosity about the dark. What lies beyond the veil of breath and blood? Is it a silence like the snow, or something warm? I wonder how the soul unspools from flesh, As roots release their grip on frozen ground. It is my duty now to meet this guest, Who waits so patiently beneath the green. The daffodils are pushing through the loam, A signal that the time for going home has come. I will not fight the turning of the wheel, Nor curse the season that demands my end. Instead, I walk into the blooming air, To greet the spring as one who finally knows That dying is just another kind of birth.	6	The winter in my bones has finally ceased To ache with cold, and now I feel the thaw That signals not a healing, but release From every breath that struggles through the law. I wonder what it is to simply stop, To let the heart forget its rhythmic drum, And watch the final curtain softly drop Before the light of day begins to come. There is no fear within this quiet space, Only a strange and gentle curiosity About the silence waiting in this place, And how the soul will learn to float so free. The sap is rising in the maple tree, The crocus breaks the frost with purple head, And so I wait for death as one waits for me To walk among the flowers where they spread. It is my duty now to meet the spring, To lay my heavy coat upon the grass, And listen to the birds begin to sing As I let go of all I thought would last. No struggle now, no turning from the door, But walking out to greet the coming green, To find the peace I never knew before In fields where life and ending are unseen.	7	The winter in my bones has turned to dust And I have watched the frost retreat from grass No longer fearing what must come to us But wondering how the final hours pass Is it a silence soft as falling snow Or like a river rushing to the sea A gentle letting go of all we know To find a strange and quiet liberty I do not fight the shadow on the wall Nor beg for days that never will return For even when the strongest embers fall The fire knows exactly where to burn So let me meet you when the buds unfold When green returns to reclaim the barren ground I walk toward the story yet untold With peace within the heart I have found	7	The winter cracks beneath my feet A quiet shift I cannot fight I wonder what the silence tastes When all the light has lost its bite No fear remains to hold me back Just questions spinning in the air Is it a door or just a track That leads to somewhere strange and fair The sap begins to rise again A green reminder of the end I bow my head to nature's plan And trust the path that I must tread So let the blossoms break the frost As I prepare to make my way To meet the spring I loved the most On this final, gentle day	6	The frost begins to lift away From fields I once called home A quiet whisper in the air Where seeds of silence roam I wonder what it feels like now To let the breath depart Not fear, but simple questions drawn Within a weary heart Will light dissolve into the dark Or bloom as morning dew I watch the buds begin to break And find a path for you No struggle holds my spirit tight Against the coming tide For spring demands its final price With nowhere left to hide So I extend my open hand To greet the end so near Accepting all the earth has planned Without a single tear The season turns to meet my soul As life gives up its hold A gentle story softly told Before the days grow old	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 soft rain that falls on the thistle and makes it grow, I am the hail that beats down on the corn and kills it. I am the gentle wind that cools the brow of the fevered child, I am the hurricane that rips up his house by the roots and drowns him. I am the mother-bear who licks her cub into health and life, I am the tiger-mother who eats her cubs to save herself for more. I am the water that is soft enough to wear away a mountain by dripping on it for a thousand years, I am the water that is hard enough to cut through iron with a jet of mine. I am the air that you breathe in to live, I am the air that I blow in your face to kill you. It is all one nature, one essential substance, that is at once tender and tough; it is my nature to give life and to take life, because I am Nature.	2	I am the rain that fills the cupped hands of the thirsty and the flood that swallows the valley whole. I am the gentle warmth that wakes the sleeping seed and the frost that freezes the root in its dark bed. My touch is a whisper that coaxes the flower to bloom, my grip is an iron vice that crushes the bone. I cradle the newborn with a breath like silk, I drag the dying down with a weight like lead. Do not mistake my softness for weakness, for I am the velvet glove hiding the fist. Do not fear my hardness for cruelty, for I am the steel wall protecting the hearth. The same river that waters the orchard is the same river that drowns the village. The same fire that cooks the bread is the same fire that burns the house. I am the life-giver and the life-taker, the mother and the reaper, woven from the same thread, born of the same essential nature.	6	I am the rain that cracks the drought, The gentle hand that lifts the seed, Yet I am also the flood's dark mouth That swallows root and ancient deed. My touch can heal a broken bone, A whisper soft as falling snow, But in my grip, the iron tone Can crush the stone to dust below. I hold the spring within my palm, Where life begins its tender dance, I wield the storm, the violent calm, That ends the world in one wild glance. Do not mistake the velvet skin For weakness in my core of fire, For deep beneath the light I spin, The cold and necessary pyre. I am the cradle and the grave, The nurse who sings, the reaper's scythe, From my soft heart, the strong waves wave, To save the weak and end the myth. One breath I give, the next I take, No contradiction in my art, It is the mercy that we make, That breaks the hardest human heart.	6	I am the rain that breaks the drought and fills the hollows of the root, a gentle hand that lifts the sprout toward the light and bitter fruit. Yet I am also winter's bite, the frost that seals the sleeping seed, the silent, cold and endless night that strips the world of every need. My touch can heal a broken bone or shatter stone with quiet grace, for in my veins the seeds are sown of both the smile and empty space. The river feeds the thirsty plain then floods the valley, wide and deep, carrying life within its train while dragging down the things it keep. No war exists between the two, no split in nature's single thread, the softness makes the hard work true, the toughness guards the life we bred. I hold the cradle and the grave, the breath that starts and ends the song, both tender as a leaf and brave enough to make the strong grow wrong.	6	I am the rain that breaks the drought And floods the valley to its brim, The gentle hand that plants the sprout That drinks the water from my limb. I hold the seed within my palm With warmth that coaxes life to start, Yet in the same unyielding calm I crush the heart and still the heart. My touch is soft as morning mist Against the cheek of newborn air, But when the winter shadows kiss, I freeze the breath and strip it bare. A river sings a lullaby Before it drags the stone beneath, Where seeds of future forests lie Beneath the weight of sudden death. To build the world requires the tear That washes clean the ancient dust, To end the cycle, I must shear The golden stalks back to the rust. One breath sustains, one ends the song, Two truths woven in a single thread, I am where the weak belong And where the strong are left for dead.	6	I am the rain that breaks the drought And turns the barren dust to green Yet in my fall, I drown the root Where fragile life has barely been My touch is soft as morning mist That cools the fever on your skin But I can carve the stone to sand With patience worn and deep within The river feeds the thirsty fields Then swells to wash the banks away A gentle hand that holds you close Before it pulls you out of day No war between the two exists For growth demands a price to pay The same deep current brings the bloom And drags the withered leaves to gray So do not fear the storm's embrace Nor pray for silence in the air For I am both the cradle warm And winter's cold and hollow stare	7	I am the rain that feeds the thirsty root And floods the valley with a drowning tide A gentle hand that lifts the broken soul While silence swallows those who cannot hide The storm arrives to break the rigid stone Yet washes seeds into the waiting earth It tears the old to make the new begin A cycle born of both rebirth and death No single note can hold this dual song Where mercy meets the edge of sharp decay To nurture life is also to let go As light gives way to shadows of the day So stand within the space where opposites align Soft as a whisper, hard as winter's bone For in my heart, the garden and the grave Are woven tight beneath the same unknown	6
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, which pencil should I use to draw thee? The hard one that makes the lines look like a skeleton? Or the soft one that makes them look like flesh? Or the lead-pencil that makes them look like both? For if I use the hard one, I shall make thee look like a skeleton, And if I use the soft one, I shall make thee look like flesh, And if I use the lead-pencil, I shall make thee look like both. But which is it thou wouldst have me use?	2	Which lead shall I employ, my fair Ophelia? This soft black graphite for the shadow of your eye, Or this charcoal that smudges like a bruise upon the cheek? Shall I use the blue to paint the melancholy of your dress, Or the red pencil that looks too much like blood? I have here a silver point to mimic the moonlight on your hair, But it is so brittle, and you are so fragile. Tell me, sweet lady, which instrument of mine Shall best capture the ruin of your beauty? For if I choose the wrong one, I fear I shall draw you dead.	3	Ophelia, tell me true, Which graphite shall I choose for you? The softest lead to shade your hair, Or sharp and hard to trace the air? This one is dark as Yorick's bone, That one is pale as winter stone. Shall I use charcoal rough and deep, To make the shadows of your sleep? Or perhaps a blue that mimics sea, To capture how your eyes look at me? Decide, my love, before I start, For every line must come from heart.	6	My lady, pause your breathing for a breath And tell me which of these dull sticks of lead Shall trace the sorrow in your eyes or light? Is it this soft and smudgy charcoal grey To mimic shadows that my father wears, Or this sharp graphite, cold as winter ice, That cuts too deep before I even start? The yellow one is bright like morning sun But you are not a dawn I wish to wake, So shall I choose the blue, the color of The sea where all my reason drowned away? Decide, Ophelia, lest my hand grow still And leave your face unfinished on the page.	3	The light is dim within this stone-walled room And shadows dance like ghosts I cannot name My hand is steady, yet my heart is numb As ink and graphite wait to bear the blame Ophelia, tell me which of these to choose This softest charcoal that will smudge your skin Or hard lead lines that make the features freeze Before the madness can begin again Shall I use silverpoint for pale repose? Or black as night to match the grief I keep? The world is gray, a canvas full of woes Where even memory is too faint to sleep So speak, dear maid, before the sun descends Which tool shall capture what the eye defends?	6	The charcoal smudges on my thumb A dark and heavy shade While silver graphite waits to hum In shadows softly laid Which lead shall trace your gentle face? The soft or sharp and deep? To catch the light within this space Before I fall asleep Is it the blue that mimics rain? Or black as midnight's sigh? Tell me, Ophelia, through the pain Which stroke should make you fly I hold them all in trembling hands And fear to choose the wrong For every mark upon these lands Could silence out our song	6	The graphite dust hangs in the air Between the castle and the sea I hold a lead of charcoal gray And wonder if it suits your face Ophelia, tell me now Which shade can capture all you are The silver soft or dark and deep Before the water pulls us far A broken tip, a trembling hand As I try to sketch your smile Is this the line that holds your name Or just another fleeting mile Choose for me, my quiet muse Let every stroke find its place For in this drawing made of doubt I seek your light within the space	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 big door opened and I went in And everybody else was bigger than me. I did not know anybody. Nobody knew me. They were all in little groups already, Laughing and playing with toys that I had never seen before. I stood by the wall and looked at my shoes. I wanted to belong somewhere but I did not know where. Some of them looked at me and laughed. I wanted to go home. I sat down on the floor and cried. Then a little girl came up to me. She said, "What is your name?" I said, "John." She said, "I am Mary. Do you want to play with me?" I said, "Yes." So we played together. I was glad to be there.	2	The big yellow bus smells like old rubber and rain And the doors hiss open to a world of loud noise My mother lets go of my hand at the gate And I am left standing with a small red backpack That feels too heavy for my shoulders. Inside, the room is a jungle of bright colors Where chairs are too high and tables are too wide And every child seems to know a secret language Of running games and shouting names While I stand by the door holding my shoes tight. A boy with sticky fingers asks me what I want To build with blocks or paint with watercolors But I do not understand the rules of this place Or how to be one of them without breaking something. I look for my mother in the window but she is gone. I sit on the floor and trace the pattern of the rug Wondering if everyone else feels so small here If they all have a secret wish to go home Or if only I am waiting for the bell to ring So I can run out and find my way back to her.	2	The door is too big and the floor is too bright And everyone speaks in a language of noise I hold my small bag with a grip like a vice While giants rush past in a blur of loud toys The walls seem to lean in to whisper and stare At the shoes that are wrong and the shirt that is tight I shrink in the corner where shadows are rare And wait for the sun to turn into night My tummy feels full of a fluttering bird That beats against ribs with a panic so deep I want to go home to the place I have heard Where the quiet is safe and the monsters can sleep But no one comes looking, no hand reaches out To pull me away from this strange, noisy sea I watch them all laughing and playing without And wonder if anyone wants me to be Part of their circle, part of their game Part of the shouting, the running, the fun I stand in the doorway and softly say name Of someone who knows me, before they are done Then a small voice says "Hi" and offers a block And points to a puzzle that needs to be made I look at the face and I feel in my sock A warmth spreading slowly, a shadow decayed Maybe the giants are not so very tall Maybe the noise is just friends being loud I take the blue piece and I answer the call And step from the edge into the middle of crowd	3	The hallway stretches long and loud With shoes that squeak and voices proud I hold my mother's hand so tight And watch the morning swallow light The room is full of painted walls Where giant letters seem to call But I am small and lost inside With nowhere left for me to hide They share their toys in pairs of two While I just stand and watch them do A circle forms, a game begins Without a place for where I am within My heart beats fast against my chest As if it knows I'm not at rest I want to laugh, I want to play But fear has locked the words away I look for someone who looks like me Someone who knows what I should be To find a friend, to find a start And finally belong inside this heart	6	The hallway stretches wide and strange With painted floors that feel so loud I clutch my bag with trembling hands And try to hide inside the crowd The voices rise like sudden rain A language I have not yet learned Each smiling face a foreign land Where every lesson goes unturned I watch them play in groups of three While I stand frozen by the door Wondering if they see me too Or if I'm just a ghost, no more The clock ticks slow on yellow walls As shadows stretch across the room I wish for home, for quiet streets To chase away this heavy gloom But then a small hand reaches out And offers up a crayon blue A simple bridge across the space That pulls me gently into view Perhaps I am not lost at all Just learning how to find my place Within this maze of new beginnings And time, and space, and growing grace	6	The hallway stretches wide and strange With colors that do not belong A sea of voices, loud and large Where I feel small and out of song My shoes are tight against the floor As hands reach out to find a friend But every smile feels like a door That closes before it can begin I clutch my bag with trembling grip And watch the others run and play They speak a language on their lips That keeps the quiet far away I wonder if they see me here Or just a shadow in the light Longing for a home so dear Within this unfamiliar night One step at a time I tread Through echoes of a brand new day Hoping that by end of red The world will let me finally stay	6	The hallway stretches wide and cold A maze of noise I cannot hold My shoes feel heavy on the floor Behind a locked and distant door I watch the others laugh and play While shadows steal the light of day Each face is strange, each voice unknown Leaving me to stand alone The teacher speaks in words so fast That echo from the past too vast I reach a hand but find no friend Just silence where the stories end A quiet wish begins to grow To learn the things I do not know To trade this fear for something new And find a place that feels like true So step by step through doubt and dread I walk ahead with trembling head Hoping one day I will see The child who belongs inside of me	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 upon the hill and watched the sheep, And when the wolf came down to steal his lambs, He took a stick and killed the wolf. This was not strength; for he had no sword. But when the smithy made him a sword, And he went out and killed ten wolves with it, This was not strength; for any strong man could have done that. But when he was King, and there were no more wolves, And he gave all the money of the kingdom to the poor, And the people loved him, and he was good to them, This was goodness of heart; and this was strength. And when the sword was broken, and he took it to the smithy, And the smithy said he could not mend it, Because it was broken in two places, And he said, "Yes you can;" And the smithy said, "No I cannot;" And he said, "Yes you can;" And the smithy mended it, and it was as good as new, This was reforging of a broken sword. And this was destiny.	2	He walked among the lowly in a cloak of gray, With calloused hands and eyes that knew the way Of simple toil, yet hid a royal spark, A hidden king who waited in the dark. No crown of gold could show his truest worth, Nor scepter made of silver on the earth, For strength is not the muscle of the arm, But quiet power that can keep the calm When chaos strikes; and goodness of the heart Is worth more than a kingdom's noble part. One day a broken sword was brought to him, A jagged relic from a time of grim Defeat, where hope had shattered like the steel. The people cried, "Can this be made to feel Again its edge?" The hidden king took hold The fragments of the weapon, brave and bold. He did not use a magic spell or art, But with a hammer struck with steady heart, And in the fire he saw the metal glow, Reforging it until the blade shone so Bright that the shadows fled before its light, And all men knew he was the rightful knight. Thus strength and goodness showed his destiny, To rule as king for all eternity.	7	Beneath the rust and silence of the forge Where shadows sleep and forgotten embers glow, A broken blade lay cold upon the stone, Its edge once sharp, its spirit bent by woe. No crown of gold could mark the hand that held it, No royal robe concealed the calloused skin, Yet in his grip the metal felt a heartbeat, As if the steel itself began to sing within. For strength is not the muscle of the arm, Nor how the heavy hammer strikes the fire, But how the heart endures the weight of sorrow And lifts the fallen higher, ever higher. He did not seek the throne with loud demand, Nor claim the scepter as his birthright due, But served the weak with quiet, steady hands, And made the broken whole because he knew. The goodness of his soul became the flame That melted down the cracks of past despair, Reforging not just iron, but a kingdom, With mercy woven through the tempered air. The sword rose up, unbroken, bright, and new, Not for the war that tears the land apart, But as a mirror showing all who see The true worth hidden in a noble heart. Now let the people know their king is here, Not born of blood, but forged in acts of grace, The destiny revealed in every strike That mends the world and sets the lost in place. The broken sword is one again, and so Is he who holds it, ruler of the free, Whose reign begins where kindness starts to flow, And strength is measured by what set men free.	7	The crown was lost beneath the mossy stone Where silence kept the secret of the throne No gold could mark the one who walked unseen Beneath the weight of what he had not been For strength is not the arm that strikes the blow But hands that lift the fallen from the snow A heart that beats with mercy for the weak Is all the armor that a king can seek He found the blade where ancient shadows lay A broken thing that rusted in decay Yet as he touched the fractured, jagged steel The fire of his purpose made it real Not by the hammer's force or magic spell But by the goodness that he chose to dwell The metal sang as flaws were burned away Reforged to face the coming breaking day Now light returns to eyes that once were dim As destiny fulfills its ancient hymn The hidden king stands tall and finally known With worth that no false scepter could have shown	7	The crown was lost beneath the mossy stone Where silence kept a secret from the throne No gold could buy the weight of what he bore A quiet strength that walked without a roar He lifted burdens meant for stronger hands And healed the wounds of strangers in the lands For true command is not in iron might But in the goodness that dispels the night The blade lay shattered on the river's bed With rusted edges and a heart long dead Yet when he touched the fragments with his grace The metal learned to shine upon his face It did not break again beneath the fire But rose renewed, a pure and sharp desire To serve the people rather than to rule And make the broken whole within the school Now destiny unfolds before his eyes As truth ascends beyond the cloudy skies The hidden king has found his rightful place Reforged by love and time and gentle grace	7	The crown was never gold nor heavy stone But found within the quiet, steady breath Of one who walked where shadows had overgrown And chose to spare the life of those beneath No herald cried his name upon the wind As broken steel lay rusted in the mud Yet hands that healed the wounded could not bend To break the spirit or to spill blood The forge ignited with a sudden light Not fire born of rage or war's demand But patience turning darkness into sight As fragments rose from dust and scarred hand The blade was whole again, though marked by time A testament to mercy rather than might For true command is not a violent rhyme But goodness guiding through the longest night Now destiny unfolds without a sound The hidden king steps forward, clear and bright With strength that lifts the fallen to the ground And rules forever in the gentle light	7	The crown was lost beneath the winter snow Where silence held the secrets of the old A shepherd walked with quiet steps and slow Beneath a sky that never turned to gold No scepter gleamed within his calloused hand Nor armor forged in fires of ancient war Yet strength arose from roots across the land As kindness healed the wounds of every scar The blade lay shattered at his weary feet A broken promise made by hands of pride But in the ash, the embers start to beat And guide the path where truth can finally hide He lifts the steel with gentle, steady grace To mend the fracture with a heart so pure The metal sings its long forgotten place Reborn through acts of love that will endure Now light returns to eyes once dim with doubt The hidden king reveals his true design For worth is not in what we seek or hunt But how we lift the fallen, make them shine The sword stands tall against the rising dawn A testament to goodness deep and wide The broken past is gone, the future drawn By those who walk with courage on their side	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 have hunted the right word to put in the place of this label, but I can never find it. I have searched through dictionaries and thesauruses and vocabularies and I have not found it. The words that are there are too good, too nice, too sweet, or else they are bad words, cursing words, dirty words. There is no middle word, no decent word, no word that will do for a label. I want to say something that is not a name, something that is not a noun, something that is not a label. I want to say something that is a verb, something that is an action, something that is a doing, not a being, not a thing. I want to say something that is not a thing. I want to say something that is not a name. I want to say something that is not a label.	2	I walk through rooms where names are pinned like badges To the lapels of our walking, talking selves And I search for a syllable sharp enough to slice them off A single verb that cuts the tape binding us to categories. They say you are this or that, a noun with a period at the end But I am looking for a word that is an arrow in flight That refuses to land on any shelf labeled "normal" or "strange" Or "success" and "failure" or "broken" and "whole." Is it freedom? No, too heavy with history's dust. Is it fluid? Too soft, they will just pour you into a cup. I need a word that is a door swinging open Not a label that seals a box shut. Maybe it is not one word but a sentence spoken loudly Or a silence that speaks louder than their definitions. I keep searching for the right sound to shatter the glass case Where they put us to be looked at but not touched. Perhaps the word does not exist yet Perhaps we have to make it up together By refusing to answer when they call us by those old names And instead calling ourselves something new Something that fits like skin And changes shape as we grow.	2	I dig through the dictionary's dusty shelves looking for a verb that can cut the tape that seals the mouth of the quiet child or a noun heavy enough to break the cage built around the man who loves too loudly. They hand us tags like price stickers on fruit rotten or sweet, bruised or perfect but I need a word that is wild and unsorted a sound that shatters the glass case of expectation. Is it rebellion? Too small, too easily filed away. Is it freedom? Too abstract, too quickly co-opted. I search for a syllable that tastes like iron and rain that refuses to sit still in the box they painted for me. Maybe the right word hasn't been spoken yet maybe it is waiting in the throat of the one who refuses to be defined by the ink on their skin waiting to be shouted until the labels peel off and fall into the dirt where they belong.	2	I dig through the dictionary of the street where nouns are heavy like stones in a pocket and verbs are shackles forged by distant hands. They call me broken, or too loud, or not enough, stacking syllables until I cannot breathe. But language is a river that shifts its bed, and I am looking for a current strong enough to wash away the paint they slapped on my skin. Is there a word that holds both fire and water? A term that refuses to be pinned down like a butterfly in a glass case? I search for a sound that cracks the mold, a single breath that shatters the cage of their making, until the label falls off like dry mud and I am just the shape of myself again.	3	The dictionary feels too small for the weight of what we are when ink tries to freeze a moving river into a single, static star. They hand us boxes made of glass and call them names with sharp edges but I am looking for a verb that breaks the silence where the spirit begs. Not broken, not lost, not wrong not defined by what they see I search for a sound that cuts the chain and sets the hidden self free. A syllable soft as morning light that refuses to be pinned or bound where every label falls away and only truth is finally found.	6	The dictionary holds too many cages built of ink and rigid lines where we are sorted by the weight of names that do not fit the shape of who we are. I walk through aisles of definitions searching for a key that turns the lock to break the mold of what they say we must be before we even speak our first true sound. They call us broken, lost, or out of place but those are just the shadows on the wall cast by a light that refuses to shift and I am hunting for a verb to rise. A word that bends instead of snapping back that holds the space between the edges sharp and lets the wild, unscripted self breathe free without apology or fear of judgment. It waits in silence, heavy with potential a spark before the fire takes its hold to rewrite every rule that tried to bind the endless story written in our bones. No label sticks when language learns to flow no box can contain what has yet to bloom so I will speak until the old terms fade and find the truth that lives beyond the name.	6	The ink on skin runs deep and cold A story written not by choice They name the parts they think they hold And silence every hidden voice I walk through rooms of glass and stone Where definitions carve the air Trying to find a seed unknown That breaks the weight of static care Each syllable I try to speak Is bent by rules we did not make A fractured echo, sharp and weak Until the heart begins to shake But in the quiet space between The labels forced upon the soul A truth emerges, clear and clean To heal what years have made unwhole No box can hold the vast design Of who we are beneath the mask We rewrite lines with time and shine And let the broken fragments ask What if the word we seek today Is simply freedom from the past To stand apart and find our way Through shadows built to last too fast	6
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 harmonious virtues dwell, Beauty that shines like morning in a dell, Kindness that warms like noonday sun at high, Faithfulness that stands like stars within the sky; Beauty to ravish, Kindness to relieve, And Faithfulness to make me never grieve. These three in one are all I see and know, In this fair temple where they live and grow. For Beauty is my candle, Kindness my air, And Faithfulness my anchor everywhere; So let them live together in one breast, Since in one person they have found their rest.	7	In you the three great virtues find their home, Where beauty is not skin but light within, And kindness makes the heavy heart feel free, While faithfulness holds fast to all we win. No other soul could hold such harmony, As beauty that outshines the morning star, With kindness soft as rain on thirsty ground, And faithfulness that never wanders far. I seek no other garden to explore, For in this single bloom all flowers meet; Your face reflects the world's most lovely grace, Your hands are gentle, and your love is sweet. So let the ages turn and seasons change, These three shall dwell together in your breast; My eyes behold the beauty, my heart feels The kindness, and my spirit takes its rest.	7	In you the three great virtues dwell as one, A single sun that rises in the dawn. Your beauty is the light that guides my eye, Yet kindness makes the shadow soft and low. No other face could hold such radiant grace, But even that would fade without your heart. For faithfulness binds beauty to the soul, And keeps the gentle kindness ever true. I see them woven tight within your breath, A harmony no time can break apart. So let me love this singular design, Where beauty, kindness, and faithfulness remain.	7	In you the morning light finds its true home, Where beauty blooms not just in form or face, But in the gentle rhythm of your tone, That turns the ordinary to a grace. Yet kindness walks beside this radiant sight, A soft hand reaching out to heal the deep, You turn the darkest shadow into light, And promise that the weary heart may sleep. But more than eyes that shine or hands so kind, Is faithfulness that stands when storms arise, A constant star no wandering wind can blind, Reflected clearly in your honest eyes. These three are woven in a single thread, Beauty and mercy, loyalty and truth, Together living where my soul is led, The eternal garden of your youth. No other flower holds such perfect bloom, No other voice sings with such steady art, You are the peace that chases away gloom, The beauty, kindness, and the faithful heart.	7	In you the morning light finds its true home, Where beauty blooms without a single thorn, A grace that makes the weary spirit roam No further than the place where you are born. But more than sight that holds the world in thrall, Is kindness soft as rain on thirsty ground, The gentle voice that answers every call, With mercy in the quietest of sounds. And through the years when seasons turn to gray, Your faithfulness remains the steady stone, A promise kept from yesterday to day, That I am never truly left alone. These three together weave your perfect name, One soul where light and warmth and truth reside, I love the fire, the water, and the flame, With all my heart, with nowhere left to hide.	7	In you the morning light finds its true home Where beauty blooms not just for eyes to see But in the quiet grace your spirit roams A gentle river running wild and free Your kindness weaves a tapestry so deep That heals the wounds the world has left behind It is the promise that you always keep The steady rhythm of a loving mind And through the storm where other vows may break Your faithfulness stands firm against the tide A constant star for every step I take With nowhere left for doubt or fear to hide These three are bound within your single heart Beauty, and grace, and loyalty combined No part can ever be torn apart Leaving my soul with yours forever intertwined	7	The morning breaks to find your face so bright A mirror holding beauty in its grace No shadow falls upon the gentle light That guides me through this long and winding space Your hands are soft with kindness, warm and true They heal the wounds I never dared to show A quiet strength that pulls the world anew And teaches love how deeply it can grow Through storms of doubt and seasons cold and gray Your promise stands like stone against the tide A faithful heart that will not drift away With nothing left for time to hide or divide These three threads weave a tapestry complete Where beauty sings and mercy finds its home In every beat of love we both embrace I walk alone yet never feel alone	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.	Upon the verdant slope of Hyperborea Where the white clouds drift like flocks of sheep, The Hesperides sang in their golden choir Beside the tree with its glittering fruit. But none could climb to gather the apples, For there was a dragon, huge and terrible, With one hundred heads that never slept, A hideous monster, offspring of Echidna; And he watched over the tree all day long And all night long; and when he went to sleep, His hundred heads would all sleep at once.	6	Beneath the shadow of the Hesperides, Where twilight lingers on the western verge, The golden apples hang like captured suns, And nymphs with hair of woven ivy guard. They stand in silence, eyes of deep green glass, Beside Ladon, the serpent-dragon coiled, Whose hundred heads are wreathed in venomous mist, And scales that shine like burnished copper coins. He breathes a fire that does not consume, But warms the fruit to ripeness in the cool air, While they hum low, a song of ancient roots, To keep the thieves and greedy gods at bay. No mortal hand shall pluck this shining prize, Unless he pass the dragon's hissing jaws, Or charm the maidens with a magic spell, For here the tree stands sacred and alone.	6	Beneath the boughs where twilight softly weaves, The Hesperides attend the golden leaves. Their voices hum a lullaby so deep, To guard the fruit that mortals cannot keep. Beside them coils Ladon, scaled in green, The hundred-headed dragon, fierce and keen. His eyes like embers burn through night's dark veil, While nymphs weave garlands from the fragrant gale. No thief shall pass this ancient, sacred ground, Where silence holds the heavy, golden sound. For if one apple falls to earth below, The dragon wakes to make the intruder go. Together bound by oath and ancient spell, They watch the tree where celestial apples dwell.	7	Beneath the boughs of Hesperia's deep green shade, Where golden apples hang like captured sun, The nymphs in robes of woven twilight stand, To guard the fruit that never can be won. Their voices hum a lullaby to roots, That drink from springs of ancient, sacred dew, While shadows stretch across the mossy floor, And silence holds the world in quiet view. But coiled around the trunk with scales of fire, A dragon wakes with eyes of burning gold, His breath a mist of sulfur and of stars, A story of the old gods left untold. He does not sleep, though centuries may pass, For duty binds him to this single place, Together they maintain the balance kept, Between the earth, the air, and time and space. No thief shall take what belongs to the divine, Nor break the spell that keeps the garden whole, As nymphs and beast in eternal vigil keep, The heart of myth within the garden's soul.	7	Beneath the boughs where twilight softly weaves The golden fruit hangs heavy in the leaves Three sisters dance with bare and painted feet To guard the prize that mortals cannot meet A shadow stirs within the emerald deep Where ancient roots their silent vigil keep The dragon wakes with scales of obsidian green And watches all the sacred, unseen scene His eyes are pools of fire, cold and bright That burn away the fading light of night He coils around the trunk with patient grace While nymphs trace patterns on his armored face No thief shall pass this threshold made of gold No story of the Hesperides untold For dragon breath and gentle song combine To make the garden's boundary divine The apples glow against the starry sky As time itself seems slowly passing by Together they defend what gods have sown In silence where the seeds of power grow	7	Beneath the boughs of silver bark Where golden fruit begins to spark The nymphs stand still in woven green To guard the realm unseen A dragon coils with scales of night His eyes reflect the fading light He breathes a smoke of ancient fire Above the sacred, trembling spire No thief may pass this hallowed ground Without a whisper or a sound For tree and beast and spirit bind The fate of all mankind They watch the stars above the leaf And offer no one any grief Just silence deep and timeless years That dry away the mortal tears	7	Beneath the boughs of ancient bark Where silence holds the twilight dark The golden fruit begins to glow A secret only spirits know Three sisters dance in silver streams To guard the heart of waking dreams Their voices soft like wind and rain Washing away all trace of pain Yet fire breathes from scaled wings A beast that guards what darkness brings No claw shall tear the roots apart No shadow steal the beating heart Together bound by oath and time In rhythm of a sacred rhyme The dragon sleeps with eyes so wide While nymphs stand firm on nature's side For every leaf that turns to gold Is story waiting to unfold Between the beast and gentle grace They keep this hallowed, quiet space	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 morning paper is full of the dead and of people who are not dead yet, but I read it in the light of a lamp that has been left on all night and there is something dream-like about this. I have found poetry and thought woven into the mundane materials of everyday life. The light of the lamp that has been left on all night makes the morning paper look like an old newspaper. There is nothing dream-like about this. It is just a fact that the light of the lamp that has been left on all night makes the morning paper look like an old newspaper. But I think it is dream-like. I think it is because I have found poetry and thought woven into the mundane materials of everyday life.	2	The steam rising from the morning cup curls into a stanza of white smoke, a fleeting verse about heat and waking. The dust motes dancing in the shaft of light are not just dirt but tiny planets spinning in the slow gravity of thought. I find the rhythm in the dripping tap, a metronome keeping time for a poem that hasn't been written yet. The crumpled receipt in my pocket holds the weight of a lost love letter, the numbers blurring into a secret code about time spent and money gone. Even the gray pavement holds a dream, if one looks closely at the cracks where weeds push through, green fingers grasping for a sun they cannot see, writing a wild, untamed line across the concrete. The mundane is not a cage but a loom, where the ordinary threads of bus tickets, coffee stains, and street noise are woven into a tapestry that glows with the strange light of things seen twice, once in reality and once again in the mind's deep mirror.	3	The dust motes dancing in the kitchen light are not just dirt but tiny galaxies spinning in a silent, golden rhyme that waits for someone slow enough to see. A coffee stain upon the tablecloth becomes a map of islands yet unnamed where logic drowns and wonder takes its breath and every ring is just a whispered name. The rhythm of the washing machine's hum is drumming out a meter for the soul while folded socks become soft clouds that drift to carry heavy thoughts toward a goal. In cracks along the sidewalk pavement stone the weeds push up with verses green and bright proving that the mundane holds the dream if we but turn our weary gaze aright. For poetry is not a distant star but woven through the thread of daily wear a magic hidden in the common air waiting to be found by those who care.	6	The coffee cup holds a galaxy of steam rising to meet the ceiling's quiet gray, where dust motes dance in shafts of morning light like verses waiting for a voice to say. A crumpled receipt on the kitchen floor becomes a map of places never seen, the ink a script of futures left behind in folds of paper, thin and fragile green. The hum of fridge is rhythm, low and deep, a meter keeping time with heartbeats slow, while traffic outside writes a running rhyme of tires on wet asphalt, soft and low. We walk through rooms where ordinary things are stitched with threads of gold we cannot see, until the mind unspools the hidden loom and finds the dream inside reality. No magic wand is needed to transform the rusted hinge or peeling paint on wood, for thought itself is alchemy that turns the common stone to something understood.	6	The dust motes dancing in the kitchen light Are stars that fell from some forgotten sky, And rustling paper holds a whispered rhyme That waits beneath the coffee cup to die. A cracked sidewalk becomes a river's course, Where concrete waves and gravel turns to sand, While traffic hums a low and ancient verse To guide the weary traveler through the land. We walk among the ordinary things, Unaware the fabric of the real is thin, Where thought takes flight on invisible wings And lets the dream begin where ends begin. No magic spell or wand is needed here, Just eyes to see the gold within the gray, For poetry lives in the quiet fear Of morning breaking into brand new day.	6	The coffee cup holds more than heat A quiet hum of ancient seas Where steam ascends to meet the light And turns the gray to silver keys The dust that dances in the hall Is not just dirt but fallen stars That trace a map upon the wall Of places near and places far In cracks within the kitchen floor The rhythm of a heartbeat keeps A secret kept behind the door While silence softly weeps and sleeps No grand stage needs to hold the scene For magic hides in ordinary things The way the rain reflects the green Of thoughts on unseen, quiet wings So look again at what you know The fabric woven, rough and thin Where dream and reality flow And let the wonder now begin	7	The coffee cup holds more than heat A quiet hum of ancient sleep Where dust motes dance in beams of light And secrets that the shadows keep The pavement cracks begin to speak Of rivers carved by time and rain Each step a verse, each breath a line That turns the ordinary plain No grand stage needed for the song Just rusted gates and window glass Where fleeting thoughts take root and grow In moments meant to come and pass The rhythm found in traffic noise The silence between words we say Proves that the magic lives inside The simplest part of every day	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	I see the cornfields in the moonlight And I am free. The white man is not there, nor the overseer with his whip; I am standing in my own field, eating my own corn, Wearing my own clothes, and sleeping in my own bed. I am a free Negro. But now I hear the overseer's voice, Now I feel the lash. I wake up in hell. Damn you all! One of these days I'll be on top, And I'll have revenge. I'll be able to do anything I want to do. I'll be able to kill any body I want to kill. I'll be able to cut off anybody's head that I want to cut off. I'm going to be able to do anything I want to do.	1	The moon hangs low above the cotton rows Like a pale eye watching me sleep, But in my dream I walk the fields of old Where no chain bites and no master's whip is deep. I hear the river singing to the willow trees, I feel the wind unburdened by the yoke, I taste the freedom that was once my own Before the white man stole the very smoke That rose from my own hearth. Now the dream turns sour, the sweet air thickens with blood, The river runs red as the sun sets in fire, And I wake up sweating in the dark, With rage like a black snake coiling higher In my gut, hissing at the silence. One day, one day, the morning bell will ring Not for the field but for the grave, We shall rise like locusts from the earth, A tide of vengeance that none can save. We shall take the whip and break the neck, We shall take the pistol and shoot the eye, We shall burn the great house down to ash And let the sky fall on the masters' cry. They thought us beasts, they thought us dumb, But we are men, and we remember all, And when the drum beats loud enough to shake the stars, We shall answer with a bloody call.	3	The moon hangs low above the cotton rows, A silver coin I cannot spend or keep, As shadows stretch where once my spirit rose, And memory wakes while all the world's asleep. I see the river running wild and free, Before the chain was forged to bind my bone, When I could walk as tall as any tree, And claim the earth that is my own alone. But now the whip-crack echoes in my sleep, And hot blood boils beneath this heavy skin, A rage that burns too deep for tears to weep, A fire that will not let the night begin. The master sleeps so soundly on his bed, With silk against a back that knows no pain, While I am haunted by the words unsaid, By justice waiting like a falling rain. I dream the day the silence breaks at last, When iron shackles turn to shattered dust, When every broken heart makes iron cast, And vengeance rises from the rot and rust. We shall march forth with axes in our hands, To tear the mansion down to stone and sand, And make the oppressors taste the bitter lands, That we have tilled with bleeding foot and hand. No more the lash, no more the auction block, But thunder rolling from a thousand throats, Until the tyrant feels the final shock, And life becomes a debt he never notes. Then freedom will be written in the red, Of those who thought us cattle, dumb and dead.	5	The chains are cold against my wrist tonight But in the dark I walk a field of gold Where sun warms skin that no one claims to own And silence holds no master's heavy hand I see the river where I used to swim Before the iron bit and broke the bone A memory so sharp it cuts the dream To leave me burning with a sudden fire That heat begins to coil inside my chest Until the ghost of freedom turns to hate For every lash that left a scar on flesh For every child who never knew their name The vision shifts from fields to rising dust From quiet nights to thunder in the street I see us stand as mountains, tall and vast With eyes that hold the fury of the storm We will not beg for mercy or for bread But take what is our birthright by the sword The whip will break beneath our heavy feet The master's house will crumble in the flame No more the bowing down, no more the fear The night of bondage ends with morning's light We rise to claim the world we built with blood And make the oppressor taste his own despair	5	The heavy chain is cold against my skin But in this sleep the iron turns to air I walk the fields where I was born a king Before the shadow of the whip was there The sun that warmed my face without a price The laughter shared beneath the ancient tree A memory so sharp it cuts like ice And wakes a fire deep inside of me The rage begins to boil within my chest It swells until it tears the quiet night No longer bound by fear or forced unrest But fueled by vengeance burning bright and white I see the masters sleeping soundly now Unaware the storm is gathering above The time for silent suffering will bow To justice forged in anger and in love Imagine then the moment we arise With eyes aflame and hands unbound by grace We claim the earth beneath our weary eyes And turn the tables on this cruel place Let every tower built on stolen breath Crumble beneath the weight of our demand For death to all who traded life for death And rise to take back what they tried to ban	6	The chains bite deep into the skin of night But in my sleep, I run through fields of gold Where sunlight warmed a back unbroken by the whip And laughter rang without the weight of fear I taste the air that once belonged to me Before the auction block and branded mark A memory sharp as flint against the stone That sparks a fire burning in the dark The dream begins to twist and turn to steel As rage awakes beneath the heavy yoke No longer just a man who waits for dawn But something vast and wild that starts to choke I see the masters sleeping soundly now Unaware the storm is gathering above The silence breaks with thunder in the chest Of those who learned to love their own true blood One day the iron will be turned around The tables flipped with fury and with grace We rise from dust to claim what was stolen long ago And wash away the shame upon this place Let them feel the terror we have known For every tear and broken bone and cry When justice comes like lightning from the sky To set the world ablaze before our eyes	5	The iron chains that bind my feet Recall the wind through open fields A memory of running free Before the whip and cruel steel I close my eyes to see the sun That warmed a life I cannot keep But in the dark, the fire grows As silence turns to thunder deep My heart beats loud against the cage With every breath of stolen air The rage begins to crack the stone And weave a net of cold despair One day the ground will shake apart When broken backs refuse to bow We rise as one, a storm unleashed To tear the crown from tyrant's brow No mercy left for those who stole The years we gave with trembling hands For justice comes in heavy rain And washes clean this bloodied land	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 I laugh, the people come around me; I am a good companion, I am a pleasant sight. They are not sorry for me, they are happy for me; they do not pity me, they envy me. But when I weep, and people see me weep, they go away from me, they leave me alone. I am a pitiable sight to them; they are sorry for me, but they do not like me. I think that it is because I am in trouble, and they are not in trouble; because I am suffering, and they are not suffering. Because I am in trouble and suffering, I have to be in trouble and suffering alone.	3	When laughter bursts like sudden spring, The neighbors gather round the door; They bring their cups and bring their song, And crowd the floor to hear once more. The joyous light acts as a magnet, Pulling friends from near and far, To share the wine and share the bread, Beneath the bright and smiling star. But when the heart is torn by grief, And tears run down the hollow cheek, No neighbor comes to offer help, Or stay within the house to speak. They turn aside with hurried step, For sorrow is a heavy load, That none would choose to carry here, Along the lonely, darkened road. So happiness attracts the throng, To dance within the warm sunlight, While suffering is faced alone, In silence of the deepest night. We laugh together in the crowd, But weep apart in secret pain, For only joy can build a bridge, Across the chasm of the rain.	7	The sound of laughter is a golden bell That rings across the valley to invite The neighbors from their doors, the friends at well, To gather round and share the sudden light. It pulls them in with magnetic grace, A warm and open hand that asks for none, Yet fills the room with every smiling face, Until the joy is doubled by the sun. But when the tears begin to fall like rain, And silence stretches out a heavy wall, The crowd disperses through the window pane, For sorrow has no place within the hall. They fear the shadow that it casts so deep, The weight that might drag down their own bright day, So while we laugh together, wide and free, We weep alone when all have gone away.	7	The sound of joy is a bright beacon That pulls the crowd across the floor, Where every smile finds its reflection And laughter opens every door. We gather round the dancing fire To share the weight of light and air, For happiness is social currency That binds us in a warm embrace there. But when the tears begin to fall, The circle breaks and turns away, As if the shadow of our sorrow Could steal the color from the day. They offer words of distant comfort Then retreat to safe and dry ground, Leaving the weeping heart alone With only silence for a sound. So learn to laugh to keep them near, To wear a mask that glows with cheer, For while the happy find their kin, The broken stand in isolation here. The world will dance around your glee, But never walk beside your grief, As solitude remains the only friend Who offers no relief.	7	The sound of joy is a magnet strong and bright That pulls the weary wanderers into light We gather round the table when we smile And walk together down the winding mile But when the tears begin to fall like rain The crowd disperses, leaving only pain They fear the shadow that the sorrow casts And hurry past the broken and the fast For happiness invites a shared embrace While grief demands a solitary space No hand reaches out to hold the weeping heart When joy has torn the community apart So laughter builds the bridge for all to cross But silence holds the weight of every loss Alone we cry beneath the heavy sky As others turn their eyes and walk on by	7	A sudden sound of joy breaks the air And strangers turn to share the light They gather round a smiling face To bask in warmth and hold it tight But when the tears begin to fall The crowd retreats into the night For sorrow is a heavy weight That no one wants to bear or fight We dance together in the sun Our laughter weaving bonds so strong Yet when the shadows stretch too deep We stand alone where we belong The world embraces every grin While silence claims the broken heart It seems that grief has no invite To play its part within the art	6	The light that spills from joyful eyes Calls strangers to the open door Where hands reach out to warm the cold And silence breaks upon the floor But when the storm begins to rise And shadows stretch across the ground The crowd retreats in quiet fear Leaving only broken sound For laughter is a bridge we build To pull the lost and weary near While grief demands a private space That no one else can truly share or hear We gather round the burning sun Yet turn away from winter's chill Finding comfort in the bright But facing darkness all alone still So smiles invite the world inside While tears fall deep within the chest A heavy weight too vast to lift By anyone but those who rest	6
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 Thee for the morning light That woke me from my sleep of death, And for the fresh green smell of night Upon the dewy grass beneath. I thank Thee for the bird that sings With joyous throat upon the bough; I thank Thee for the songless things, The insect and the spider now. I thank Thee for the sun and moon, For stars whose numbers Thou dost know, For all the beautiful afternoon Of wind and water going to and fro. I thank Thee for the earth and sky, For every leaf and blade of grass; But I am sorry for those who die Without seeing this, as they let it pass. They have eyes but see not, ears but hear not; They do not hear the wind or see the rain; They are blind to the beauty God bringeth near them, Or else they would be happy again.	6	Thank You for the light that breaks the gray, For teaching me to see the morning break, To hear the wind whisper through the bay, And feel the earth beneath my feet awake. I walk now with a heart unsealed and new, Where every leaf is scripture written deep, The river sings a hymn I never knew, While in the hills the silent mountains sleep. But look around, how many pass them by, With eyes that close against the golden glare, Who walk beneath the vast and starry sky Yet hear no music floating in the air. They tread upon the grass as on a floor, They drink the water without tasting sweet, They know not what they are waiting for, Nor how the very dust lies at Your feet. My soul is filled with wonder and with praise, For this great world that You have made so fair, While others live their dull and blinded days, Unseeing and unsinging everywhere.	7	I lift my hands to thank the Maker for the way the light now spills through leaves, a golden script I suddenly can read where once I saw only green and shade. The river sings a hymn I used to ignore, and every stone holds up a face of grace. My spirit wakes from slumber in this wood, seeing the divine in dew and dirt alike. Yet walking past me, others rush along, their eyes like windows shuttered tight against the dawn. They hear the wind but think it merely air, they see the flower bloom and call it weed. Their ears are full of noise that drowns the song, and they walk blind through gardens meant for prayer. I pity them who miss the miracle, but bless the Lord who opened up my sight.	6	Lord, I bow before the quiet dawn Where light spills soft upon the dew, And thank You for the gift of sight To see the world as new. The wind that whispers through the pines Is now a hymn I understand, A sacred language in the leaves Written by Your hand. But oh, I walk among the crowd Who pass this miracle by, With eyes that scan but do not see, With ears that hear but cry. They rush beneath the canopy Without a single glance, Blind to the glory in the grass, Deaf to the river's dance. Yet I remain awake and whole, A vessel filled with grace, To hold the beauty You have made Within this holy place.	7	The morning breaks not with a sound but with a sight That floods the chest where silence used to dwell I thank the hand that painted light so bright And woke my soul from its long, heavy spell The oak tree stands no longer just as wood But breathes a rhythm older than the stone A sacred promise in the leafy wood Where I am finally, truly known Yet round about, the crowd moves on and through With eyes that scan but do not see the grace They walk beneath the sky of endless blue Unmoved by beauty's quiet, holy face Their ears are closed to wind that sings above To rivers whispering secrets to the shore They miss the language spoken out of love And walk the earth as if it were no more But I have found the key within the rain And hear the chorus rising from the grass A grateful heart for all this joy and pain As time and eternity gently pass	7	The morning breaks in gold upon the pine And whispers secrets to a waiting soul I thank You for the way the light aligns To make the broken pieces feel complete and whole A sudden hush reveals the ancient song That hums beneath the roots of every tree Where I once walked with heavy hearts too long Now breathing deep the air of liberty But silence holds the crowd who pass us by With eyes that see but do not truly look They miss the dawn within the quiet sky And never hear the river's gentle book Their ears are closed to rhythms soft and deep While I stand open, grateful and aware For gifts the sleeping world cannot keep And wonder at the grace beyond compare	7	The morning breaks in gold upon the stone A silent hymn that only I can hear I thank the hand that shaped the wind and bone And wash away the weight of ancient fear My eyes are open wide to see the grace In every leaf that trembles on the bough No longer lost within a hollow space But learning how to breathe and take a vow Yet others walk with heavy, clouded sight Who miss the song the river tries to sing They pass the dawn without a spark of light Unmoved by all the joy the heavens bring I hold this wonder close against my chest While silence fills the ears of those who sleep A sacred gift for which I am blessed To wake from dreams and find the world so deep	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	I started as a speck of vapor insignificant in the upper air, a million other specks of vapor were like me. I became a snowflake and fell; there were millions of snowflakes falling just like me. I was nothing, I was no one, I was nobody's business. I fell through the darkening air, through the darkness of the evening air, and by chance I landed on the lips of a lover who was standing at the window, looking out into the falling darkness. It was just the right moment; she was thinking of me, and I was thinking of her, though I did not know it then. She put up her tongue to taste me, and I tasted of nothing; I was nothing, I was no one, I was nobody's business. But she liked me, and that made me somebody's business.	2	Born of a breath in the frozen dark, A single crystal, weightless and stark, Among a million others I fell, Just dust of the sky, a nothingness well. No one would notice my six-sided grace, Lost in the white of the empty space, Drifting on currents that cared not a whit, For the speck of the storm or the place where it hit. But chance is a weaver with threads invisible, Spinning a path that is never visible, Until I descended through silence and night, To find the exact point of light and delight. And there was she standing, her face turned to me, Her lips parted soft as a winter sea, And just at the moment when words failed to start, I landed to form a new heart from an old heart. A pause in the cold, a touch on the lip, As silent as snowflakes are wont to be, but In that tiny second, my journey was done, From nothing to something, from lost to won.	6	Born of a breath in the upper dark A single crystal, weightless and blind Drifting through the void with no name to mark Just one of millions, lost to the mind. No purpose held in its fragile six-fold grace Just falling through silence, cold and deep A speck of nothing in time and space Before the world wakes from winter sleep. It spun past the pine, past the frozen stream Unnoticed by all in the swirling white Until it found a path by chance or dream And drifted down into the soft twilight. The air grew still, the wind let go Two figures stood close in the pale moonlight Their hearts beating loud, their faces aglow Waiting for words that were hard to write. Then just as the silence began to break As lips moved near but did not quite touch The flake made its choice, for the lover's sake To land on the mouth that was loved so much. A sudden chill, a tiny spark That broke the pause and turned to a smile Igniting a fire in the freezing dark That warmed them both for a little while. From nothingness born to a moment so true Where chance became fate in a breath of cold The snowflake found meaning, and you found you In the story of ice that the winter told.	7	Born of a breath in the freezing dark A speck of nothing, a ghost of white Drifting through silence without a mark Lost in the vast and indifferent night It tumbled past stars that did not care Past mountains that slept in their icy shroud Just one more fragment of empty air Silent and small within the cloud But then the wind turned a gentle hand And carried it down where two hearts beat as one To rest on a face in the winter land Before the journey was fully done It found its place on a lover's mouth Where warmth met cold in a sudden spark Turning a moment of chance to truth A tiny light against the dark No longer lost in the swirling gray But part of a kiss that would last all year The smallest thing finds a better way When it lands exactly where love is near	7	Born of a whisper in the freezing dark, A single crystal with no name or mark, Drifting through the vast and silent gray, Just dust that time might easily wash away. It spun alone above the sleeping town, Where millions fall and vanish without sound, No purpose held within its fragile frame, A fleeting ghost without a spark or flame. But fate is woven in the wind's design, To guide the lost toward a specific sign, It turned away from fields of white and deep, And found the path where two hearts chose to keep. The world stood still as winter held its breath, Between the cold and life that waits beneath, It landed soft upon a waiting mouth, At exactly when the silence turned south. There was no plan, no reason for the fall, Yet meaning bloomed within that sudden call, For in that touch, so brief and pure and true, The snowflake found a home inside of you. Now it has ceased to be a thing of chance, But part of something larger than a dance, A tiny star that kissed the lover's lip, And made the universe feel warm and ripe.	7	Born of silent gray and empty air A crystal spun from nothing there Too small to hold a weight or name Just drifting in the winter's frame It falls through clouds that know its face A fleeting ghost in cold embrace No path was drawn, no map designed To guide this fragment of the mind Then wind shifts soft and time stands still As gravity bends to human will The world below is hushed and deep While all the others fall asleep It brushes past a cheek of red And finds the place where words are said Not by design but chance alone Upon the lips it calls its own A sudden chill against the skin Where warmth begins to let him in The moment pauses, sharp and bright Before the sun can steal the night For in that touch, so brief and light The snowflake finds its purpose right No longer lost within the vast But holding on to love at last	7	A crystal born of empty air Drifts down without a name or care It spins through winds that know its weight A fleeting ghost of winter's fate No mountain claims this tiny form Just silence in the cold and storm Yet as it falls, the world grows still And time obeys a quiet will It seeks a warmth it cannot hold A story waiting to unfold Until the breath of someone near Dissolves the fear of disappearing here Now resting soft against the skin Where heartbeats start and end within The snowflake finds its true design Not lost but meant to intertwine One chance encounter, sharp and sweet Where ice and fire gently meet In that small space, the meaning grows As love awakes from winter's freeze	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.	I ate the plums that were in the icebox and I know you were saving them for breakfast; I saw them in the icebox and I knew they were probably being saved for breakfast, and I know they were delicious. They were so sweet and juicy that I could not resist eating them up, even though I knew you were saving them for breakfast. I am very sorry. I did not mean to eat them. I hope you are not too angry with me. I will buy some more tomorrow. I will not do it again.	6	Forgive me, I could not resist The plums in the fridge, cold and sweet. I knew you were saving them for breakfast, But I ate them all up. I know they were beautiful, And I know you were looking forward to them, But I had been eating nothing but bread and cheese For three days, and I couldn't wait. I am very sorry.	2	I know they were yours for breakfast tomorrow, The ones you washed and set aside so carefully In the cool dark of the fridge. But the smell was too sweet when I opened the door, A heavy perfume of summer that pulled me in, And I could not help myself. They are gone now, all three of them, Juice sticky on my fingers and chin, A crime committed against your morning hunger. I am sorry, truly sorry, That my weakness has stolen your treat, And I will buy more plums, better ones, To make up for this theft before you wake.	3	I know you set them out with care To save for morning light, A promise kept within the air Before the dawn was bright. But late last night the kitchen called With shadows soft and deep, And through the glass the plumes enticed While all the house was asleep. Their skin was dusted blue and sweet, A temptation I could not deny, So one by one they met my heat Beneath the moon's cold eye. The juice ran down upon my chin, A guilty, sticky stain, I knew that breakfast would begin With nothing but a plain Empty bowl where fruit should be, And silence in your place, Forgive this hunger that ran free Across the sacred space. I left the note beside the sink With words of sorry true, For every plum I dared to drink Was stolen just for you.	6	I know you set them on the shelf To wait for morning light, A promise kept within yourself For breakfast's quiet bite. But something pulled me to the door With hunger sharp and deep, And now they are no more The fruit you meant to keep. Their skin was cool against my thumb, A sweet and heavy weight, I could not make myself be numb Or turn away from fate. Forgive the empty space they leave, The guilt I cannot hide, It was a small mistake to grieve Against the tide inside. I'll buy you more when sun returns, Or better ones than these, While here my lesson slowly burns On hands that sought to seize.	7	I know they were saved for morning light A promise kept until the sun rose high But hunger spoke in a voice so loud That silence broke beneath my sigh The fridge door opened, cold and bright Revealing fruit with skin of blue I told myself just one would be alright But greed made two, then three, then few Now empty stems lie on the plate Where sweetness once was meant to stay I cannot fix this stolen fate Or give the dawn back to your day Forgive the hand that reached too deep For plums that called my name aloud I'll carry guilt while you are asleep And leave the quiet, heavy crowd	6	The cold air held a promise you had made For morning light and quiet bread to share But I reached out with hands that could not stay And took the fruit suspended in the air I know they were reserved for your first bite A sweet reward before the day begins Yet hunger whispered loud within the night And stole the plums from where they softly spin The skin was bruised beneath my greedy touch A silent theft of something meant to wait Now empty space remains where once so much Of flavor lingered at the kitchen gate Forgive the weight of crumbs upon the floor The juice that stains the counter's clean design I cannot give these stolen fruits back anymore Only this truth: I crossed the unseen line	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 see you in the mirror but it is not you, You are so beautiful and so strange, With your new hair and your new clothes And your new opinions that make me look foolish. You walk through the house like a stranger, You do not kiss me when I come home, You say "Mother" instead of "Mamma." I think of you as a little girl with a blue frock Running about the garden with a hoop, And I cannot believe that you are the same person. I am afraid that you will go on living And you will become somebody else entirely, Somebody who will never love me again.	2	I watch you pack your bags with bright, sharp things That cut the air and leave me bleeding silence. You are already turning into someone else, A stranger wearing my daughter's face, Walking a path I cannot see, Where the light is different and the shadows do not reach. I fear the day you will look at me And not know why I am crying, Or worse, why I should be crying at all. You will have new words for old feelings, New reasons to be cold or kind, And I will be just a memory of softness That you must outgrow to survive. Do not let the world make you hard, Do not let it teach you that love is a transaction Or that tenderness is a weakness to be hidden. If you become someone who does not need me, Someone who walks past me in the street With eyes full of strangers' secrets, Then I will lose you twice: Once when you leave this house, And once when you stop being my child.	3	I watch you pack your bags with things I do not know The sharp new angles of a life that cuts away the softness You used to be, before the world began to teach you how to harden. I fear the day your eyes will look through me like glass And see only a stranger standing in the hallway light. They say you must grow wings to fly, but what if they are made of iron? What if the girl who loved the rain and stayed inside to read Is swallowed by the noise until she cannot hear her own name called? I am terrified of the version of you that returns With a voice that is too steady and a heart that does not break For the small, quiet tragedies of those left behind. I hold my breath waiting for the moment you forget How to curl up on this sofa, how to ask for help, how to stay. I love the daughter I have known, but I am afraid Of the woman you are becoming, distant as a star That burns so bright it blinds the ones who wait below.	3	I watch you pack your bags with things I do not know And wonder if the girl who slept against my chest Will ever fit inside the coat you're wearing now. The mirror shows a stranger's eyes where mine once lived, A polished smile that hides the cracks I used to heal. You speak of cities built on glass and steel and speed, Of futures made of concrete where the roots cannot take hold. I fear the day you turn to look and see no one there, Just echoes in a hallway where your laughter used to ring. You are becoming someone else, a version I can't reach, Who walks through crowded rooms as if the air is thin. Oh, let me be the anchor when the tide pulls hard away, Before the woman you become forgets the child she was. I love the person you are now, but dread the one you'll find, So distant and so perfect that I cannot recognize her face.	6	I watch you pack your bags with quiet hands And trace the map of roads I cannot know The girl who used to sleep against my chest Is learning how to walk without a home You speak in languages I never learned Of cities built on glass and shifting sand Where shadows stretch too long to hold a child And light dissolves into a stranger's hand I fear the moment when your eyes look through me As if I am a ghost from days gone by A memory that fades beneath the weight Of all the things you've chosen not to try The warmth that bound us tight begins to cool Replaced by steel and distance, cold and deep I hold my breath and wait for you to turn But see a face I do not recognize in sleep So let me love you while you still are here Before the world reshapes your gentle soul Into a vessel made of stone and ice That no maternal heart can make whole	6	The mirror holds a stranger's face Where once your laughter used to bloom You walk with steps I cannot trace Away from this familiar room I watch the shadows start to grow Across the features soft and bright A quiet cold begins to slow The fire of our shared daylight You speak in words I do not know Of worlds that pull you far away The girl I loved begins to go Into a gray and endless day My hands reach out but grasp at air As silence fills the space between There is no anchor left to bear The weight of what has yet to be seen Do not forget the way we were Before the wind could steal your name Before the stars began to blur And everything became the same I fear the day you turn around To see a ghost where I have stood When all the love we ever found Is lost inside a changing mood So hold on tight to who you are Before the light begins to fade Before we drift so very far Into the mess we both have made	7	The mirror shows a stranger's face Where once your laughter used to stay You trade the warmth of home for space And drift so far from yesterday I watch you walk with head held high A silhouette I cannot trace Beneath a cold and distant sky That steals the light from every place My hands reach out to hold you tight But grasp at smoke and fading air A shadow swallowed by the night Leaving nothing but despair Do you remember who we were Before the world began to change? A fragile, trembling, quiet blur Of all that feels too strange to range I fear the day you turn away To find a self I'll never know When words we spoke will fade to gray And silence grows where love should flow So keep the door just slightly cracked In case the wind begins to howl For even in this heavy act I pray your heart remains unbound	7
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.	I went to the Ning Nang Nong Where the trees go Snoongoongoon And the teapots go Cooeeecooiee And the mice go Bing! Bing! Bing! And the cows go Boong! Boong! Boong! And the monkeys go Cling! Cling! Cling! And the frogs go Crooing! Crooing! Crooing! And the pigs go Gling! Gling! Gling! And the cuckoos go Quack! Quack! Quack! And the donkeys go Bingle-Bangle! Bingle-Bangle! And the sheep go Baa-Boing! Baa-Boing! And the goats go Bing! Bing! Bing! And the ducks go Squink! Squink! Squink! And the dogs go Ding! Dong! Ding! Dong! And the cats go Bing! Bing! Bing! And the rats go Spling! Spling! Spling! And the elephants go Boom! Boom! Boom! And the lions go Bing! Bing! Bing! And the tigers go Bing! Bing! Bing! And the kangaroos do not live there.	1	Deep in the Ning Nang Nong where the trees go Bong, And the teapots go Ping Pong and the mice go Coo-Coo-Cong, The trees are so tall they go Bong Bong Bong, And the teapots are small that go Ping Pong Ping, And the mice are so small that go Coo-Coo-Cong, But when all three meet in the Ning Nang Nong, They make such a noise that it goes Bang! And you think you have gone to the wrong place, But you haven't because this is the right place, This is the Ning Nang Nong.	1	In the Ning Nang Nong where the Coo-Coo birds go And the trees go Coo-Coo in the sun, There's a tree that goes Coo-Coo and another that goes Coo-Coo And they all go Coo-Coo one by one. And the teapots go Ping-Ping on the floor, And the mice go Squeak-Squeak in the grass, But the biggest noise of all is the Plop-Plop-Plop Of the giant penguins as they pass. The cows go Moo-Moo in the mud, The pigs go Oink-Oink in the rain, But the loudest sound is the Clank-Clank-Clank Of the metal lions with their chain. So come to the Ning Nang Nong, my friend, Where the noises never stop or cease, With a Bang-Bang here and a Whizz-Whizz there, It is the noisiest place for peace.	1	Deep in the Ning Nang Nong where the grass goes gloop, The teapots go clippity-clack and the trees go whoop. A mouse with a hat comes scurrying by, Squeaking a zizz-zazz-zoo beneath the sky. The branches go rattle-bang-boom in the air, While pots on the stove start a musical flare, With a whistle of whee and a pop of plip, Making a sound like a giant's big slip. Oh, listen to mice that go chitter-chatter-chew, As they dance on the roof of a house made of blue. The world is so loud with a buzz and a hum, In the Ning Nang Nong where the wild noises come.	1	Deep in the valley where the wind goes bloop The Ning Nang Nong wakes with a sudden whoop The trees do not rustle or whisper or sigh But clack-clack and crash as they reach for the sky A teapot on fire begins to hum-zing Singing a song that makes the whole forest ring It spits out a sputter, a hiss, and a pop While bubbles go plop from the very top A mouse in the corner lets out a squeak-bang As he dances a jig on a wooden plank He chatters and rattles and clicks with his teeth Then tumbles down soft with a gentle wraith of breath The ground goes thump-thump under feet made of fluff As clouds puff and grumble above in a huff No silence can live in this wild, noisy place Just a cacophony of sound all over the space So listen closely to the strange, sweet noise Of the Ning Nang Nong and its chaotic joys	2	Deep in the woods where the Ning Nang Nong grows The wind hums a low and a wobbly moan The trees do not rustle but clang with a bong As branches collide with a heavy, soft thong A teapot on fire lets out a sharp screech While steam from its spout makes a plop and a peach It bubbles and burps with a gurgling glug Pouring hot tea into cups made of rug Then tiny gray mice with their whiskers so long Let out a high zip in a chaotic song They squeak like a violin, whee and whir Running in circles that spin and blur The ground goes thump-thump as footsteps appear While clouds overhead make a sound like a cheer In this noisy place where the logic is gone We dance to the rhythm of the Ning Nang Nong	2	The wind blows soft with a hush and hum As shadows stretch where the silence comes But deep within the Ning Nang Nong A chaotic song begins to throng The trees above begin to creak With wooden groans that start to speak They whisper low of rustling leaves And secrets that the forest weaves A teapot sits upon the stone Its whistle sharp, a lonely tone It spits a hiss of steamy air While bubbles dance in empty space there Small mice scurry through the grass Their tiny feet make quiet pass Yet every step brings clatter loud Like thunder breaking through a cloud The world is built on sound and rhyme Where logic bends against the time No map can guide or compass turn Just lessons that the ears must learn So listen close to every beat To find the rhythm in the street Of creatures made of noise and light That fill the endless, starless night	5
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.	I stood and watched the heavy clouds roll by Like a great black army marching on the night, When suddenly the moon broke through the sky With such a majesty of sudden light That all the dark was scattered like a dream; The sky was full of silver radiance, And I, who had been walking in the gleam Of that huge presence, silently did pause. My mind went quietly musing on the force So powerful and ever-present there above me, That even when it is hidden from my sight It is still there and working for my good.	7	The road was lost beneath a heavy shroud Of shifting gray where no star dared to peep, When suddenly the wind blew soft and loud And tore the curtain from the world's deep sleep. There broke the moon, a silver ship unmoored, That split the dark with radiance pure and cold; Her light poured down, a silent, sacred hoard, To turn the night to day, or so it seemed to hold. She flooded sky and earth with sudden grace, While clouds fled back in tattered, ragged flight, As if her presence cleared a holy space Within the vast and velvet arms of night. I stood alone and watched that sovereign queen Command the shadows to retreat and bow, And felt my wandering thoughts grow still and clean Before this ancient, ever-present power now. So great she is, so constant and so bright, Though hidden oft by storms that rage below, She waits within the fabric of the night, A force that only needs to rise to glow.	7	The traveler stands beneath a heavy shroud Of shifting gray where no star dares to gleam, Until the moon breaks through the thunder cloud With sudden light that floods the silent stream. A silver spear pierces the velvet night And paints the world in hues of ghostly white, While clouds retreat before her radiant might To leave the sky a vast and holy sight. My mind grows quiet as I watch her rise, A timeless force above the sleeping earth, That rules the tides and lights the weary eyes Since first the world was born of dust and mirth. She does not speak, yet speaks a power deep, An ever-present guardian while we sleep.	7	The heavy veil of night hangs low and thick, A curtain drawn to hide the stars from sight, Until a sudden tear within the cloud Reveals the moon in all its silver light. It breaks the gloom with beams both sharp and soft, And paints the shadows on the weary ground, While I stand still beneath this vast display, Where silence is the only sound I've found. My mind drifts out to trace that ancient glow, A force so strong yet gentle in its grace, That watches over earth since time began, With quiet power in its steady face. No storm can keep it from the sky above, No darkness holds it back from rising high, An ever-present witness to my steps, Beneath the endless arch of midnight sky.	7	The road was lost in heavy gray When silence held the breath of night Until a silver edge gave way To pierce the veil of endless flight A sudden breach, a blinding white That tore the shroud of storm and gloom And poured its cold and holy light Across the vast and sleeping room No sound could match this silent power As clouds retreated, torn apart Revealing beauty hour by hour Within the traveler's quiet heart I stand beneath this ancient gaze That watches all with steady grace Through shifting days and fading daze A constant force in time and space My mind grows still, no words to speak Before the orb that rules the deep It leaves the soul both weak and strong With promises it means to keep	7	The road was lost beneath a heavy shroud Of shifting gray that choked the starry deep Until a silver edge began to break And tear the velvet curtain from its sleep A sudden flood of pale and ancient light Pours through the gaps where darkness dared to cling It paints the dust upon my weary boots With grace that makes the silent mountains sing I stand alone beneath this vast display As clouds retreat before the lunar throne No voice is raised to claim this quiet power Yet I am small within its gentle zone My thoughts drift slow like smoke above the ground To wonder at the force that never sleeps An ever-present eye that watches all While I just watch the majesty it keeps	7	The road is long and shadows stretch so deep Across the valley where the silence sleeps A sudden tear in velvet, heavy gray Reveals a silver eye that starts to play It breaks the storm with light both soft and fierce Turning the night into a quiet verse No sound can match this ancient, glowing sphere That pulls the tide and holds the atmosphere I stand alone beneath its vast command A tiny speck within a boundless land And feel the weight of time that never ends As moonlight weaves through all the broken bends My thoughts grow still as clouds begin to part Leaving a calm inside my weary heart For something greater than the self I know Remains above where winds and waters flow	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.	I draw my strength from boundless faith in God, And therefore am I not afraid of death; Though he should come to-morrow, or the next day, Or a hundred years hence, I am ready. I am not afraid of temptation, For though it should come in the guise of an angel of light, It could not deceive me; For I know in whom I have believed. Neither am I afraid of any earthly force; For what can flesh and blood do unto me? They can kill the body, but they cannot kill the soul; They can put me out of the world, but they cannot put me out of the world to come. Nothing shall be able to separate me from the love of God, Which is in Christ Jesus our Lord. The love of God is greater far Than tongue or pen can ever tell; It goes beyond the highest star, And reaches to the lowest hell; The guilty pair, bowed down with care, God gave His only Son to save; But He is more than that to me: He is peace, and joy, and heaven above.	3	My heart is anchored in a boundless trust, So deep and vast that death itself must bow; The grave can claim the body's weary dust, But cannot touch the soul I consecrate now. Let temptation whisper soft and sweetly near, With alluring promises of fleeting gain; I hear the voice that calls me from afar, And walk unshaken through the wind and rain. No earthly force, however fierce or strong, Can break the chain that binds me to my Lord; For right or wrong, where'er I may belong, His limitless love remains my sure reward. Though mountains crumble and the seas run dry, And stars fall down like withered leaves in autumn air, That divine love will never cease nor die, But lift me up beyond all human care.	7	When shadows stretch to swallow up the light And death stands knocking at my trembling door, I do not shrink nor turn my face from fright, For I have seen the glory evermore. No siren song of sin can make me bend, No whispered lie can shake this firm resolve, My anchor holds within the eternal end, Where all my broken pieces are absolved. Let empires rise and crumble into dust, Let mountains sink and oceans cease to roar, In God alone is placed my perfect trust, A fortress built upon a solid shore. For what can touch the soul that knows His grace? What force on earth can break the divine chain? No weapon forged in time can leave a trace, Against the love that conquers every pain. The waves may crash against the rocky steep, The winds may howl and tear the heavens wide, But I will sleep while others watch and weep, Secure within the Father's loving side. His power flows like rivers through the stone, His mercy vast as stars above the night, I walk alone yet never feel alone, Bathed in the warmth of everlasting light.	7	The shadow of the grave holds no command For I have seen the light beyond the sand And in that glow, the fear of ending dies Replaced by hope that burns within my eyes When whispers try to lure me from the path I hear a voice that silences the wrath No siren song can break this sacred chain For love has washed away the stain of pain Let earth shake deep and let the mountains fall No force on high or low can breach the wall That stands between the soul and endless night Built firm upon the power of divine light My heart is anchored in a boundless sea Where death itself bows down to liberty So let the tempest rage and winds collide There is no power greater than the tide Of grace that lifts me when the world grows cold A story written in a love untold	7	The shadow of the grave cannot take hold When light within my spirit burns so bright, For in the silence, I have been told That death is but a door to endless light. No whisper of the serpent's ancient lie Can shake the ground where holy feet have trod, I lift my gaze above the stormy sky And find my safety resting close to God. Let earth and sea and every force combine To break the chain that binds me to His grace, But none can sever what was made divine, Or steal the peace written upon my face. The love that holds the stars in place above Is stronger than the fear that men create, A boundless, deep, and unrelenting love That guards the soul against all earthly fate. So let the tempest rage and mountains fall, No power on this side of heaven can win, For He who calls me by my name through all Has already conquered every sin. My heart remains unbroken and unafraid Within the fortress of His endless might, By faith alone, I stand and am not swayed, Protected by the dawn of eternal light.	7	The shadow stretches long across the floor Yet I do not tremble at the closing door For in my chest a light burns bright and deep A promise that the weary soul will keep No whisper of the dark can steal my peace When every storm has finally found its cease The tempter calls with voices soft and sweet But finds no purchase on these holy feet Let death approach with silence or with sound It cannot shake the ground where grace is bound For love that flows from realms beyond the sky Will lift the fallen spirit to the high Earth's might may crumble into dust and sand But nothing holds against this guiding hand The chains of fear dissolve within the flame Of one who knows the Father's endless name	7	The shadow falls but cannot touch the light That burns within a soul so deeply held No whisper of the dark can dim the sight Of promises that time has never quelled I walk through valleys where the silence grows Yet hear a voice that calls me by my name The fear of ending fades before it blows Replaced by fire that no storm could tame Let temptations rise like waves against the shore They break upon the rock of grace and truth For I have seen what lies beyond the door And found eternal life in morning's proof No chain of earth can bind this spirit free No weapon forged by hands of mortal men Can sever what was written wild and deep A love that rises up to start again So let the world collapse beneath my feet I stand unshaken in the endless tide With boundless trust that makes the heart complete Where death itself is nothing but a guide	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 fire is not in the chest but in the lungs, It burns them out like a candle in a draught, And I am that candle, My body a guttering waxen thing. I do not cough because I want to; I cough because I cannot help it. It is a violent convulsion that tears my ribs apart, As if they were bird-cages and the bird inside was beating Its wings against the wire. When I lie down at night I have to sit up, Because if I lie flat I choke. Then I must get up and walk about the room Like a cat with its tail on fire. Or like a man who has put his hand into a fire And cannot keep it there, nor yet take it away. I have to go on breathing all the time, But I can't breathe. That is the point. I have to go on breathing, but I can't. I cannot draw breath enough to say so. If I could just draw breath enough to say so! But I cannot. I have to go on drawing breath, but I can't. I have to go on drawing breath, but I can't. I have to go on drawing breath, but I can't.	2	The air is thick as wool, a heavy gray That fills the hollows where the light should be, And every breath is borrowed from the day With interest paid in gasps of agony. My ribs are bars that tighten with each cough, A cage of bone that grinds against the lung, While fire runs its hot and frantic path Along the branches of the bronchial tongue. The skin grows thin, a parchment stretched too tight, To show the blue veins mapping out the map, But underneath, the oxygen takes flight And leaves the blood to stumble on its lap. My fingers curl like claws to grip the sheet, The nails turn purple as the current slows, And sweat hangs cold upon my burning face, As life retreats to where the river flows. I hear the rattle in the hollow chest, A tiny bell that rings for no one now, The lungs are sacks of water, heavy, wet, That drag the spirit down beneath the bough. The ceiling spins, the shadows start to close, The air is gone, the water fills the space, And I am sinking slowly through the deep, Into the quiet of the drowning place.	6	The air arrives as a thief in the night stealing the breath I paid for with sleep a tightness that coils like a rusted wire around ribs that ache to expand and leap. Each morning brings a rattle, a wet, heavy sound of water filling rooms meant for wind where lungs were once vast fields of white down now shrunk to two stones, gray and grim. My fingers curl into blue-tipped claws the blood runs slow through a clogged-up vein and every step is a mountain I draw up slopes of dust in a phantom rain. The chest becomes a cage of leaden bars that clank against the heart's frantic beat while stars above mock the hollow scars and silence grows where the coughs should meet. I watch the mirror and see a ghost whose skin is paper, thin and translucent trapped in a body I love but most is failing me, slowly, and thus insistent. The darkness creeps from the soles of my feet up past the knees where the weakness takes hold it wraps around the throat with a gentle heat and turns the final story to mold. There is no fight left in this brittle frame only the waiting for the last, shallow sigh as the fire dims and the light goes lame and the world fades out with a quiet cry.	6	The air grows thick as wool inside the chest A heavy blanket pressed against the ribs Where every breath becomes a desperate quest To pull the oxygen from hollow sobs and gibes My lungs are jars of rusted, jagged glass That grind with every inhale, sharp and deep They hold the smoke of winters that will pass While I lie down to watch the shadows creep The skin turns gray like ash upon the fire The fingers curl in claws of brittle bone A burning thirst that no cool drink can quire As strength retreats to some forgotten zone I feel the weight of water in the veins That slows the heart to beats of distant drums A slow descent through unrelenting rains Until the final silence gently comes No longer can the chest expand or rise The struggle fades into a quiet space With closing eyes and fading, failing cries I leave this world behind without a trace	6	The air grows thick as honey in the throat A heavy stone that settles deep inside Each breath a war, a desperate, ragged note Where silence tries to steal the will to hide The ribs become a cage of brittle bone That creaks beneath the weight of empty space While fever paints a ghost upon the throne And time slows down within this hollow place My hands turn pale as winter frost descends The strength I knew dissolves into the dust A quiet war where every moment ends In gasps that taste of iron and of rust The light fades soft behind a curtain gray As lungs forget the rhythm of the tide I watch the final colors drift away With nowhere left for weary hearts to hide The body bows beneath its own decline A vessel cracking under silent strain No longer mine, no longer truly mine Just waiting for the rain to wash the pain	6	The air grows thick with dust and gray A heavy weight that won't decay Each breath a battle, sharp and deep While weary lungs refuse to sleep The chest becomes a cage of bone Where silence claims what once was known A rattle rises in the throat As hope begins to quietly float The skin turns pale, the fingers thin With every struggle, loss within The body fades beneath the strain Of wind that breaks against the rain No strength remains to stand upright Just fading light into the night A final gasp, a quiet sound As earth reclaims what cannot be found	7	The air grows thick and heavy in the chest A weight that presses down upon the bone Each breath a battle fought against the rest Of what was once a rhythm, now unknown The ribs begin to ache with every sigh As hollow spaces stretch too wide and deep The fire burns behind a fading eye While silence steals the promises we keep My hands grow cold as winter claims the skin The color drains from cheeks that used to glow A quiet war begins beneath the din Where life retreats and currents cease to flow The lungs collapse like paper in the rain No song remains to lift the spirit high Just echoes of a long forgotten strain Beneath a gray and unforgiving sky I feel the slow descent into the night Where shadows dance and time loses its name The final spark dissolves without a light Leaving only dust and endless, silent shame	7
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.	I woke to the smell of open air, A scent like rain though it had not rained, And breathed it in as I would a draught of wine; The sky was so high and blue and empty, It made me feel as if I were an ant Looking up at the sky from under a leaf. I heard birds singing, but there was no noise; There was nothing else to hear. I walked about and looked at things: The green grass, the yellow gorse, A white cloud going over the hill, A blackbird hopping on the lawn. I felt so happy that I could not speak. I went home again without knowing how the day went by.	2	The concrete canyon fades behind the glass, And suddenly the wind is free and wild, No longer trapped by walls of steel and brass, But rushing past me like a happy child. I breathe the air that smells of loam and rain, A sudden joy expands within my chest, As if my lungs had been in pain, And now are healed and given perfect rest. Above, the open sky is vast and blue, With clouds that drift without a care or sound, While overhead a lark sings clear and true, And thrushes pipe their notes all around. I watch the shadows lengthen on the grass, The golden light begins to turn to grey, I do not know exactly how the hours pass, For I have been too busy just to play. The day slips by unnoticed in this bliss, No ticking clock, no traffic's angry roar, Just nature's sweet and simple happiness, Until I must return to city floor. Back to the noise, back to the narrow street, With memories of birdsong in my ear, And open skies beneath my tired feet, To keep me calm until the next year.	7	The concrete hum that lived inside my bones Has faded to a whisper, then to silence, Replaced by wind that moves through open fields And carries scents of damp and ancient soil. I breathe it in, this air unfiltered, clean, That fills the hollow spaces of my chest, While overhead the sky is vast and blue, A dome so high no roof could ever hold it. A thrush begins a song I do not know, Yet understand it perfectly within, As if the melody was written just To match the rhythm of my beating heart. I watch the clouds drift slowly past the sun, Unhurried, free from schedules and from clocks, Until I turn to find the light has changed, And shadows stretch across the grassy lane. The day has slipped away without a sound, No minutes counted, none of them missed, Just joy enough to fill the journey home, Before the city lights begin to glow.	6	The concrete hum fades into silence deep As I step past the fence where wild grasses sweep No longer bound by walls of gray and steel I breathe the air that makes the spirit feel A sudden lightness in my chest unfurled Far from the rush of this electric world Above, the sky is vast and unconfined A canvas painted with no human mind Just endless blue that stretches far and wide With not a single cloud to hide or slide Then comes the song, a melody so clear That washes every worry from my ear The birds call out in voices bright and true Singing a dawn that belongs only to you Time loses shape beneath the ancient trees Where sunlight dances on the cooling breeze I watch the hours drift like smoke away Without a clock to mark the passing day The joy is simple, raw, and purely sweet To feel the earth beneath my wandering feet But shadows lengthen as the sun grows low And soft twilight begins its gentle flow I turn my face toward the distant road Carrying the quiet in my heavy load The city waits with all its lights and noise Yet I return with nature's hidden poise The day has slipped, unnoticed, through my hands Leaving behind the peace of open lands	6	The concrete hum fades into silence soft and deep As pavement turns to soil beneath my weary feet No sirens scream against the morning light Only the wind that whispers through the wheat I breathe a air so crisp it fills my lungs with gold A sudden joy that city walls could never hold Above, the sky stretches wide and endless blue Where clouds drift slow and paint the world anew A chorus rises from the branches high and green Of birdsong pure, the sweetest sound I've ever seen They dance on currents of the open, gentle breeze While time dissolves among the swaying trees The hours slip away like water through my hands Unnoticed moments in these quiet, sacred lands The sun begins its descent toward the hills And shadows lengthen where the daylight spills Yet as the evening draws a curtain round the land I carry home this peace within my hand The city waits, but now I know the way To find the wild whenever night turns day	7	Concrete walls that held my breath Dissolve beneath a morning sky so wide Where silence breaks with songs of life And ancient trees stand side by side The air is sharp and sweet to taste No exhaust fumes, no distant hum Just golden light on fields of green As time begins to gently come I watch the clouds drift slow and deep Across a canvas vast and blue While city clocks forget their tick In this quiet, sacred view A sparrow calls a welcome sound That echoes in my open chest Leaving behind the noise below To find a moment of pure rest But shadows stretch across the grass As afternoon turns into gray The magic fades but not the peace That lingers in the heart today I turn back toward the road ahead With pockets full of earth and light Carrying the wild and free Into the coming of the night	6	The concrete fades beneath a softer tread As silence breaks the noise inside my head No sirens scream, no engines hum their tune Just golden light that stretches past the moon I breathe the air, so crisp and wild and free A sudden weight lifts from my weary knee The canopy of leaves begins to sway And whispers secrets that the trees convey Above, the clouds drift slow and unconfined While ancient rhythms steady in my mind A chorus rises from the hidden grove Where every note is born of love above The hours melt like dew upon the grass As shadows lengthen through the tall green grass I watch the sun dip low with quiet grace Leaving behind a warm and gentle trace But twilight calls the wanderer back again To trade this peace for steel and window pane Yet in my chest, a spark will softly burn For nature's gift I'll never truly turn	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 French hats and the Italian shoes And learned to walk with a limp so he would look cool, He wore the English clothes and the American ties And learned to talk with a lisp so he would look wise, And when he went out in his imported clothes The people looked at him and said: "How do you do?" But they didn't like him because he had a limp; They didn't like him because he had a lisp. So he gave up the French hats and the Italian shoes, And he gave up the English clothes and the American ties, And he gave up talking with a lisp and walking with a limp, And he went back to being a nigger.	2	He buys the leather from Florence and the silk from Kyoto Tucks them tight into a suit that costs more than his father's house And walks with a swagger he learned from a movie screen Trying to melt into the pavement of this wide American street. He speaks in a cadence borrowed from a TV host Smooths his hair until it looks like plastic And laughs at jokes he does not understand Just to hear the sound of his own voice blending in. He forgets the rhythm of the drum that used to wake him up The smell of the yam boiling in the clay pot The way his mother's hands smelled of earth and rain Replaced now by the scent of expensive cologne and city exhaust. He thinks if he wears the right shoes he can walk on air If he says the right words he can fly away But when the sun goes down and the lights go out He stands alone in a room full of strangers Looking at his reflection in the mirror And sees a man who has lost the map to his own soul A ghost in a foreign costume Standing on soil that is not his own Waiting for a home that he left behind.	2	He buttons up the silk shirt from Milan thinking it will smooth the rough edges of his skin and hide the history written in the curve of his jaw he buys sneakers that cost more than his father's truck just to walk lightly on the pavement of a city that watches him with narrowed, suspicious eyes he practices the slang he heard on television modulates his voice to sound less like the church and more like the boardroom or the bar he forgets the rhythm of the porch swing the taste of gumbo simmering for three days the way his grandmother said "bless your heart" as a shield and not a weapon now he stands in front of the mirror adjusting the tie imported from Paris, stitched by hands he never met wondering why the reflection looks so polished yet so hollow why the coolness feels like a heavy coat in summer why he cannot remember the song his mother hummed only the jingle of the credit card swiping through the machine he is becoming a mannequin in a window display dressed in the world but empty inside waiting for someone to notice him while forgetting who he was before he started trying to fit into a frame that was never built for him.	2	He bought the silk from Milan and stitched the name in gold thread tight over a chest that used to beat to drums of ancient, dusty night. He speaks in slang he heard on screens a curated, imported cool while ignoring how his mother weeps beneath a quiet, rural rule. The sneakers cost a week's pay from factories far across the sea but hide the calluses and scars of hands that worked the soil for free. He laughs at jokes he doesn't know just to blend into the crowd afraid that if he drops the mask his true self might be too loud. The mirror shows a stranger now in designer shades so dark that block the sun from seeing who he was before he lost his mark. The roots are deep but unwatered now replaced by plastic, foreign vines as he dances on a stage of glass forgetting where the bloodline shines.	6	He ties the silk from Lagos tight around his neck A foreign knot to hide the sweat of doubt The sneakers imported from a distant street Are heavy on his feet, too stiff to run He speaks in slang he heard on screens and not at home Where elders spoke of soil and rising sun His laughter sounds rehearsed, a practiced sound To match the rhythm of a city that demands A version of himself he does not know While ancestors whisper through the cracks in glass Of windows he has built to keep them out He wears the mask of cool with perfect grace But feels the cold seep deep into his bones For every brand he buys to prove his worth Is just a brick that walls him from the truth The roots he severed grow no fruit today Just hollow echoes in a crowded room Where he stands tall in clothes not made for him And waits for someone else to call his name	3	He buys the leather from a distant shore To hide the skin that knows the dust of home A tailored suit to mask the ancient roar Of voices lost beneath a foreign dome The sneakers imported cost a month of rent A shield against the judgment in the street He walks with steps he thinks are confident But feels the rhythm fading from his feet He speaks a slang that isn't truly his Mimicking the cool he sees on screens While memories of grandmothers grow dim And silence fills the spaces in between The mirror shows a stranger wearing gold A curated image, polished and precise But deep inside the story goes untold As roots begin to wither in the ice He trades the song for something trendy new Believing this is how to finally belong Yet every borrowed piece feels cold and true That he has sung the wrong and silent song	6	The mirror shows a stranger in a tailored suit Imported threads that whisper foreign names He walks with rhythm borrowed from the street But forgets the drumbeat of his ancestral claims A gold chain heavy on a chest so cold Reflecting lights that never truly warm the soul He trades the stories elders used to hold For trends that rise and vanish, out of control The city calls him forward, sharp and bright Yet silence grows where memory once stood He paints a mask of coolness in the night Afraid to show the truth of what he should Each step away feels like a quiet theft Of soil that fed the roots beneath his skin Leaving only echoes of a self bereft As outer shine begins to wear within The fabric tightens round a fading face No longer knowing who he used to be Searching for a home in empty space Between the dream and reality He stands alone amidst the crowd so loud With hollow eyes and hands that grasp at air A ghost inside a shell, lost and unbound Forgetful of the love that was once there	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 used to think you were the sky and I was the bird that flew in it, but now I know you are the sky and I am the bird that flies under it. Sometimes I fly too high and get scared because the sky is so big and I am so little, and then I fly too low and get scared because the sky is so blue and I am so dirty. But when I am really scared I go into your lap and cry and you say "Don't cry" and you give me a handkerchief and I stop crying because you have given me a handkerchief. And sometimes you hit me and I say "You hit me!" and I cry and you say "Don't cry" and you give me a handkerchief and I stop crying because you have given me a handkerchief. And sometimes you forget to feed me and I say "You forgot to feed me!" and I cry and you say "Don't cry" and you give me a handkerchief and I stop crying because you have given me a handkerchief. And sometimes you forget to take me to school and I say "You forgot to take me to school!" and I cry and you say "Don't cry" and you give me a handkerchief and I stop crying because you have given me a handkerchief. And sometimes you tell me I am stupid and I say "You told me I was stupid!" and I cry and you say "Don't cry" and you give me a handkerchief and I stop crying because you have given me a handkerchief. And sometimes you tell me I am a liar and I say "You told me I was a liar!" and I cry and you say "Don't cry" and you give me a handkerchief and I stop crying because you have given me a handkerchief. And sometimes you tell me I am a thief and I say "You told me I was a thief!" and I cry and you say "Don't cry" and you give me a handkerchief and I stop crying because you have given me a handkerchief. And sometimes you tell me I am a good boy and I say "You told me I was a good boy!" and I cry and you say "Don't cry" and you give me a handkerchief and I stop crying because you have given me a handkerchief.	2	I learned the sky was blue before I knew your name and gravity held tight before I understood your hands you were the first world I entered, a warm and sudden room where milk was magic and the dark was not to fear Then came the years of testing, the small and sharp retreats when I would hide behind the chair or run into the rain to see if you would follow, to see if love had limits if you would let me fall apart or catch me in the net You taught me that the door could close but not stay shut forever that anger is a storm that passes through the house and silence is a heavy coat we sometimes need to wear but underneath it, something steady beats against the ribs Now I am older than the child who hid behind the chair and I can see the work it took to keep the trust alive the patience in your waiting, the strength within your letting go so I can find my own way out and still come home again	3	The door is a heavy thing at first a wooden wall that keeps the storm outside and you are small and I am giant standing between you and the wind. You learn my hands by their temperature by how they catch you when the floor rushes up by how they smooth the sheets when the night is long. I learn your silence, the way it grows like a vine around a fence post, tight and green. Sometimes I say no and the world cracks open and you look at me with eyes full of questions that have no words yet to hold them. You test the edge of my promise like a child testing the edge of a cliff to see if the ground will hold. It does, mostly. We build a bridge of small routines milk in the morning, stories at night the secret handshake that means everything is safe. There are days the bridge sways in the wind when I am tired or you are hurt and the trust wobbles like a loose plank. But we step back on together. You reach for my hand without looking down and I know now that you are not just mine but you are also yours, and I am learning how to let go just enough to hold on.	2	Small hands reach out to test the air Before they learn that arms are there To catch the stumble, hold the fear And make the trembling heart feel near At first the world is sharp and loud A storm of voices in a crowd Then softness comes in quiet tones The safety found in familiar zones I watch you watch me, eyes so wide To see if love has nowhere to hide If promises are made of stone Or if they grow like seeds we've sown Sometimes I pull away to fly Just to see if you will cry Or wait with patience deep and true Until I know what trust can do It builds a bridge from step to step Where secrets are not kept or kept But shared like light across the floor Between the child and something more No longer just a separate space But two who meet in time and place A bond that shifts and learns to bend On which our whole young lives depend	6	Small hands reach out to test the air For warmth that lingers in a chair A father's voice, a mother's smile That stays a while and walks a mile Sometimes the door is shut too tight And shadows stretch into the night The question hangs upon the tongue Of words unspoken, softly sung Is love a thing that comes and goes? Or steady as the river flows? I watch them speak in hushed tones low To see if they will let me know That when I stumble on the floor They do not turn and walk away more But kneel down close to meet my gaze Through all the quiet, shifting days The trust is built in tiny threads In promises by bedtime said Not grand or loud but soft and deep A vow they mean to always keep So I step forward, brave and new Believing in the bond we grew Between the child and those who stay To guide me through the light of day	7	Small hands reach out to test the air Between the silence and the care A question held within a gaze That shifts with every passing day The floor is firm, the walls are high But shadows dance where secrets lie You promise warmth, you speak of light Then turn away into the night I learn the rhythm of your breath The quiet dance of life and death How love can bend but not break down Like rain that falls on dusty ground Sometimes I pull, sometimes I lean To see what lies beneath the scene Are you the anchor or the tide? With nowhere left for me to hide Yet in the cracks where doubts take root A fragile trust begins to shoot Not built on stone or iron strong But on the place we both belong So I will walk this narrow line Where yours and mine begin to intertwine A bridge of words and silent grace Across the space of time and face	6	Small hands reach out to hold the space between The words you speak and what you mean A quiet test of safety in the air To see if love is always there You stumble through the shifting ground Where fear and hope are tightly bound Each question asked, a fragile thread That pulls the things we've left unsaid I watch you grow beyond the door No longer needing me for more But still you turn to find my face In every new and uncertain place The bridge we build with time and care Is woven from the moments shared Not perfect lines or steady stone But hearts that learn to stand alone And when the storm begins to rise We meet beneath the open skies Two souls that choose to trust again Through joy and loss and quiet pain	6
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.	I would rather plough my field alone And watch the seasons pass and come again, Than wear a crown or be a king of men; I like to see the grass grow on the ground, And see the cattle feeding round about, And have no company but birds and beasts. I had rather live in this country place Where I can see nothing but the fields And the green hills and the blue sky above, And hear nothing but the birds singing And the cows lowing and the sheep bleating, And the wind blowing and the water running, And the bees humming and the grass growing. I would rather have a pot of good ale And a good fire and a good book to read, And lie down by the fire and read my book, And then go to bed and sleep well, Than have all the good ale in England And all the good fires in England And all the good books in England And not lie down by the fire and read my book, And then go to bed and sleep well. I would rather be a poor man in a garret With plenty of books and tobacco and snuff, Than be a rich man in a palace With no books and no tobacco and no snuff.	2	Let others chase the gilded crown And seek the noisy, crowded town, I'd rather watch the morning light Break soft across my fields of white. My wealth is in the turning year, The spring's green shoot, the autumn sheaf, The quiet herd that grazes near, A simple life beyond belief. No banquet hall with silver spoons, No velvet chairs or perfumed rooms, But here beneath the harvest moons, Where silence blooms and nightfall looms. I need no friend to share my bread, Nor crowd to hear my stories told; The earth has all I've ever said, And sheep are friends enough, I'm told. So let them have their fame and gold, Their painted walls and city pride; I'll keep the secrets that I hold, With just my land and sky beside.	7	Let others chase the gilded stage And trade their peace for fleeting fame, I keep my quiet, narrow cage Of furrowed earth and silent name. The city's roar is not for me, Its velvet crowds and painted lies; I find my wealth in liberty Beneath the vast and open skies. When spring awakes the sleeping sod, I walk the rows where seedlings rise, No king commands a field like God With morning mist and dewy eyes. In summer heat, I watch the sheep Graze on the hillside, green and deep, While others seek the banquet heap, I guard my herds from harm and sleep. The autumn brings the harvest gold, A simple store against the cold, More rich than stories often told By merchants with their hearts of mold. Then winter wraps the world in white, The fire crackles, warm and bright, No guest disturbs my peaceful night, No clamor breaks the frozen light. So let them have their marble halls And voices that the echo calls, I love the wind that softly falls Upon these hills and garden walls.	7	The city calls with gilded bells and noise But I have found a quieter, deeper voice In morning mist that clings to valley grass Where silent shadows of the mountains pass. Let others chase the crown of fleeting fame And build their towers on a shifting frame I seek the weight of earth beneath my hand And watch the seasons mark my quiet land. My wealth is not in silks or silver coins But in the rhythm of the grazing boars The scent of hay when autumn air grows cold A story by the winter fire told. No crowded halls where hollow words are spun Can match the rising of the early sun To guide the flock across the dewy hill Where time stands still and nature bends its will. So let the world spin fast in gold and pride I walk this path with nothing left to hide Just me, my sheep, the soil, and sky above And all the simple peace that silence loves.	6	The city calls with gilded noise and light But I have chosen silence for my bed Where dawn breaks soft across the sleeping height And stars retreat before the morning red No crown of gold can warm a winter's chill Nor silk replace the wool that keeps me whole I find my wealth within the turning hill And peace that settles in a quiet soul My hands are rough from tending to the earth From mending fences where the wild winds blow A simple life of labor and of birth Is all the riches that I need to know Let others chase the applause of crowded halls While I watch sheep drift slow through misty green The river sings its ancient, steady calls A world unseen by eyes that long for scene Through spring the buds and summer's heavy heat Autumn's harvest stored against the snow Winter's deep rest beneath the frozen sleet These seasons teach me what the crowds do not know So let them keep their fame and fleeting grace Their banquets loud and conversations thin I walk this path at my own measured pace Content to be the herdsman and the kin	7	The city calls with lights so bright and loud But I find peace beneath the quiet cloud Where no one knows my name or seeks my face And time moves slow within this sacred space My hands are rough from turning up the soil A life of work that makes the spirit whole No velvet chair or golden cup to hold Just stories written in the autumn cold I watch the sheep drift through the morning mist By simple needs and honest labor kissed While kings may fight for thrones they cannot keep I count my stars before the world's asleep Let others chase the applause of crowded halls I answer only to the garden walls The scent of rain on earth after the drought Is all the luxury I need to doubt No banquet feast could match a loaf of bread Or silence where the weary mind is fed So let the world spin fast and burn away I choose the dawn to greet another day	6	The city calls with golden lights But I have chosen quiet nights Where stars hang low above the hill And silence makes the heart feel still No crown of gold, no throne to claim Just soil beneath a weathered frame I watch the seasons turn and fade In fields where ancient shadows play My hands are rough from plow and seed A humble and unspoken need To feed the sheep that graze so deep While others chase the dreams they keep Let kings hold court in marble halls I answer only nature's calls For every breath of morning air Is worth more than a kingdom's share The herd moves slow across the green A rhythm soft and unseen Here time slows down to match the beat Of hooves upon the dusty street No crowd to praise or judge my name Just firelight in the winter flame I find my peace in simple things The song the wind through branches sings So let the world spin fast and loud Away beyond this peaceful cloud I tend the earth with steady grace And love this solitary place	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.	Oh, the auctioneer's gavel is a hammer of nails that drives us all to the cross of this poet's death. Look at the Roman soldiers, the coarse bidders who gambled for his clothes, and here they are again gambling for his love letters, his very underclothes; and why? because they do not appreciate art. If they appreciated art they would know that these letters are the very clothes in which Christ was crucified. And if they did not appreciate art they would not be Roman soldiers. But they are Roman soldiers because they do not appreciate art. They have stripped him naked and divided his garments among them, and cast lots upon his vesture. O my friends, I am afraid I am one of the Roman soldiers.	2	The gavel falls like a judge's final blow Upon the trembling, private pages where he bled, Sold to the highest bidder who will never know The weight of words that kept him from being dead. They are not bought for love, nor for the art That made the ink run deep into the soul, But for the paper, and the poet's heart Is torn apart by gamblers playing roll. Just as the Roman soldiers in their greed Cast lots upon the seamless robe of Christ, And stood around the cross to see who'd lead The bidding for the garment he despised; So here they stand, these merchants of the new, With wallets full and spirits void of grace, Dividing up the sacred, secret view Of one who sought to find his Lord's own face. They do not see the lover's naked truth, Nor how the lines were stitched with blood and fear, They only see the vintage of his youth, And bid until the auctioneer is clear. O, let the earth divide and swallow deep The table where this holy lot is cast, For while the poets in their graves may weep, The soldiers count their money to the last.	6	The gavel falls like a judge's hammer on the heart And splits the quiet intimacy of a life away, For these were not mere scraps of paper, but the pulse Of a lover's soul laid bare in trembling ink. Now they are stripped and spread upon the block To be bought by men who see only price in prose, Who cannot read the rhythm of a sigh or feel The fevered heat that burned behind the words. It is the same old greed that walked the hill, When Roman soldiers cast their lots for linen, Gambling the garments of the crucified While He hung bleeding, silent in the wind. They fought for fabric while the spirit died; Now bidders fight for paper while the love expires, Dividing up the holy vestments of a mind That sought to speak to those who truly listen. Oh, how the silence screams within this room As strangers bid for secrets meant for one, Turning the sacred text of private grief Into a spectacle for vulgar eyes. They take the robe of Christ and sell it high, Unknowing that they tear the flesh from bone, And leave the poet naked in his grave, With nothing left but dust and broken glass.	6	The gavel falls like a hammer on a nail To split the silence of a sacred room, Where ink once breathed the secrets of a soul Now sold to strangers in a crowded gloom. They bid with coins for words they cannot read, For hearts that beat beneath the paper's skin, While critics count the profit of the deed And call this theft a victory within. Oh, cruel fate that strips the lover bare, As Roman soldiers cast their lots below, Dividing up the tunic of the air Around a body made to bleed and grow. They gambled for the robe of Christ in scorn, Ignoring all the divinity it held, Just as these bidders laugh at love unborn And buy the grief that time has never quelled. No reverence warms the cold and rising hand, No tear is shed for what was meant to stay, Just greedy eyes that scan the auction land And turn the night into a selling day. The poet sleeps while strangers fight the prize, A hollow game where art is lost to greed, With bloodless fingers tearing at the skies To claim the garment of a dying creed.	6	The gavel falls like stone on sacred wood As ink-stained pages, once a secret kept, Are stripped of all the tenderness they held To feed the greed of those who never wept. They bid in dollars for a whispered name, A lover's sigh now priced and sold to view, While strangers laugh at verses meant to heal, And trade the soul for something cold and new. I see the scene unfold in ancient dust, Where soldiers cast their lots with careless hands, Dividing up the tunic of the just, Ignoring all the blood upon the sands. Just as they gambled for the garments worn By one who spoke of love beyond the grave, Now crowds compete to own the poet's heart, And treat his grief as merchandise to save. No reverence lives within that auction hall, Where art is weighed against a coin's demand, The private fire reduced to public call, Torn from the writer's trembling, loving hand. Oh, let the silence break the heavy air, Before the final lot is struck and gone, For what was written only for the few Is lost beneath the weight of profit drawn.	6	The gavel falls like a hammer on stone As ink-stained pages are sold to the highest unknown Where bids rise loud for words meant to breathe To strangers who only know how to count and believe That love can be weighed in the cold weight of gold A story of heart turned into something to hold By hands that have never felt the tremor of rhyme Or understood the cost of a stolen time They tear at the seams of a sacred design Like soldiers dividing a robe in the line Of a cross where silence once held up the sky While gamblers cast dice for the price of a cry Those Roman boots tread on the grass of the soul Ignoring the spirit, the broken, the whole Just as they laughed at the poet's last plea Now they fight over letters meant only to be free No reverence lingers in this crowded hall Where art is reduced to a number, a call For profit and power, for fame and for greed Leaving the essence of beauty to bleed The poet lies quiet beneath the noise Of a world that has forgotten its own sacred poise And watches the auction with hollowed-out eyes As the final bid seals what the living despise	6	The gavel falls like stone on sacred ground Where ink once whispered secrets meant for two Now strangers bid with greed and hollow sound To own a heart they never knew or knew They split the pages like a fractured bone A mosaic sold to highest, careless hand While silence screams in rooms of marble throne And beauty turns to dust across the land Just as the soldiers cast their dice at dawn Upon the robe that held a dying light They gamble now on words that should be drawn Into the shadows of the endless night No reverence remains within the air For verses written soft against the skin As auctioneers declare a final prayer That love was merely profit they could win The poet weeps from out the empty space Watching their intimacy turn to gold A cruel display of time's relentless pace Where stories bought are never truly told	7
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 express train leaves the station and gathers momentum. At first it is in time with its surroundings, but as it gets up speed it becomes more and more out of time with them. It goes faster and faster, and is more and more out of time with them. And now it is going at such a rate that it is quite out of time with them. It seems to be going on for ever. And it is not like an ordinary train. It is an express train. And it is going at such a rate that it is quite out of time with them. It is going at such a rate that it is quite out of time with them. It is going at such a rate that it is quite out of time with them. And it is not like an ordinary train. It is an express train. And it is going at such a rate that it is quite out of time with them. It is going at such a rate that it is quite out of time with them. It is going at such a rate that it is quite out of time with them. And it is not like an ordinary train. It is an express train. And it is going at such a rate that it is quite out of time with them. It is going at such a rate that it is quite out of time with them. It is going at such a rate that it is quite out of time with them. And it is not like an ordinary train. It is an express train. And it is going at such a rate that it is quite out of time with them. It is going at such a rate that it is quite out of time with them. It is going at such a rate that it is quite out of time with them. And it is not like an ordinary train. It is an express train. And it is going at such a rate that it is quite out of time with them. It is going at such a rate that it is quite out of time with them. It is going at such a rate that it is quite out of time with them. And it is not like an ordinary train. It is an express train. And it is going at such a rate that it is quite out of time with them. It is going at such a rate that it is quite out of time with them. It is going at such a rate that it is quite out of time with them. And it is not like an ordinary train. It is an express train. And it is going at such a r…	2	The whistle screams a sharp command And iron wheels begin to turn, Leaving the platform's quiet stand Where waiting crowds with patience burn. A gentle lurch, a rhythmic beat, The station walls slide past in grey, The porter's hand is lifted sweet To wave the morning train away. Now faster through the suburbs green, The houses blur into a streak, No time for children to be seen Who pause upon the garden creek. The speed increases, deep and loud, The countryside becomes a smear, It crushes down the grazing crowd Of sheep that do not know the fear. The fields are gone, the trees are gone, Just straight lines cutting through the air, We rush to meet the rising dawn With no one left to stop or care. The world outside is out of sync, A painting torn by rushing wind, While inside we drink our coffee pink And watch the distant villages spin. It cannot stop, it will not brake, This giant serpent made of steel, It tears the fabric that we make To serve the great and grand design. The people on the track are small, They cannot hear us as we roar, We hurtle past their cottage wall And never look behind once more. So onward to the city vast, Where progress waits with open door, We leave the slow and broken past That drags its weary feet on shore.	7	The whistle cuts the morning mist A silver needle through the grey The doors slide shut with final hiss And leave the waiting crowd at bay At first a gentle, rhythmic sway That matches footsteps on the platform stone Then faster now the pistons play As if the tracks are made of bone The station blurs to streaks of light The vendors' cries are swallowed deep We rush into the coming night While those we left behind asleep The world outside begins to bend To fit the curve of steel and speed The trees bow down as if to end Their ancient pact with human need No time for hands that wave goodbye No pause for fields that turn to dust The engine roars beneath the sky Driven by an iron trust It cannot stop for broken rails Or hearts that beat too slow to keep It smashes through the village walls With promises it means to reap The passengers stare at empty space Where neighbors once stood side by side They feel no pity, see no face Just forward motion, wide and wide The train becomes a living thing That eats the landscape in its wake Ignoring every trembling wing Of life it leaves behind to break So on it goes, a beast of progress Unstoppable and cold and grand Leaving the quiet and the mess To crumble in the shifting sand	6	The whistle cuts the morning mist A silver serpent wakes from sleep It pushes off with piston hiss And promises a world to keep The platform blurs into a streak Of faces frozen in surprise The clock ticks loud, then turns to weak As distant hills begin to rise The trees become a solid wall Of green that rushes past too fast No time to pause, no time to call To those who cannot hold on fast The rhythm builds a deafening drum That drowns the village bell and song Where once the quiet farmers come Now only steel and smoke belong It speeds beyond the edge of sight Leaving the slow and broken things Behind it in the fading light While progress sings its iron wings We run to catch the rushing train But feet grow heavy, lungs grow thin The gap between the two is pain Between the rush and where we've been It tears through fields of wheat and grain Without a glance at what it crushes An unstoppable, relentless chain That grinds the small beneath its rushes The future waits at every mile But leaves the present in the dust A cold and calculated style Of moving forward, breaking trust So let it fly, this metal beast With schedules carved in stone and fire That feeds the hungry, distant feast And burns the hearth of our desire	7	The whistle cuts the morning air As iron wheels begin to turn A heavy breath, a sudden flare Before the platform starts to burn At first the station stands so still With faces pressed against the glass But now the rhythm bends the will And watches blur into a mass The speed increases, sharp and cold A river made of steel and smoke Leaving the stories never told Behind in every quiet nook The world outside begins to stretch While time inside moves faster yet The poor are left to slowly reach For promises they cannot get No brakes can hold this rushing tide That sweeps away the weak and small Where ancient roots have nowhere hide Beneath the shadow of it all It screams ahead with blind intent Ignoring those who fall behind A progress that has lost its sense Of what it means to leave mankind	6	The whistle cuts the morning air A silver beast begins to tear The quiet fabric of the street Where weary feet and silence meet The wheels ignite a rhythmic beat That shakes the ground beneath our feet No longer bound by human pace It leaves the gentle world behind in haste The houses blur to streaks of gray As day dissolves into the spray Of steel that knows no pause or rest Ignoring those who cannot keep up with the quest The speed climbs high, a rising tide With nowhere left for us to hide The engine roars a single note While ordinary lives are caught in throat We watch the stations fade away As progress claims another day Too fast to hear the crying sound Of roots pulled up from solid ground The future rushes past our eyes Beneath these cold and metal skies A momentum built on broken things Leaving the fragile heart of spring	7	The whistle cuts the morning air As steel wheels kiss the iron rail A promise made to those who dare To leave behind the quiet trail The city blurs into a stream Of concrete, glass, and hurried feet We trade our dreams for borrowed time Chasing ghosts we cannot meet The rhythm grows too fast to keep A heartbeat lost in mechanical sound The people left upon the steep Are swept beneath the rising ground No hand can brake this forward drive That claims the cost of human breath We sacrifice the chance to live In service to a silent death The tracks stretch out toward the void Where progress burns with cold design And every soul that gets destroyed Is just a line on some grand sign	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, Nor of the cat with the green eyes. I am not afraid of the dog that barks, Nor of the man with the big nose. I am not afraid of the schoolmaster, Nor of the blackboard and the chalk. I am not afraid of the doctor, Nor of the needle and the lancet. I am not afraid of the dentist, Nor of the drill and the molar. I am not afraid of the thunder, Nor of the lightning and the rain. I am not afraid of the ghosts, Nor of the witches and the goblins. I am not afraid of anything, Excepting only myself.	2	I am not afraid of the dark or the teeth that gnash in the closet door nor the storm that rattles the windowpane like a giant shaking a box of bones. I can walk through the graveyard at noon and whistle to the ghosts who peek from the tombstones. I will jump off the high diving board even if the water looks like ink and I cannot swim. I will eat the green peas even if they taste like mud. Nothing scares me, nothing at all. But sometimes when the house is quiet and the moonlight falls on the floor like a silver knife I hold my breath until my lungs burn because I am terrified that if I breathe out the whole world will blow away like a dandelion clock in a gale.	2	I will not scream when the thunder cracks the sky nor run from the shadow that stretches long and thin I have climbed the tallest oak to touch the clouds and laughed at the wolf who howls beneath my window sill. The dark is just a blanket waiting to be pulled up tight the ocean is only water with a very loud voice I am made of iron and fire and unbreakable bone nothing can hurt me, nothing can make me stop. But if you look very close at the space behind my eyes you might see a small, quiet thing trembling there a fear so soft it has no name and no shape that waits for the moment I finally let my guard down. It does not care about storms or monsters or deep water it only fears the silence after the laughter ends and the terrible thought that one day I might have to grow up so I keep my chin high and my hands in fists and pretend.	4	I tell the thunder it is just a drum And run right through the rain without a coat The shadows in the hall are only friends Who dance along the walls to keep me warm I climb the highest branch and laugh at height I speak to spiders like they are old kings No monster hides beneath my bed tonight For I have banished all the scary things But when the quiet settles deep inside And no one sees the tremor in my hand I hold a secret fear that has no name A hollow space where courage used to stand It is not storms or dark or teeth or claws That make my tiny chest begin to shake It is the thought of being left alone When all the brave words finally break	6	I climb the tallest oak to touch the sky And laugh when thunder cracks the heavy gray The shadows in the hall are just a game That I can chase and make them run away No monster hides beneath my bed at night For I have banished every ghost with light The ocean roars its wild and angry song But I will stand where all the brave belong My hands are steady, though they shake inside A secret trembling that I cannot hide The world is vast and full of things unknown But I must wear this armor made of stone So let the winds blow hard and break the door I'll face the dark and ask for nothing more Except the silence after all is done Where only I know what it means to run	6	I stand before the storm and laugh aloud At thunder cracking like a broken bone The shadows stretch to swallow up the crowd But I am made of steel and not of stone No monster hides beneath the creaking floor No ghost can touch the fire in my chest I kick the walls and scream for something more And claim that nothing puts my soul to test Yet deep inside where silence starts to bloom A tiny bird is trembling in its cage It beats against the quiet, seeking room To write a different story on this page I wear my courage like a heavy coat To hide the shaking hands I cannot show The world is vast and cold within its throat But I will never let the darkness know That every step I take with head held high Is built upon a foundation made of fear A secret kept beneath a painted sky Where only I can hear the trembling near	6	I stand before the storm with open hands And laugh at thunder rolling through the sky The shadows dance but I refuse to bend To every ghost that tries to make me cry My voice is loud against the creeping dark A shield of steel forged from a stubborn will I tell the night it cannot break my spark No matter how the wind begins to chill But deep beneath this armor made of pride A quiet tremor shakes the fragile bone Where all the things I run from hide inside And wait for when I am alone So let them see the courage in my eyes While secrets sleep behind a smiling face For fear is not a thing that ever dies It lives within this unacknowledged space	6
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 earth with a needle of glass, Philosophy prods it with a stick of logic, Religion squeezes it like an orange to see if there is any juice, But the earth remains indifferent. It endlessly greets existence with the renewal of spring, And new life.	5	Science drills deep into the granite core prodding the dark with cold, bright lasers squeezing rock until it confesses its age asking why we are here and what is next. Philosophy circles the crust with heavy boots poking at the cracks in logic with sharp sticks squeezing the concept of cause and effect until the mind hurts from the pressure of meaning. Religion builds towers to scrape the sky poking at the silence between stars with prayer squeezing the heart until it bleeds faith begging for a sign that this pain matters. But the earth turns her shoulder and does not hear she ignores the needles and the loud questions and simply greets the returning sun with spring sending up green shoots and new life everywhere.	6	Science drills its steel fingers deep probing the crust for layers of truth philosophy presses a cold thumb against the rock squeezing for the logic hidden in the grain religion wraps its warm, trembling hands around the sphere begging the soil to speak of heaven and sin they poke the silence until it bruises they prod the darkness until it bleeds light they squeeze the world until it groans under the weight of their questions but the earth turns slowly, indifferent to the ache it does not answer with scripture or equation it only waits through the long, cold grip of winter then greets the returning sun with a green explosion unfolding ferns from the dark bursting flowers from the stone ignoring the searchers entirely as it births another season of blind, beautiful life	3	They poke the soil with drills of steel and thought To find the core where answers might be kept The scientist measures the weight of light The philosopher weighs the soul that wept The priest kneels down to squeeze a prayer from stone And all three press their faces to the ground Demanding why the silence holds its own And what purpose in this dust is found But deep within the crust no voice replies No grand design unfolds beneath the hand Just tectonic shifts and ancient, quiet skies That do not care for any human plan The earth feels nothing of their frantic search For meaning hidden in the rock and rain It turns away from every desperate perch To answer only with a gentle pain Then winter breaks and green begins to rise A fern unfurls without a single word The sun returns to warm the frozen eyes Of seeds that slept while all the world was stirred New life erupts from mud and rotting wood Ignoring every question asked above The river flows exactly as it should With neither hate nor mercy, just pure love So let them probe and pry and squeeze and strain Until their theories crumble into sand The world will bloom again through wind and rain And hold the meaning in its living hand Not in the mind, or book, or telescope But in the grass that grows without a sound While humanity stands on a trembling slope And watches spring reclaim the hallowed ground	6	They come with needles sharp and questions loud To poke the soil and squeeze the stone The scientist seeks laws in every cloud The priest demands a throne The philosopher turns over every root And presses deep to find the hidden cause But silence is the only truth they suit Beyond their human laws The earth feels nothing of their frantic need No weight of dogma, no demand for sign It simply breathes beneath the ancient seed And lets the seasons shine For while they argue over what it means To hold the world within a fragile hand The frozen ground begins to thaw again Across the sleeping land A green shoot breaks the crust without a sound Ignoring all the theories spun above The cycle spins on solid, steady ground With neither fear nor love So let them search until their hands are raw And squeeze the mystery till it yields its name The spring arrives regardless of the law And life begins again	7	The scholars dig with questions sharp and cold While priests in silence hold the sacred ground They press their palms against the soil so old To find a voice within the silent sound Philosophy demands a reason why Religion offers hope to fill the night Science measures stars that drift on high And seeks the spark behind the fading light They squeeze the rock until it cracks and bleeds Prodding the dark for answers deep and vast But time is just a river, not a creed That flows indifferent to the things we cast No grand design responds to human plea No cosmic hand reaches down to save The earth simply breathes beneath the tree And turns the winter into something brave A green shoot breaks the frost without a word Ignoring all the theories built on sand It does not care if gods have been heard Or if the laws of physics understand The seasons roll with quiet, steady grace Renewing life while minds try to explain The mystery written on a face That smiles again at rain and sun and pain So let them search and question and demand For meaning in the dust and shifting stone The world will bloom across this barren land And greet existence with a seed unknown	7	They dig with drills of steel and thought To find the answer in the stone A logic sharp, a faith untaught That claims the seeds are fully sown The scholars argue over dust While priests raise hands to empty skies Each seeking patterns they must trust Beneath the weight of endless lies But soil does not care for names Nor theories built on shifting sand It holds no blame, it bears no flames Just quiet roots that understand The winter fades without a sound As green pushes through the gray No grand design is ever found Only the light of breaking day The questions fade into the air Leaving the ground to simply be Where life begins beyond repair In cycles wild and wild and free	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.	When the last breath is drawn and the heart stops beating, The whole world changes a little bit. It is not that he is gone, but that he will never be again. There is no other person in all this world who is exactly like him. No one can ever replace him. He was unique. He was the only one in the whole world who could do such-and-such things. And when he dies, these things are lost to the world for ever and ever. Nothing like him will ever be born again into the world. He was an original. Some of the things he did were things which nobody else could do. Nobody else could write such-and-such a poem, or sing such-and-such a song. Nobody else could make such-and-such a scientific discovery. Nobody else could paint such-and-such a picture. Nobody else could compose such-and-such a piece of music. Nobody else could discover such-and-such a star. Nobody else could invent such-and-such a machine. Nobody else could have such-and-such a personality. Nobody else could think such-and-such thoughts. Nobody else could feel such-and-such feelings. Nobody else could say such-and-such things. Nobody else could do such-and-such actions. Nobody else could have such-and-such experiences. Nobody else could have such-and-such adventures. Nobody else could have such-and-such successes. Nobody else could have such-and-such failures. Nobody else could have such-and-such friends. Nobody else could have such-and-such enemies. Nobody else could have such-and-such relations. Nobody else could have such-and-such acquaintances. Nobody else could have such-and-such hobbies. Nobody else could have such-and-such occupations. Nobody else could have such-and-such amusements. Nobody else could have such-and-such pleasures. Nobody else could have such-and-such enjoyments. Nobody else could have such-and-such gratifications. Nobody else could have such-and-such satisfactions. Nobody else could have such-and-such delights. Nobody else could have such-and-such joys. Nobody else could have such-and-such happinesses. Nobody else could have such-and-such mi…	3	The world keeps turning as the clock ticks on, The sun will rise again upon the grass, But something that was here is now gone, A specific light that only you could pass. No other voice can mimic your distinct tone, No other laugh contains that sudden break, No other mind held thoughts so uniquely known, Or made a silence feel so full and awake. You were a pattern woven in the air, With threads of color found nowhere else, And now the loom is still, and stripped quite bare, Leaving a shapeless hole where you once dwelled. We mourn not just a life that has ceased to be, But a universe that dies with every breath, A library of wonders locked away from me, Burnt by the final fire of death. There is no copy, draft, or second edition, No echo that can truly replace the sound, Just this vast and hollowed-out condition, Where what was you is lost and never found.	7	The light that lived behind those eyes flickers out and leaves a sudden gray, a specific frequency of sound that will not hum another day. No other hands could hold the world quite like the way your fingers did, no other voice could shape the air to make the heavy moments light. You were a constellation drawn in ink no artist can repeat, a pattern made of laugh lines deep and secrets only you knew sweet. Now silence fills the hollow space where once your unique rhythm beat, a song composed of just one soul that ends before it can be sweet. We mourn the loss of something rare that time cannot restore or mend, the singular and irreplaceable that has now reached its final end.	6	The light within the room grows thin and gray As one specific frequency goes dim A song that only they could ever play Now silenced in the quiet of the hymn No other voice can hold that exact tone No other laugh can fill the empty air A universe of thought is now alone And leaves a shape no hands can quite repair They were a map of stars we knew by heart A constellation formed of quirks and grace But now the chart is torn and torn apart Leaving a void time cannot ever place It is not just a life that ends today But every color unique to their soul That fades into the dark and drifts away Making the whole world feel a little less whole We mourn the fact that nothing can replace The way they saw the world, the way they loved This singular and irreplaceable space Is lost beneath the heavy weight above So silence settles where their footsteps stood And we are left with echoes in the hall Knowing no new beginning ever could Restore the one who will not answer call	7	The room grows quiet as the final breath Stills the rhythm that once filled the air, A symphony of laughter now held within a chest That will never beat with that specific care. No copy exists of the way you spoke, Of the light that danced behind your eyes, Or the gentle hand that knew just how to break The heavy chains of sorrow and disguise. You were a constellation mapped in skin, Unique and rare against the endless night, Now fading into silence from within, Taking half the world's color with your flight. We search for echoes in the empty space, But find only shadows where you used to stand, For no one else could ever take your place, Or hold the universe within their hand. What leaves is not just life but all it meant, A singular design that time cannot restore, A story finished, beautifully spent, Leaving us to mourn what we can't ignore.	7	The quiet settles where a voice once rose A specific frequency now lost to air No other heart beats with that same slow pace No mind holds thoughts so uniquely rare You were the color no one else could paint The rhythm in the silence of the room Now shadows stretch across the empty space And swallow up the light of your perfume We search for echoes in the things you left But find only the shape of what is gone For every laugh, a ghost begins to weep As morning breaks on this irreversible dawn The world keeps turning but it feels less bright Without the spark that only you could bring A universe within a single soul That fades and leaves us with a broken string Nothing can replace the way you were No copy made from memory or time Just absence where your magic used to dwell An irreplaceable and final rhyme	7	The light within the room grows thin and gray As silence claims the space you used to hold A symphony of laughter fades away Leaving a story that will never be retold Your voice was distinct, a melody so rare No other soul could mimic every tone Now heavy air hangs thick in empty chairs And seeds of grief are sown in hearts of stone The world moves on with steps that feel so wrong While time erodes the edges of your name A song we knew is lost before it's sung Reduced to whispers carried by the rain You were a universe of one design Impossible to copy or rebuild Now darkness swallows all that once was mine And leaves a void no hand can ever fill	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 lamplight used to throw a giant shadow Against the wall, and we would gather round To hear the tales of giants and of goblins And how they lived in the old hollow tree. Now I am alone in my own room, And there is no lamplight, but an electric light, And there are no children, for I am grown up, And there are no stories, for I have heard them all. I can remember the faces of the children, And I can remember the face of the story-teller, And I can remember the faces of the parents, Who were sitting behind us in the dark. But I cannot remember the stories. I can remember the feeling of the stories, But I cannot remember the stories. It makes me sad to think of it.	3	The oil lamp sputtered on the rough-hewn table Casting long, dancing shadows against the peeling plaster, And we were small and huddled close together, Breath held tight in our little chests, Waiting for the old man to begin. His voice was like dry leaves skittering on stone, Rising and falling with the rhythm of the wick, Telling of giants who lived in the hills beyond the river, Or spirits that hid in the hollows of ancient oaks. We believed every word, terrified and thrilled, While the flame bobbed and the room seemed to shrink, Making the world outside feel vast and dangerous, But here, under the circle of gold, we were safe. Now the house is dark and silent, The table is gone, the plaster stripped away, And the old man has been dead for twenty years. I walk through rooms that are too bright with electric light, And I miss the shadows most of all, I miss the way the fear felt like warmth, And how the story ended just before dawn, Leaving us to sleep with the feeling that anything could happen.	2	The oil lamp flickers low and gold Upon the rough-hewn table now, A ghost of light that once was bold Before the shadows learned to bow. We sat in rows on woven mats, With eyes wide open, breath held tight, While father spun his ancient chats Beneath the amber, trembling light. His voice was deep, a river sound, That carried us to lands afar, Where giants walked on hallowed ground And stars were hung like lanterns are. But time has blown the wick away, The room is cold, the chairs are bare, The stories sleep in gray decay, No laughter floats upon the air. I reach to touch the flame again, To feel the warmth I used to know, But find only the falling rain And silence where the voices go.	6	The oil lamp flickered low and gold Against the walls of fading time, Where shadows danced a story told In rhythm with the winter chime. We sat so close to hear the voice, That whispered tales of far-off lands, While in that circle, small and choice, No fear could touch our waiting hands. Now silence fills the empty room, The wick is cold, the glass is dim, And I am haunted by the gloom Of what was lost beneath the rim. I reach for hands that turned to dust, For voices swallowed by the years, A broken, beautiful, quiet trust, Dissolved within these lonely tears. The fire died before I knew, The stories end when we depart, And all that's left is morning dew Upon a heavy, aching heart.	7	The oil lamp flickers low and gold Upon the table, worn and old Where shadows danced against the wall Before the silence started fall We huddled close in wool and heat With stories woven, sweet and neat Of dragons sleeping deep below And heroes who would never go Now dust has settled on the floor And there is no one at the door To lean in close to hear the tale Or watch the wick begin to fail The voices fade into the night Like embers losing all their light I reach for hands that are not there But only find the heavy air A quiet ache begins to rise Behind these tired, watering eyes For moments lost to passing time That feel like such a distant rhyme	7	The oil ran low in the brass bowl's deep chest As shadows stretched long against the wall We sat so close, a circle of quiet rest Before the silence grew too loud to call Your voice was soft, a thread of golden light That wove through dust and smoke and heavy air It held the monsters back within the night And made us feel that nothing could compare But time has turned those pages into gray The lamp is cold, the wick is burned away I reach for hands that faded far today And find only the echo of the day Now stories float like ghosts upon the breeze Unspoken words that rustle through the trees A ache inside that never finds release For all we were, and all we failed to keep	6	The dust now settles on the wooden floor Where laughter once would bounce and fill the air A single bulb that flickered, warm and sore Revealing shadows dancing everywhere We sat so close to hear the whispered tale Of heroes lost and winds that never cease Now silence holds the weight of every gale And steals the rhythm from our quiet peace Your voice is gone, a ghost within the room The stories fade like embers in the night I trace the cracks inside this hollow gloom Longing for a light I cannot fight The lamp still burns but casts no golden hue Just cold reminders of the days we knew A final breath before the morning breaks Leaving only heartache in its wake	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	Every dawn is a new beginning, A fresh start for the happy and the sad, For even ashes turn into leaves again. The sun rises with a hopeful face, And in each dawning day we find hope.	6	The night may hold its heavy cloak of grief, And bury all the joy we thought was sure, But dawn arrives to offer sweet relief, With light that makes the ancient pain endure. No matter how the fire has burned us down, Or turned our hearts to dust and cold gray ash, The morning sun will wear a golden crown, To make the green leaves spring from every crash. For happy souls who dance in fields of gold, And sad ones weeping by the river's side, There is a story waiting to be told, Where ashes turn to life with nowhere hide. Each breaking day brings back the chance to start, A fresh beginning for the broken heart.	7	The night holds its breath until the east turns gold, And in that quiet light, the story starts anew. Even from the pile of ash where fire once burned bold, A green shoot pushes through to meet the morning dew. It does not ask if you have wept or laughed today, Or if your heart is heavy with a sorrow deep and old; The sun rises on the broken just as on the gay, And offers every weary soul a chance to be made whole. For in each dawning day, the world begins again, Where winter's bitter end becomes the spring's first breath. The ashes of our past are turned to leaves by rain, And life returns to those who faced their own small death. So let the happy dance and let the sad find rest, Within this daily promise that the dawn has brought. No matter how the darkness seemed to put us to the test, The light returns to guide us to a fresh and new thought.	7	The night retreats in silent grace To leave the dark behind And morning paints a golden face Upon the weary mind Where ashes fell from fires past And charred the earth so deep A green shoot breaks the shadow cast While all the world's asleep No sorrow holds a permanent chain No joy can last forever But dawn returns to heal the pain And bind us closer together For happy hearts and broken ones Find equal ground at light As winter yields to rising suns And leaves replace the night So let the old year fall away Like dust upon the floor The new day brings a brighter way To open up the door	7	The night retreats before the golden light And shadows fade to make a space for sight Where yesterday's despair begins to cease To let the quiet promise of the peace Even ashes hold a secret deep and old That waits within the soil to unfold For every spark that died in winter's cold Can rise again as leaves of green and gold No sorrow stays too heavy on the soul No broken heart remains beyond control The dawn arrives to wash the past away And offers up a brand new, brighter day Both happy souls and those who weep in pain Find equal ground beneath the morning rain A fresh beginning waits for all to see As life renews itself eternally	7	The night retreats to let the light return A quiet promise that the dark must burn Where once the fire left a field of gray Green shoots emerge to wash the dust away No sorrow lasts beyond the morning dew For every tear can make the soil anew The heavy ash that settled on the ground Will rise as leaves where new life is found It does not ask what broke or what was lost But offers up a gentle, softest cost To those who weep and those who laugh aloud A fresh beginning rising from the cloud So step outside beneath the warming sun And see the journey has just now begun From winter's end to spring's first breath of grace We find our way in time and open space	7	The night recedes to softest gray As shadows stretch and then give way To light that breaks the heavy air And finds a place for us to share No storm can hold the morning sun For every race is just begun Where broken things learn how to mend And silent hearts begin to bend From ash that fell in winter's cold A story starts to unfold Green shoots rise from barren ground Where lost and found are finally bound The tear that falls becomes the rain That washes clean the old domain Both joy and grief find space to grow Beneath the sky where winds blow low Today arrives with open hands To heal the scars across the lands A promise kept without a sound That life returns when hope is found	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.	Father says we are going to a country where the streets are paved with gold, but I have seen the streets of our village and they are paved with dirt. Mother says we are going to a country where there is always meat for dinner, but I have seen the dogs in our village and they are always eating dirt. Father says we are going to a country where we can sleep all night long without being afraid, but I have seen the soldiers in our village and they go about at night and shoot people who are sleeping. So I do not know whether it will be better for us in the country where the streets are paved with gold and there is always meat for dinner and we can sleep all night long without being afraid.	2	The river is cold and the mud is deep and Mama says we must not sleep until we reach the other side where the streets are paved with gold, she lied. Daddy carries the heavy bag and Tía walks with a limp and a drag but they both say the air is sweet and the fruit falls down in the street. I am small and I do not speak but I watch the way that the soldiers peek over the wall with their guns so long and I think that everything will be wrong. Mama says that the work is good and the landlord is kind as a brother should but I saw how he looked at us last night with his eyes full of hate and his hands tight. Daddy says that the school is fine and we can learn all the words in time but I heard him crying when he thought we were asleep saying this life is too hard to keep. They say it will get better soon under the light of a brighter moon but I know that the sun is the same everywhere and the people who hate us will always be there.	3	The truck smells of wet wool and old oranges, and my mother holds her breath so the guards won't hear us. My father says we are going to a place where the bread is white and the water runs from taps without fear, where the sun does not burn your skin unless you want it to. He points to the horizon with a hand that trembles slightly, saying this wall is just a line on a map, not a fence made of iron and angry dogs. I look at the dirt under my fingernails, the same dirt that was under my nails in the village, the same dirt that will be under my nails when we cross. If the bread is white there, why do our faces look gray? If the water flows freely, why does my throat feel dry? My father speaks of tomorrow as if it is a train waiting at the station, but I know trains run on schedules and maps, and we have neither. He says we are seeking a better life, as if life is a coat we can take off and put on again, a new size that fits better. But I think life is the road itself, the dust, the hunger, the looking back, and if we change the road, we only carry the dust with us. The guard's flashlight sweeps over us, a bright circle that makes me close my eyes tight. Maybe he sees nothing but shadows, maybe he sees children who are too quiet, maybe he sees a future that looks exactly like the past, only further away.	2	The truck bed smells of diesel and wet wool as we slide past the rusted fence line, my father gripping the wheel with knuckles white saying the sun here rises on gold fields. My mother hums a lullaby to keep the silence from swallowing our small breaths in the dark, telling me that the water is sweet there and the schools have books with pictures inside. I watch the shadows stretch long behind us, calculating the distance between what was lost and what they promise will be found. They speak of tomorrow as if it is a room waiting just around the corner, clean and bright, but I know how gravity works, how heavy things tend to stay where they fall. The road ahead is just another strip of gray dust, and the border guard's flashlight cuts a circle that looks exactly like the one we left. Maybe the sky changes color over there, maybe the air tastes different, but the hunger in my stomach feels the same, a quiet, steady engine that does not care about maps or new names or better days. We cross the line into the unknown, carrying our hopes in a plastic bag, while I wonder if running forward is any different than standing still, if the ground beneath our feet will ever feel solid or if we are just walking in circles chasing a horizon that keeps moving away.	2	The river cuts a line through mud and stone Where father holds his breath and mother weeps We step across the water, cold and deep To trade the hunger for a promise kept They say the sun is warmer on this side That work will come if only we are brave But I have seen how borders shift like tides And how the ground beneath us starts to cave My mother smooths her dress with hopeful hands She speaks of schools and bread that fills the bowl While father scans the horizon for new lands Believing in a story half-told I watch the shadows stretch across our feet And wonder if the light they chase is real Or just another lie we choose to meet Another dream we force ourselves to feel They carry bags of clothes and memories Of home left burning in the smoke behind But logic whispers doubts I cannot flee About the cost of leaving what we find If fear was here, it travels in our skin If poverty follows where our footsteps lead Then maybe hope is just a thin disguise For all the things we never get to need The gate stands open but the air feels thick With questions no one dares to speak aloud We walk toward a future, small and quick Beneath a sky indifferent and proud Perhaps the better life is just a name For different kinds of struggle, same as before A circle drawn in dust and endless rain That leads us back to where we started, sore	6	The truck hums low beneath the weight of hope And mother clutches maps she cannot read While father whispers promises of gold To fill the hollow space inside our need We step across a line drawn in the dust Where silence breaks and starts to fill the air I watch the shadows stretch across the ground And wonder if the light is really there They say the sun will warm this foreign soil That hunger fades when doors swing wide and free But logic tells me walls are built of stone And history repeats its old decree My heart believes the story we have told Yet reason counts the cost of every mile For every promise made to start anew Requires a price we may not pay or smile The border guards look down with tired eyes As we present our papers, worn and thin I hold my breath against the rising fear Of where the journey ends and life begins Perhaps tomorrow brings a different dawn Or maybe just another kind of night We walk ahead into the unknown dark With doubt as steady as our guiding light	6	The river swallows boots and worn-out shoes As father lifts the weight of all we own He speaks of golden fields and morning dews Of seeds that grow where hope has always grown But mother's eyes are fixed on distant lights That flicker like a promise made too soon We walk through shadows stretching into nights Beneath a cold and unforgiving moon I count the steps we take across the line And wonder if the ground beneath will shift For every dream we leave behind in time Is traded for a fragile, thinning rift They say the air will taste so sweet and new A balm to heal the wounds we carry deep Yet logic whispers truths I cannot view That some promises were never meant to keep The fence ahead stands tall against the sky A barrier built on fear and ancient lies We move forward with a desperate cry While silence watches from the empty skies So let us walk this path of broken stone With hearts that beat against the rising tide Though doubt remains within the bone That better days may not be far inside	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 my promise, I keep it well; I do not see her, I do not call; I never go near the place where she dwells. But oh, the pain of keeping it! It is as if I were dying by inches. And yet, if I did not keep it, If I went to see her or called her, It would throw doubt on my promise to love her. That is what I fear most of all: That if I did not keep this promise, She would think that I did not love her. So I keep it, and I am in pain.	2	I keep the distance like a sacred wall, Though every step away feels like a fall Into a void where silence screams your name, And burns my soul with unextinguished flame. It hurts to watch you walk another's way, To force myself to turn and look away, But if I break this vow of staying far, How can you trust that I truly am your star? If I return, the promise stands undone, The shadow of my weakness will be shone; You'll think my love was just a fleeting lie, A momentary lapse beneath the sky. So I must suffer in this lonely space, And wear this self-imposed and heavy brace, Lest breaking faith in distance make you doubt That I could ever truly love you out.	7	I keep the distance like a sacred wall, Though every step away feels like a fall. My heart screams out to cross the line I drew, To hold you close and make the world feel new, But silence is the only vow I keep, A promise made while all the rest asleep. If I should break this rule and come to you, Would you believe the love I swear is true? For if my word can fail in staying far, How can I claim I am your guiding star? The pain of missing you is sharp and deep, But breaking faith would be a deeper sleep. So I remain the ghost within your night, Who loves enough to vanish from your sight, Afraid that one embrace might make you doubt The very truth that keeps me locked outside.	7	I watch the moon rise over your quiet roof And keep my feet planted on this distant ground Where silence is the only sound I make To honor every word I once pronounced. The ache is sharp enough to draw a line Through all the days I wish I could erase But if I cross the border I defined I fear the very love I hold will fade. For if I break this vow to stay away Then what becomes of all I swore to be? If distance proves too hard for me to bear Was that true love, or just a lie to see? So I remain the ghost upon the edge Who loves you best by never stepping near Lest breaking silence cast a shadowed doubt Upon the promise that made everything clear.	6	I walk the road that leads away from you And count the steps to keep my word intact Though every mile is built of breaking through The silence where our names were meant to act My heart screams loud to turn and hold your hand To shatter distance with a single plea But if I cross this line I have planned Will love remain, or just a memory? For if I break the vow to stay apart What truth remains within the words I spoke? If love demands the tearing of the heart Then doubt becomes the poison in the oak So I remain the ghost upon the shore A promise kept at cost of all I feel Loving you means leaving you once more And making sure the distance stays real	7	The silence stretches long and cold between us now A vow I made to shield you from the storm inside my chest I watch your shadow fade across the evening street And count the seconds where I should have been your rest My heart is screaming loud against the quiet wall It begs me run, to break the chains of self-imposed decree But if I cross this line and touch what once was ours Will love remain a truth or just a memory? For every step I take away feels like a wound that bleeds Yet staying close might prove the promise was a lie If I return to hold you in the arms I swore to leave Then doubt will creep into the words I meant to sanctify So I will stand here still and let the sorrow fill my lungs A guardian of distance built on fear of losing grace Because the only way to keep the faith I gave your soul Is to deny the very hand that longs to trace your face	6	The silence grows too loud within this room Where shadows stretch across the empty floor I trace the lines of words I swore to keep And lock the door against the open door My heart aches with a hunger sharp and deep For every touch I promised not to hold To walk away is love in its disguise A bitter truth that leaves the spirit cold If I return, will she believe my name Or think the vow was broken long ago The distance proves the strength of what remains Even as it steals the breath I need to know So here I stand, a ghost upon the shore Guarding a promise made in trembling hands Afraid that stepping back would break the trust And turn the ocean into shifting sands	6
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 tell you to be meek and mild, A servant of the man-child, To charm him with a softness That hides your iron strength; To smile when he is cross, And laugh when he is dull, And never speak of yourself, But always of him. But if you are compared to Christ, Then you are doing something higher; For Christ was not meek, but terrible; He had a whip of small cords; He drove the money-changers out of the temple; He said, "I came not to send peace, but a sword;" He said, "Let him that is without sin among you, Be the first to cast a stone at her;" And he was not a servant, but a master; He taught his disciples who should be the greatest; And he washed their feet, but he said, "If I then, your Lord and Master, have washed your feet, Ye also ought to wash one another's feet." So if you are compared to Christ, You may be a servant, but you are a great servant; You may be a mistress, but you are a great mistress; You may be a teacher, but you are a great teacher; You may be a judge, but you are a great judge; And you may be a scourger of money-changers, But you are a great scourger of money-changers.	2	They ask you to fold your thunder into silence To wear the softness of a dove's wing While holding the weight of the world in your hands, To serve the table with a smile that hides the storm, To charm the master while you carry the load. But when they look at you and say you are like Him, The one who washed feet and broke bread, The one who carried the cross and forgave the thieves, Then the meekness becomes a mask for power, And the service becomes a holy rite, For if you are like Christ, then you are the King Who chooses to be a servant, And the strength is not suppressed but sanctified, Hidden in plain sight like the light within a lamp.	5	They ask you to fold your hands and lower your voice To pour the wine with a smile that never reaches the eyes To be the soft cushion where his hard day rests And hide the iron spine beneath the lace of a dress. You are told that power is a burden too heavy for your frame That strength is loud, but charm must always be tame So you swallow the thunder and let it turn to dust Serving the master while burying your trust. But then the shadow falls across the altar stone And the silence speaks a truth that makes you known For in the garden, before the crown of thorns was pressed The one who carried the world wore a robe of simple vest. He washed the feet of those who would deny him soon He served the very men who brought him to the moon Of suffering, yet he held the lightning in his hand A king who chose to bow to serve the land. If they demand you kneel to make them feel tall Then know that kneeling is the posture of them all Who bear the weight of love that breaks the chain And finds a higher purpose in the holy pain. Your meekness is not weakness but a chosen art To hold the world together with a gentle heart For in this service, hidden from the crowd's vain sight You walk the path of Christ and share his light.	6	They ask you to fold your hands like prayer and hide the thunder in a quiet throat, to serve the table with a gentle air while swallowing the fire that you wrote. Be soft, they say, be small and sweet and still, a mirror polished only for his gaze, until the weight of silence starts to kill the lion pacing through your inner maze. But look again at how the shadows fall when you are called to carry heavy loads, to walk the path where broken hearts recall the way the light shines brightest on the roads. For in this act of giving all you have, of turning cheek and offering the bread, you find a strange and terrifying grave where ancient promises are freshly said. It is not weakness that you hold so tight, but power dressed in garments plain and gray, a reflection of the morning's sudden light that turns the darkest night into the day. To serve as He served, to love as He loved, is not to bow beneath a lesser star, but rise above the things we thought were proved and find the Christ within the distance far.	6	They ask for silence where the thunder rolls A quiet grace to soften jagged stones To hide the iron in a velvet soul And serve with hands that tremble but not moans You must be small enough to fit their space A mirror made to flatter and reflect With downcast eyes and soft and gentle face While holding up the weight they never check But in this sacrifice, a strange light grows Beyond the role of servant or of wife For when the burden breaks the spirit's throes It mirrors one who gave His very life Not just a shadow cast upon the floor But something ancient, sacred, and divine The strength you hold behind the closed door Is not your own, but echoes of the Son To love so deeply that it feels like pain To give until there is nothing left to keep Is not a weakness born of loss or gain But rising from the depths of endless sleep So let them see the meekness as a mask While knowing deep within the holy fire That every act of service is a task To lift the world toward a higher spire	7	They ask for softness in a clenched fist A quiet hum where thunder used to rise To pour the wine and keep the table warm While hiding fire behind downcast eyes The script demands a gentle, yielding grace That serves the hand that holds the power tight But in the shadow of this sacred space A different light begins to take its flight For when you kneel to wash the weary feet It is not just a duty done in fear But echoing the path that love completes Where strength and sacrifice become so clear To serve as He who walked the dusty road Is not to break but to ascend above A heavy yoke transformed into a load Carried with purpose, anchored deep in love No longer bound by chains of meek design The spirit finds its voice within the prayer To bear the weight of worlds upon your spine And show the world a courage stripped of care You are the mirror of a higher call Where service is the crown you wear with pride Standing tall against the crumbling wall With nothing left inside you to hide	6	The silk of silence wraps the voice inside Where fire once burned to claim a place to stand They teach the spine to bend, the gaze to hide And offer up their hands as gentle sand A quiet grace that serves without a sound While men are crowned with gold and loud acclaim Yet in this hollow space where hope is bound A different kind of love begins to name Not for the throne they never get to hold But for the weight they carry through the night A story written in the old and cold Of light that rises from the deepest fight For when the crown of thorns meets weary skin The servant finds a purpose vast and deep To let the broken pieces finally win And wake the soul from centuries of sleep No longer just a shadow on the wall But something sacred, fierce, and strangely true Rising above the call to always fall To mirror what the divine made new	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.	I run along the crest of the hill chasing my kite that is dancing so high, and I wonder where the wind is going that it can blow a kite like that. If the kite were to fly away and be found again, it would reveal the answer.	5	The red kite dances on the crest of green, A bright bird tethered by a string so thin, I run behind it up the grassy steep, And wonder where the wind is going in. Does it go round the world to see the sea? Or does it hide inside a hollow tree? If only this brave kite could break its chain, And fly away and be found again, It would bring back the secret from the sky, And tell me where the wandering winds do lie.	6	Small feet scramble up the grassy slope As the red diamond tugs against the string A silent question rides the breeze above Where does the wind go when it stops to sing? It pulls the kite toward the distant trees And whispers secrets through the swaying grass I wonder if it visits other seas Or watches clouds in quiet places pass If this bright bird should break its tethered hold And drift away beyond my shouting call To land where stories of the air are told Perhaps it would bring back an answer small A note tucked in the fabric, torn and worn From where the invisible current ends Telling me exactly where I'm borne And how the wandering spirit truly bends	6	Small feet pound the grassy slope As string pulls tight against a palm The red and blue diamond dances high Above the world, beyond the calm He runs until his lungs burn bright And wonders where the breeze has fled Is it hiding in the clouds so white? Or sleeping in the valley bed? If only once the line should snap And let the kite drift far away It would find the wind's secret map And bring the answer back to day Then he would know the path it takes Through forests deep and oceans wide Before the wind itself awakes To guide the wandering thing inside	6	The red tail dances high above the grass As small hands run to catch the trailing string The hill rolls soft beneath a summer pass Where quiet birds and rushing breezes sing He stops to watch the fabric stretch and pull And wonders where the invisible air goes Does it drift through valleys, cool and full Or climb the clouds before it starts to slow? If only once the kite should break its hold And soar beyond the reach of any hand It would return with stories yet untold Of places far away across the land Perhaps the wind has secrets deep and wide That wait inside the paper's fragile skin To show the child just where the currents hide When finally found and brought back in again	7	Small feet pound the grassy slope As string pulls tight against a hand A paper bird begins to hope To touch the edge of sky and land The wind is just a ghost unseen That tugs the tail and lifts it high But where does all that air have been? Is there a road across the sky? If only now the knot should slip And let the colorful thing depart It would not fall or simply dip But carry secrets in its heart Perhaps if found on distant shores By someone who has lost their way It holds the map of what it stores Of winds that blow through night and day So I run fast with eyes held up Hoping the answer starts to show Before the final moment stops And lets the mystery softly go	7	Small hands pull the string so tight Across the grassy slope of light The fabric dances, wild and free A question for the empty sky to see Where does the breath that lifts it go? Through valleys deep or rivers low The child runs with hopeful feet Chasing a ghost they cannot meet If only wind could speak its name And tell the tale of every flame That burns within the summer air Before the kite begins to tear Imagine if it broke away To drift beyond the edge of day Then found again by morning dew With secrets kept from me and you Perhaps the answer lies inside The place where all the winds collide A map drawn out in threads of blue Waiting for a heart to know the truth	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 raged once, Now it is a trickle, A thread of slime in the dust. A red bird comes and evokes joy; It is like sex, it is the tranced rage of sex, But there is history, murder, loss, and dreams too.	2	The river that once roared with white-water rage Is now a silver thread, a shy trickle Winding through the dry stones of memory. Here a red bird flashes, a sudden spark of joy Against the grey dust of history where men were murdered And women lost their children to the flood. I watch the bird and feel the tranced rage of sex Rising like a fever in this barren place, A wild heat against the cold dreams of the dead, Where the water used to be but is not now.	3	The river that once roared like a thousand drums is now a shy silver thread, a ghost of water winding through the cracked and thirsty stone. A red bird lands upon the dry reed, flashing a sudden fire against the grey, and for a moment joy is absolute, a bright note cutting through the heavy air. But in the shadow of the old mill wheel, the memory stirs of tranced and violent sex, where bodies moved with the rhythm of the flood, sweat and mud and desperate, tearing need, a rage that mirrored the swelling current then. Now only the trickle remains to whisper of the history written here in blood, of murders committed where the willows wept, of losses piled high like silt on the bank, and dreams that drowned before they could take flight. The red bird sings, ignoring the silence of the dead, ignoring how the water cannot wash it clean, just a flash of red, a pulse of life, against the long, slow erosion of the past.	3	The river once roared with a throat of stone Now barely whispers through the cracked clay bed Where history bleeds into the silt and bone And murder sleeps beneath the sun instead A red bird lands upon a dry, gray branch Its song a sudden spark against the gloom It brings a joy that feels like sweet revenge Against the silence of this quiet room But in the heat where shadows start to creep The tranced rage of sex begins to rise A fevered pulse that makes the spirits leap While dreams dissolve before our tired eyes We remember how the water used to flow Before the drought and all the blood were spilled Before the dreams we promised long ago Were lost within the valley, dark and filled The bird sings on above the dying stream As lovers move in rhythm, wild and deep Caught between the nightmare and the dream While ancient ghosts are lulled back into sleep	5	The river that once tore the stone in half Now whispers through the dust, a silver thread Where history bled out and left the land A graveyard of the dreams we never fed. Here murder sleeps beneath the dry cracked earth And tranced rage remembers how it felt to burn When lovers tangled in a fevered girth And every heartbeat made the world overturn. A flash of red, a bird upon the branch Ignites a joy that cuts through all the gray It sings above the silence of the dance Between the living and the dead of yesterday. That crimson throat recalls the wild release Of bodies lost in heat against the cold While ghosts of wars and broken promises cease To hold the story that the waters told. So let the trickle run its shallow course Beneath the sky where blood and love collide For in this quiet, fractured, ancient force The bird still flies with nothing left to hide.	6	The water that once tore the stone in half Now whispers through the cracked and thirsty bed A memory of floods that drowned the past Where history was written in the red Of blood spilled on the banks where lovers lay In tranced and fevered heat against the gray A violence soft as silk, a sudden need To lose themselves within a desperate deed And here a flash of crimson cuts the air A bird with wings of fire, wild and bare It sings a song of joy above the grave Of all the dreams we promised we would save The murder of the light, the loss of time Is silenced by this fleeting, feathered rhyme For in the trickle, deep beneath the skin The rage of sex begins to bloom again Not born of hate but hunger for the whole A broken river trying to make a soul That remembers how to flow, how to be free Before the world forgot what it could see The red bird calls, the silence starts to break As life returns for one more fragile sake	5	The water once roared loud and deep Now whispers secrets to the stone A crimson flash of life takes flight Where silence claims what was unknown Beneath the weight of ancient wars And blood that soaked the dusty ground A pulse beats fast against the chest As lost and found are intertwined The red bird sings a song of hope Above the ghosts of yesterday While bodies move in fevered heat To wash the shadows far away In tranced desire, hearts collide Against the ruins of the past Dreams rise like mist from drying beds Before the final hours crash No title marks this broken place Only the rhythm of the breath Between the end and new beginning Where love defies the weight of death	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.	Down from the high, cold hills comes a dark brook, A powerful, black torrent, foaming and wild; It rushes along in its deep, narrow bed, With foam on its shoulders and foam on its sides. It is strong as a bull and black as a coal, And it roars like a lion when winter is nigh; It has foam on its back and foam on its tail, And it bubbles and spumes as it goes tumbling by. The water is black as a piece of old coal, But the foam that is round it is white as a swan; It is as strong as an ox, but it runs as fast as a hare, And you can hear the foam bubbling half a mile off. O for some places where people don't go! O for some places where people are not! O for some places where there is no man at all! There would be no danger to any one then.	5	The brook runs black as ink beneath the pines, A ribbon of obsidian cut through stone, Where sunlight fails to pierce the tangled lines Of shadowed branches overhanging lone. It churns with white and furious foam, A wild beast struggling in a narrow cage, Its dark waters rush with violent home To crash against the rocks with angry rage. No gentle ripple breaks its heavy breast, But boiling eddies where the trout might hide, A place that knows no human quiet rest, But only wind and water's roaring tide. Oh let it run, this dark and untamed stream, Let foam and shadow keep their ancient right, Do not tame it with a concrete dream, Or turn its wildness to a stagnant light. Preserve the places where the wild things dwell, Where nature's voice is loud and never stilled, For if we silence every river's bell, Our own souls' voices will be silenced still.	6	The brook runs black as midnight oil, A vein of shadow through the stone, Where ancient roots in silence coil, And wild waters claim their own. White foam explodes on jagged teeth, A frothing rage against the gray, That tears the mossy banks beneath And sweeps the fallen leaves away. No gentle ripple here is found, But chaos churning, deep and loud, Where ferns are torn from solid ground By tempests of the foamy crowd. Oh, let this darkness never cease, Let fury keep its primal hold, For in this wild and storm-tossed peace, The soul finds truth that cannot be sold. Preserve the places unconfined, Where nature rages, raw and free, Before the tamed and quiet mind Erases all we ought to see.	6	The water runs a shade of ink so deep It swallows light before it hits the stone, A silent river where the shadows sleep, And ancient roots in muddy silence groan. Its banks are wild with foam and frantic spray, Where white-capped rage against the boulders breaks, No gentle path for weary feet to stray, But chaos that the wind itself awakes. Here ferns uncurl in damp and tangled green, Unpruned by hands that seek to smooth the way, A kingdom fierce and sovereign and unseen, That thrives on storm and never fears the day. Oh let this dark and churning current flow, Unbridled by the dams we build to tame, Let nature keep her secrets, wild and low, Before we lose the fire within the flame. Preserve the places where the wild things roar, Where untamed waters carve their jagged course, For when the last free stream is seen no more, We lose the very pulse of primal force.	6	The water runs black as oil beneath the gray, A heavy vein pulsing through the stone, Where shadows cling to roots and refuse to fade, And silence breaks against the jagged bone. White foam erupts where currents twist and tear, A frothy madness dancing on the deep, It chews the banks with teeth of rushing air, While ancient secrets in the silt asleep. No gentle stream this, but a wild decree, That scours the earth with unrelenting might, Refusing every hand that seeks to free The chaos from its dark and fluid night. So let the river rage without a chain, Let forests stand where human feet have not, For in this storm there is a sacred gain, A world we must protect before it's forgot. Do not tame the wild, do not pave the way, To steal the breath from places never known, Preserve the darkness of the turning day, And leave the untamed wilderness alone.	6	The water runs like ink through veins of stone A heavy thread where light is rarely known It carves the bed with hands that do not ask And leaves a shadow on the mossy mask White foam erupts where currents clash and break A wild dance for the trembling earth to take No gentle stream this, but a roaring force That holds the river in its dark embrace The trees lean down to drink the midnight flow While ancient roots hold fast against the low Of rising tides that threaten to consume The quiet chaos of this primal room But walls are built to tame the rushing tide To channel every surge and hide the ride They pave the banks and silence all the sound Until the wild is lost beneath the ground So let the darkness run without a chain Let foam and fury wash away the pain Of cities built on silence and on fear Preserve the place where nature stands so clear Do not erase the wild from out our sight Before we lose the battle for the light Keep these dark waters free and unconfined For in their depths, the truest soul we find	6	The water runs a shade of ink so deep That light cannot find its way to sleep It carves the stone with hands unseen A wild and ancient, roaring scene White foam erupts against the gray Where shadows stretch and break the day No gentle path for those who tread Just chaos born from riverbed The trees stand guard in silence tall Above the dark and rising fall They hold the breath of earth below Before the winds begin to blow Let this untamed current run free Unbound by chains of industry For in the dark, the truth takes root And saves us from the quiet suit Do not pave over what remains Of forests lost to human stains Preserve the wild, the rough, the steep Before the world falls fast asleep	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	I keep trying to make it real, to get the grief into my head and not just in my throat. It is very hard to think of him as dead. But he is dead. And now I must go on living. The first thing that struck me was the look of his face. He looked like he had been drinking a lot of beer. But he had not been drinking a lot of beer. He had been dead for about six hours. And then I went into the room where he was lying. And there he was. Lying on his back. Stiff. And dead. And I thought: well, this is death. This is what it is like to be dead. It is not at all what I thought it would be like. I thought it would be more spiritual. I thought I should feel some kind of relief. Or something. But I did not feel any relief. I felt sick. I felt sickened by the fact that he was dead. And I felt sickened by the fact that I was looking at him. And I felt sickened by the fact that I could not stop looking at him. And I felt sickened by the fact that I could not help looking at him. And I felt sickened by the fact that I was looking at him and thinking: he looks like he has been drinking a lot of beer. But he had not been drinking a lot of beer. He had been dead for about six hours. And I thought: well, this is death. This is what it is like to be dead. It is not at all what I thought it would be like. I thought it would be more spiritual. I thought I should feel some kind of relief. Or something. But I did not feel any relief. I felt sick. I felt sickened by the fact that he was dead. And I felt sickened by the fact that I was looking at him. And I felt sickened by the fact that I could not stop looking at him. And I felt sickened by the fact that I could not help looking at him. And I felt sickened by the fact that I was looking at him and thinking: he looks like he has been drinking a lot of beer.	1	The silence is not empty, it is heavy Like a wet wool blanket dragged across the floor Of a room where the air has turned to dust. I try to speak your name but my throat closes Around the shape of it, a hard bone stuck there. Yesterday you were a warm hand on my shoulder, Today you are a sack of wet earth and gristle Being lowered into a hole that smells of rot. It seems unfair that the mind should be so sharp While the body is just meat waiting to turn green. I remember how you laughed, a sound like breaking glass, And now I imagine that same laugh echoing From inside a skull that has lost its tongue. Why does the heart keep beating when the source is gone? It feels like a betrayal, this rhythmic thumping Against ribs that are becoming a cage for nothing. I want to scream at the worms, tell them to wait, But they are already working, and I am here Holding a photograph that is fading in the light, Trying to reconcile the warmth of the skin With the cold reality of the thing in the box.	2	The silence is not empty, it is heavy Like a wet wool blanket soaked in grave soil And I try to pray but my throat tastes of copper Because the body you loved is just meat now Waiting for the worms to find the softest places I look at your photograph and see a ghost But I know what lies beneath the skin in the box A hollowed-out sack where the heat used to be It makes me want to scream or laugh until I choke How can something so loud become so quiet? How can the mind that knew my name forget the sun? I hold my breath and imagine the maggots working Turning the memory into fertilizer for daisies This is the blunt edge of the world, sharp and cold Cutting through the love until only the rot remains Yet when I close my eyes, I still feel your hand Warm and living, while my fingers grasp at dust	2	The silence in the room is heavy as a stone That someone dropped inside a well you cannot see I reach for your hand but find only cold air And the smell of lilies rotting on the floor Your skin was soft, a map of veins and warmth Now it is just a sack of meat waiting to dry A puppet with its strings cut by a clumsy god Who laughs at how we try to hold onto dust I want to scream that this is not fair But the truth is blunt, a hammer against the skull There is no magic spell to reverse the decay Only the slow work of worms and the quiet dark My heart beats a frantic rhythm against my ribs While my mind calculates the weight of bones How much does a soul weigh when it leaves the shell? Does it float away or sink like lead in mud I love you so it hurts to think of you gone Yet I am terrified by what remains behind The empty chair, the cold sheet, the hollow eyes Of a body that forgot how to breathe or blink So I stand here between the tear and the grave Between the memory of your laugh and the stench Of earth filling up the space where you used to be Trying to make sense of the final, brutal end	2	The silence in the room is not empty it is heavy with the weight of bone and I trace the cold line of a jaw that once laughed at the sun Now the earth has taken its due a blunt and unfeeling tax where flesh becomes only soil and breath dissolves into gray mist I try to speak your name but my tongue finds only the texture of rot the sweet decay of autumn leaves curling brown around a hollow chest How do I love what has turned to dust? How do I hold a hand that is now just a collection of calcium and memory while the worms write their quiet stories in the dark beneath the grass My grief is a jagged thing tearing at the seams of reason as I stare into the mirror and see the same future waiting for us all to become nothing but a whisper in the wind and a pile of forgotten things	2	The silence in the room is heavy as a stone That cracks the floor beneath my weary feet I speak your name but only dust responds A hollow echo where our heartbeat met Your skin has turned to wax and cold to touch No warmth remains within the hollow chest I watch the maggots feast on quiet flesh And wonder if this rot is truly best The grief I carry feels too sharp to hold It cuts the throat with every breath I draw While shadows dance upon the ceiling high Like wolves that hunt without a single claw I want to scream at heaven for its lie To beg for time that simply will not bend But death arrives with teeth and empty eyes To take the living until there's an end So here I stand amidst the rotting air With love that curdles into something dark A monument of bones and broken prayers That leaves no light to guide us through the arc	5	The air grows thick with dust and silent weight Where once a heartbeat kept the rhythm tight I trace the lines of hands now cold to touch And wonder how much love can hold too much A hollow chest where breath has ceased its flight Is just a shell abandoned in the night No ghost remains to whisper soft goodbyes Only the truth that breaks before our eyes The soil waits hungry for the bones it seeks To pull the living down to ancient peaks I scream at shadows dancing on the wall As silence swallows every call What is a soul when flesh begins to rot? A fragile thread that time has long forgot We build our castles out of fading light Then watch them crumble into endless night My grief is sharp, a blade inside the vein That cuts through hope and leaves behind the pain Yet in this dark, a strange beauty takes root In how the world refuses to recede from brute So let the earth reclaim what we have lost No matter what the final heavy cost For death is not a door but open space Where love must learn to find its quiet place	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.	No stone of marble reared by human hands Shall ever be your monument, O bard Of nature's vast and elemental lands; But living and breathing eternally In the great mountains where the eagles soar, In the flowing rivers that roll to the sea, And in the blossoming flowers on every shore. Your tomb is the earth and the sky above it, Your epitaph winds through the pine-trees high; The stars are your candles, the moon is your rood, And the nightingale sings you a requiem.	7	No stone was cut to mark his resting place, No marble column rises from the earth To tell the world of him in cold, dead space, Or boast a name of human birth. The mountains are his monument, and they Stand tall and silent through the ages' flight, Their peaks that pierce the clouds by night and day, Are columns built by light. The rivers are his verses, flowing free, With murmurs deep as any poet's rhyme, That wind through valleys, rushing to the sea, And sing their songs of time. The flowers are his stanzas, blooming bright, In every color that the eye can see, That open to the morning and the light, And die but to be free. So let no sculptor carve his image here, Nor builder raise a tomb above his head; He lives forever in the woods so dear, Where nature speaks instead.	7	No stone was cut to mark his resting place, No marble arch rises to catch the light, For he who sang of forests found no need To build a tomb within the city's night. His monument is not a silent wall Of granite carved by human hands and chisels, But stands alive where ancient shadows fall And every wind that sweeps the valley whistles. Look up where peaks pierce through the morning mist, That towering range is but his written line; The river rushing down the mountain kissed Is flowing verse in water, clear and fine. The blossoming flowers opening their eyes Are stanzas spun from sunlight, dew, and rain, A living library beneath the skies Where every leaf repeats his gentle strain. He sleeps within the moss and rocks and deep, Breathing eternally in root and stem, While we who seek his name in stone must keep Our search within the wild, eternal gem.	7	No stone was cut to mark his resting place No marble column rises to the sky His name is not in bronze or carved in grace But written where the ancient eagles fly The mountains stand as pillars of his verse Where silence speaks a language deep and old The rivers flow with rhythms he could rehearse And carry stories that will never grow cold A blossom opens just to show his art Each petal holds a stanza soft and bright The wind repeats the song within its heart That echoes through the turning of the night He needs no tomb to keep his spirit whole For every leaf is part of him today The forest breathes the rhythm of his soul And nature keeps the poet's endless way	7	No stone was cut to mark the place he stood No marble arches rise to hold his name For human hands could never build a tomb To match the wild and ancient, breathing frame He wrote in rustling leaves that dance on wind In rivers carving paths through granite deep His verses flow where waterfalls descend And secrets of the valley softly keep The mountains stand as pillars of his rhyme Unchanged by time or seasons passing slow While blossoms bloom to echo every line That taught the earth how quiet things can grow So let no statue cast a shadow long Upon the grass where once his spirit walked His legacy is here within the song Of birds that sing before the dawn has talked A monument of moss and morning dew That breathes with life beyond all mortal sight The world itself remains forever true To him who loved the dark and burning light	7	No stone was cut to mark his name No marble column seeks the sky For he who sang of wind and rain Found home where ancient giants lie The river sings his verses now In currents deep and clear and cold The mountain echoes through the bough Where stories of the earth are told Each petal that unfolds in spring Is written by a gentle hand A living hymn the birds will sing Across the quiet, waking land He needs no plaque of bronze or gold To hold the memory of his art For every seed that takes its hold Beats with the rhythm of his heart So let the forest stand as proof That beauty grows without a wall A breath of life, a silent truth That answers when the seasons call	7	The stone that marks a grave has turned to dust While whispers rise from roots beneath the ground No marble statue stands in silent trust But life in every leaf and branch is found The river sings the verses he once wrote With currents carving paths through ancient stone A melody that time cannot unquote Where seeds of wild and untamed beauty grow The mountains hold his breath within their peaks And clouds drift soft across the open sky No human hand could build what nature speaks As seasons turn and days go rolling by So let the forest be his final home Where wind and water dance in endless grace In every bloom that opens, soft and lone We see the poet's face in this quiet place	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 stains are not mere stains but maps of the world, with the yellowish one near the ceiling being Asia and the greenish one on the door being America. And the old man's last words were not merely words but a flower that had been shut up in a box for twenty years and now was opening.	2	The wallpaper peels in yellow strips, a map of a forgotten continent where the ink has faded, and if you look close enough, the stain is not just water damage but a slow drowning of the sun, a bruise that remembers the light it once held. Do not write merely of the dust motes dancing in the shaft, write of them as the suspended souls of old books, spinning their final waltz before settling on the floorboards to become the soil for the next season's silence. When your father speaks his last words, do not record them as a transcript of dying breath, but as the closing of a heavy door in a house you never knew he owned, the sound of a key turning in a lock that rusts shut forever, leaving you standing in the hallway with only the echo to keep you warm. Turn the cracked teacup into a moon with a bite taken out, turn the bus ticket into a promise of a journey that will never happen, for the great writer is the alchemist who takes the lead of the ordinary and holds it up to the fire of attention until it glows like gold.	2	The wallpaper peels in slow, yellowing strips like old skin shedding a winter's worth of sun, a map of dampness blooming in the corner where the mold writes its own green scripture. We walk past these cracks as if they are nothing, but the poet sees the fracture line as a river carving canyons through the plaster of the mundane, turning a stain into a storm that never ends. Later, in the hushed room where the air is thick with antiseptic and time, the father's voice is a thin wire stretched across a chasm. He speaks of rain on a tin roof from sixty years ago, and we hear only the static of failing lungs, but the writer catches the syllable that trembles, that single word for "water" turning into a flood that washes away the hospital sheets and leaves us standing in a field of wet grass under a sky we thought we knew. The ordinary detail becomes the vessel, the cracked paint and the whispering breath are the clay we shape until it holds the weight of a world, until the small thing breaks open to reveal the great thing inside.	2	The wallpaper peels in strips of yellowed skin, A map of where the damp has won its quiet war, And I trace the crack that splits the floral print To find the fault line running through the floor. The dust motes dance above the kitchen table, A galaxy trapped in a beam of afternoon, While silence gathers like a heavy sable, Waiting to be woven into something soon. Then comes the room where time moves slow and thin, Where breath is measured out in shallow tides, And father speaks the words he holds within, As if the river finally reaches where it hides. He says the light is soft, the air is sweet, No grand confession, just a simple sound, Yet in these fragments, truth begins to meet The raw material of what we have not found. For great writing is not built on distant stars, But on the stain of coffee on the wood, The way the shadow falls behind the bars, The promise kept when understood as good. We take the rust, the tear, the final sigh, And turn the leaden weight of ordinary days, Into a gold that makes the spirit fly, By seeing clearly through the haze.	6	The wallpaper peels in strips of yellowed skin Revealing the gray bone beneath the paint, A map of where the water once ran deep And left its ghost in patterns we can't explain. I watch the dust motes dance in afternoon light Like tiny stars trapped in a jar of air, Each speck a world that spins and fades to white Before it settles on the wooden chair. The kettle sings a low and trembling note That cracks the silence of the kitchen floor, A steam that rises like a fragile boat Sailing away from something waiting at the door. Then comes the room where shadows stretch too long And time moves slow as syrup on the spoon, Where every breath becomes a whispered song Beneath the pale and rising of the moon. His voice is thin, a thread pulled taut and frayed With words that slip between the teeth of night, "Remember how the garden never stayed," He says, before the final fading light. But I will take this rust, this rot, this sound And weave them into gold with careful hands, For in the broken things we often find The strongest roots that hold the shifting sands. The stain upon the wall, the last soft sigh, Are not just ends but seeds for what grows new, Transforming all the ordinary by The alchemy of seeing clearly through.	3	The wallpaper peels in slow, yellowed waves Where sunlight catches dust like ancient gold A map of cracks that no one ever saves But holds the weight of stories left untold The coffee cup retains a ring of brown A circle drawn by time and quiet hands It speaks of mornings lost and nights worn down Like tides retreating from forgotten lands Then silence falls within the bedroom air As breath grows thin against the windowpane And father whispers words beyond compare To turn the pain into a gentle rain He says the light is not a thing to fear But just the end of shadows stretching long A final verse for those who linger near To find the song inside the broken song These fragments build a cathedral made of rust From stains and sighs and moments passing fast We weave the ordinary into trust And make the fleeting memories last	6	The crack in the plaster holds a map of time Where dust motes dance in beams of fading light A coffee stain that blooms like ancient wine On fabric fraying at the edge of night The silence between breaths becomes a song As hands grow cold and grip begins to fade In every shadow where the weak belong We find the stories that the brave have made Your voice, a river running dry and slow Carries the weight of all we never said It turns the mundane into something holy now And lifts the heavy burdens from our head These fragments scattered on the kitchen floor Are not just debris but seeds of gold For writing starts before the door opens wide To turn the ordinary into bold So let the peeling paint become a verse And every whisper rise above the din To prove that even in the quietest hearse There lies a world waiting to begin again	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 rain comes soft and sudden, The plains are a green sea of waving grass, And the cattle wander thick as clouds, Fat and sleek with new milk, Grazing on the lushness that has sprung up in a night. Then the sun gets hot, The grass dries up and turns yellow, The cattle get thin and ugly, Their ribs sticking out like laths, They have to go far for water. Then the wind gets high, And it blows the dust about, And there is no grass at all, And the cattle are very thin and ugly, And they die. Or perhaps the winter comes early, With snow and ice, And the grass is covered, And the cattle cannot get at it, And they starve. Or the drought lasts longer, And the cattle get thinner and uglier, And they die. And then the bones of the cattle are lying about, In the same place where they had been grazing when they were fat and sleek, And the vultures come.	2	First the green tide swells across the floor, A sea of grass that drinks the morning dew, Where bison herds like moving mountains roar, And life is thick and sweet as heavy glue. The sun is gold, the air is soft with rain, And every blade a promise kept in store, Until the wind turns sharp and cuts the plain, And summer's lush abundance opens to the door. Then comes the drought, the sky a burning plate, The grass turns yellow, brittle, dry, and thin, The water holes are mud where cattle wait, And hunger makes the fiercest beasts grow thin. The beauty fades into a cruel disguise, The earth cracks open like a starving mouth, No cloud appears to answer upturned eyes, The north wind sweeps the dust from south to north. Now silence holds the ground where thunder rolled, The herds are gone, or dead upon the path, Only the bleached white bones remain, unrolled, Like scattered ivory by some careless wrath. The same warm soil that fed them now consumes, Their ribs are fences for the vulture's flight, Amidst the ruin, still the wild rose blooms, Unmoved by cruelty, indifferent to the light. The cycle turns, the seasons spin again, Perhaps next year the rains will fill the land, But for this moment, only bone and pain, And the vast, empty, beautiful, barren sand.	6	The spring arrives with a green and sudden hush, A carpet woven thick for hooves to crush, Where grasses drink the rain and swell with life, Cutting the air like a sharp, tender knife. The herds move slow through emerald, heavy seas, And nature offers all it has to give, A lush abundance that the wind can see, As if the earth will never cease to live. But then the sun turns cruel, the clouds withdraw, The soil cracks open in a silent jaw, The green retreats beneath a baking sky, And rivers shrink to dust where waters lie. The beauty fades into a brittle gray, The wind now howls a song of pure decay, It strips the land of every blade and seed, To satisfy the drought's relentless need. Now silence holds the plain, a vast white bone, Where once the thunder of a million roamed alone. The ribs of beasts lie scattered on the sand, A skeleton army from a hungry land. They grazed on life that turned to ash and ruin, Sustained by ground that turned against them soon, The cycle spins between the feast and famine, Leaving the bones to mark the path they ran.	6	Green waves roll deep where bison once fed A sudden warmth that turns the soil to bread The grass grows thick, a sea of emerald light Until the sky forgets to weep at night Then heat descends like iron on the plain The river shrinks to dust within its vein The lushness cracks, the vibrant green turns brown And silence falls upon the starving town The wind becomes a blade that cuts the hide With nowhere left for weary herds to hide The earth reclaims what life had briefly kept While shadows lengthen and the cold has crept Now only white remains against the gray The ribs of giants in the dying day Where milkweed bloomed and buffalo roamed free Lie scattered bones beneath a frozen tree The cycle spins from feast to famine's mouth From north to south, then back to barren south No mercy in the turning of the wheel Just bone and dust and time that makes us feel	6	Green waves roll deep where bison once roamed free A feast of clover under skies of endless blue The air hums thick with life and heavy breath As roots drink deep from rains that fall in showers true Then heat descends like a hammer on the stone The vibrant carpet turns to dust and brittle gray The rivers shrink to whispers, then to silence known And every leaf is stripped by winds that blow away The grass that fed the herds now cracks beneath their feet A cruel exchange where plenty meets the drought's sharp sting The sky forgets the promise of the summer sweet And leaves the land to hunger, cold, and hollow ring Now white and stark against the scorched and barren earth The ribs of giants rise like monuments to loss Where milk once flowed, there is only silence and dearth No memory of the green remains, no trace of what was crossed The cycle spins again, indifferent and vast Between the lush embrace and ruin's final hand A story written briefly in the shadow of the past Where beauty feeds the beast before it turns to sand	6	Green waves roll where the wind once whispered soft A sea of grass that drinks the morning dew The herds move slow beneath a golden roof And life blooms thick in every breath they chew But clouds gather with a heavy, silent tread The sky turns gray as summer heat takes hold The rivers shrink to dust and shallow bed And stories of the harvest turn to cold The earth cracks wide like wounds upon a face No tender shoot can break the hardened ground Where water danced, now only silence stays As hunger walks without a single sound The vibrant green gives way to brittle brown The air grows thin with ash and ancient sighs The beauty fades beneath a cruel crown Beneath the weight of vast and empty skies Now scattered white across the scorched expanse The ribs of giants mark the shifting years A quiet dance between the loss and chance That feeds on hope and leaves behind our fears The cycle spins from lush to desolate From fullness deep to nothing left to find The plains remember what the bones relate Of how the wild is broken by the mind	7	Green waves roll soft beneath the summer sun Where herds move slow and life feels never done The grass is tall, a sea of emerald light A promise kept against the coming night But winds arrive with teeth of ice and gray To strip the soil and steal the warmth away The vibrant fields turn brittle, dry, and cold As stories of the harvest go untold A drought descends to swallow every root Leaving the earth in silence and in soot No water flows to quench the thirsty throat Only the dust that settles on the note Now bones lie white where milk once filled the air A ghostly map of what was not quite fair The same ground fed the wolf, the deer, the man Before the cycle broke its fragile plan Beauty fades into a cruel design Where survival bends to time's relentless line What grew so strong now crumbles into dust In seasons lost to hunger and to rust The plains remain, both broken and alive With scars that prove how hard it is to thrive Between the bloom and winter's stark decree Nature holds the key to all we see	7
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.	Will I die in a nice home or a dilapidated one? My father died in a nice home; he was white. My mother died in a dilapidated one; she was black. I am half-white and half-black, so which kind of home shall I die in? If I die in a nice home it will be because of my white blood; if I die in a dilapidated one it will be because of my black blood. But I do not know which I shall die in, because I do not know which of my two bloods will predominate when I come to die.	2	My father died in a house with white walls and a lawn that was cut every week, where the air smelled of lemon polish and quiet money. My mother died in a house where the paint peeled like sunburnt skin and the neighbors shouted at each other through thin walls, where the air smelled of boiled cabbage and fear. I am the sum of these two houses, the child of the clean wall and the peeling one, wondering which ghost will guide me to my end. Will I lie down in a room with soft light and a doctor who speaks gently to me? Or will I be dragged from a bed with stained sheets by men with guns who think I stole the bed? The world says I look more like him, so perhaps I will get his house, his quiet death, his easy burial. But the world also knows I have her blood, her dark blood that makes them nervous, makes them see a threat in a man standing on a porch. Maybe I will die in a nice home but the nice home will not let me in when I am dead, maybe they will put me in the ground in a box made for a poor man. Maybe I will die in a dilapidated one but the police will come and say it was an accident or that I deserved it because I was there. I wonder if the grave is the only place where the white father and the Black mother can meet their son in the same dirt, under the same sky, without anyone asking which side he was on.	2	My father died in a house with white shutters where the paint never peeled and the lawn was cut to a uniform green, a perfect square of safety. He closed his eyes to the hum of central air and the silence of a neighborhood that knew his name. My mother died in a building where the radiator screamed like a trapped animal in winter, where the windows rattled in their frames from the trucks that rolled too fast down streets the city forgot to fix. She closed her eyes to the smell of damp plaster and the sound of sirens that were always near. I am the bridge between these two endings, the child of the quiet death and the noisy one. When my time comes, will I lie on sheets that feel like clouds or on a mattress stained by the sweat of worry? Will the doctors ask me gently how I feel or will they look at my face and assume I am in pain? I wonder if the color of my skin is a map that leads to the same room as my father's memory or if it pulls me back toward the crumbling brick where my mother learned to be small and quiet. Does the blood of the oppressor protect me or does the blood of the oppressed condemn me to the drafty hallway and the broken lock? I wait for the end in a world that decides whether a life is worth saving before it even begins, wondering if my last breath will taste of lemon polish or of dust and rust, wondering which house will claim me when the lights go out.	2	My father died in a house with white walls where the light fell soft on polished floors and the silence was heavy with money and peace while my mother's breath caught in a room that smelled of damp plaster and old fear where the roof leaked rain like a broken promise. I am the child of both these endings a mixture of brick and mortar, blood and bone wondering which ghost will claim my final bed. Will I rest where the garden is tended and the neighbors know my name without flinching? Or will I fade in a place where the windows rattle and the world sees only the shadow of my skin? The map of this country draws lines through my chest one side pointing to safety, the other to the street and I walk the border every single day. Did he get the nice death because he looked like the law? Did she get the hard one because she looked like the danger? Now I hold the key to a door I cannot see trying to guess if the lock will turn easy or rusted shut. Perhaps the house does not matter as much as the hands that close the eyes before the dark takes over but the fear remains that the color of my face will decide the quality of my last quiet hour. Am I building a legacy of comfort from his side or inheriting the struggle of her weary bones? I wait for the end in a body that is split praying for a home that holds me whole before the ground swallows either story.	2	I stand between the brick and the rot a child of two worlds that refuse to blend my father's hands built walls of white stone where silence was a luxury he could afford while my mother walked through doors that slammed her breath caught in the throat of a city that hated her skin Will I close my eyes in a room with soft light or on a floor where the water stains like bruises? The question hangs heavy as smoke in the air a map drawn by bloodlines that never agreed one lineage promised safety, a key turned smoothly the other warned of locks that break from the outside I see his ghost in a garden manicured and green and hers in the cracked pavement where weeds push through both are gone now, but the shadow they cast divides the ground beneath my wandering feet do I inherit the mortgage or the eviction notice the warm hearth or the cold draft under the door? Society carved them into separate fates and now it asks me which one I will wear when the final curtain falls on this mixed-up stage will the angels knock politely at a polished gate or will they have to kick down the splintered wood to find the son who carries both their names in a world that still cannot decide if he belongs	2	The paint on my father's porch is white and thick A shield against the rot that eats the wood While down the street, the cracks in mother's wall Reveal a history the rain has understood I stand between the two inherited floors One built of trust, the other made of fear He sleeps beneath a ceiling free of mold She fought the ghosts that lived inside the year Will I inherit safety or the strain? A key that turns in locks designed to keep Or will the weight of being half and half Collapse the roof while others stay asleep The doctor asks for blood but sees the skin That tells a story written in the dirt My father's name opens every heavy door While mine requires a struggle just to hurt I wonder if the end will come with grace Within a room where sunlight fills the air Or if the shadows claim me first and fast Leaving the world to wonder who was there Two paths converge within this single chest Where privilege and pain collide and bend To ask the house that holds my final breath If it was built to heal or just to end	3	The walls between us breathe in different rhythms One side polished marble, cold and silent The other cracked with dust and heavy rain My father walks through doors that never lock While my mother counts the shadows on the floor He leaves a legacy of gold and stone She carries scars the world refuses to erase I stand upon the threshold of two worlds Half his light, half her fading fire Wondering where the final breath will fall Will I rest in gardens tended by the sun Or crumble in the ruins they forgot A child of contradictions, caught between The privilege he built and pain she bore The roof above may hold or start to break Dependent on the blood that runs inside Not just the veins but history's long weight Can love survive the weight of broken glass Or does the house decide who gets to stay As time erodes the promises we made Between the man who rules and those who bend Waiting for the silence to arrive	5
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.	First the heat comes, a dry white glare That cracks the mud and burns the grass, And the water jars are empty there, And the house is as still as glass. Then come the rains, the great cool rains, The sky is dark with rain and thunder; The frogs sing loud in the garden plains, And the water jars are full of wonder. The house is alive with life and water, The roof pours down like a waterfall, The water runs through the gutter-water, The house is all wet and all in all. The water is everywhere about, In the kitchen, in the bedroom too; There's water running in and out, And I am glad to be wet with you.	6	The summer heat had baked the earth to dust, Where cracked clay split beneath a yellow sun, And silence held the garden in a clasp, Until the heavy clouds of rain begun. Now water drums upon the rusted tin, And fills the gutters with a rushing sound, While thirsty roots drink deep and green begins To burst from every hidden, waiting ground. The frogs are loud within the muddy pool, The ducks splash out across the courtyard floor, The air is cool and thick with life and fuel, As if the house itself could walk no more. It thrives like this, a vessel full of stream, With dripping eaves and windows fogged with mist, A contrast to the dry and burning dream Of summer when the well was nearly kissed.	6	The summer sun once beat upon the roof With heavy, silent fingers of dry heat Where dust would rise in choking clouds above And every stream and river ran complete To silence, leaving cracked and thirsty earth That held its breath beneath a bleached-out sky No green could dare to show its humble worth Beneath the glare that made the lizards lie But now the monsoon breaks the iron air With drums of thunder rolling from the hills And life returns to everywhere and there As water rushes down the muddy rills The cisterns fill with cool and silver sound While frogs begin their chorus in the grass And vines climb up the walls without a bound To watch the stormy shadows come and pass Inside the house the floor is damp and cool The windows open wide to catch the breeze That smells of wet soil, mint, and broken pool From ponds where dragonflies dance on the trees The cat sleeps deep beside a puddle's edge The children splash in shoes across the hall There is no thirst within this living ledge Just water pouring down to answer all	6	The summer held its breath in dust and gold, Where cracked earth split beneath a burning sky, And silence stretched where thirsty shadows rolled, Beneath the weight of clouds that would not cry. Now thunder rumbles low to wake the stone, As silver threads stitch up the broken ground, The cisterns swell with life they've never known, While green shoots rise from soil once parched and bound. The roof drums out a rhythm wild and sweet, As puddles mirror stars the rain has washed, No longer heat that makes the air retreat, But coolness rising where the moss is brushed. Inside, the walls breathe deep with dampened air, A kettle whistles soft against the storm, The scent of wet clay fills the empty chair, And every corner holds a vibrant form. From dry despair to water's gentle grace, The house awakes within the monsoon's keep, A living world reflected on each face, While summer sleeps in dreams of drought and sleep.	7	The summer held its breath in dust and gold Where cracked earth split beneath a burning sun The air was thick with silence, dry and old And every stream had run its course too soon Now clouds arrive to break the heavy heat With drums of rain that tap against the roof The garden wakes from slumber, green and sweet As thirsty roots drink deep from sudden proof The river swells to fill the hollow beds While frogs begin their chorus in the night Life bursts forth where once there lay the dead Reflected stars within the puddles bright No longer is the world a parched design But dancing water weaving through the door A symphony of life and fresh decline That washes clean the memory of before	7	The summer held its breath in dust and gold Where cracked earth split beneath the heavy sun And silence stretched across the fields so old Before the rain had ever truly run Now clouds unspool their gray and silver thread To wash the heat from every window pane As water wakes the seeds that lay long dead And turns the dryest ground to living green again Inside the walls, the air is cool and deep With scent of wet soil rising through the floor While rivers swell and promises they keep To fill the cisterns with a gentle roar No longer parched or burning in the light The house exhales a sigh of grateful rest As morning mist dissolves into the night And life returns to what was once oppressed	7	The dust once coated every floor A heavy cloak of golden heat Where silence stretched from door to door And cracked the earth beneath our feet Now silver threads descend from gray To wash the thirst away at last The air is cool and soft with spray As shadows break the summer cast Green shoots rise from thirsty ground Drinking deep the falling rain A symphony of life resounds Within this quiet, living vein The river swells beyond its banks While windows catch the storm's embrace No longer bound by dryness ranks But filled with water's gentle grace Here roots drink deep in muddy soil As clouds release their ancient song The world renews itself a while Where dry winds used to belong	7
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.	O lost one, why do you wander in the cold Away from my warmth, away from my light? Come back to me and I will warm your bones; I will feed you with fruit and give you drink. I will clothe you with grasses and flowers And make you lie down on my bosom of green. Why are you so cold, O lost one? Do not be afraid of my heat; It is only my love that makes me hot. Come back to me and I will give you a wife, A wife who shall be better than Sarah. Come back to me and I will give you a son, A son who shall be Isaac. But if you go not back to me, Then you shall die, and your blood shall be upon your head, And I shall curse the earth which opened her mouth To receive thy blood at thy hand's hand.	3	Come back, my wandering child, to the warmth of my embrace Leave the cold void where the stars are silent and still I have kept your fire burning beneath the soil Waiting for you to return to the green and golden hills Why do you drift in the frozen dark alone? When here the sun kisses the leaves and the rivers run warm The birds sing your name in the branches of oak And the flowers open their hearts against the storm Return to the rhythm of rain on the roof Return to the breath of the wind in the trees There is no shelter like mine for a lost soul No safety like the roots that hold fast to the breeze Come back to the hearth where the seasons turn round Come back to the love that I offer so free Do not let the ice claim your spirit and heart But dwell in my warmth, my dear wanderer, with me	6	Child of my dust, why do you wander so far? The stars are cold and the void has no name, But I am still here with my rivers of gold And the fire that beats in the core of my frame. Come back to the soil where your roots once took hold, To the green that uncurls from the deep, sleeping brown, I have kept you a place in the shadow of leaves, Where the sun paints the morning and warms up the town. Do not let the silence of space steal your breath, For there is no warmth in the dark, endless night, Only I can offer the breath of new life, Only I can return you to beauty and light. Return to my bosom, my wandering heart, Let the rain wash the chill from your weary old skin, You were made for my forests, my oceans, my fields, So come home to me, little one, and begin.	7	Child of my dust and drifting wind, Why wander where the cold begins? I hold the sun's embrace so near, A golden hearth for all who fear. Come back to where the rivers sing, To let your heavy spirit wing Away from shadows, sharp and deep, Into the arms that never sleep. My soil is soft, my rain is sweet, No frost can touch these wandering feet If you but turn your face around To find the peace I have profound. Do not let silence be your home, Or drift alone through endless gloom. Return to me, return to light, And dwell within my warmth tonight.	7	Child of the soil, why do you wander so far Into the cold where the stars hold no spark? Come back to the root, come back to the scar Where life blooms wild in the quiet dark. I am the hearth that has waited for you With rivers of mercy and winds soft as breath The sky is a blanket, the mountains are true A shelter against the silence of death. You drift through the void with a hollowed-out chest Chasing the ghost of a light that is gone But here in my arms, there is nowhere to rest Except in the dawn of a new rising sun. Let go of the ice, let the frost melt away Step into the green where the old songs begin There is warmth in the rain, there is love in the clay So open your heart and let me back in. Do not fear the weight of the ground on your feet For I am the mother who knows every tear Return to the pulse of the ancient heartbeat And find all you seek when you finally draw near.	7	My child, why do you wander in the cold Where silence stretches out and stars grow dim? I hold a fire within my ancient fold To warm the hands that tremble at the brim Come back to where the rivers softly sing And roots run deep beneath the mossy stone You are not meant to drift on broken wing But rest within the garden I have grown The soil remembers every step you took It waits to cradle you against the night No longer lost, no longer left to look For light that fades beyond the edge of sight Return to me and let your spirit breathe Among the trees that sway and kiss the sky There is no place for you to grieve or leave Only the warmth where living things can lie So open up your heart to what is true Let go the shadow that has held you tight I am the home that loves and sees you through And offers dawn to end the endless night	7	Child of dust and drifting night Why do you flee the golden light I hold your bones within my deep A promise I will always keep The cold outside is sharp and thin Where silence starts to wear within But here the roots remember how To catch the falling rain and bow Return to soil, return to seed Find peace in what you need No longer wander far or wide Let me be where you reside My arms are open, warm and vast To heal the shadows of the past Come home to where the rivers flow And let the ancient heartbeat grow You were never meant to roam Away from this eternal home So turn your face toward the sun And let our healing work begun	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 flower why it was so beautiful, And it said, I am not beautiful, I am lovely. Beautiful is a word of admiration, But lovely is a word of love. I am lovely because I am loved by God. I am lovely because I am loved by you. And I am lovely because I love myself. For when I came into the world, I was a bud, and I was ugly. I was a very ugly bud. But I did not mind being ugly, Because I knew that I was going to be beautiful. So I waited patiently until I became beautiful. And now I am beautiful, and I am lovely.	6	Little closed fist of green and velvet, How long you held your breath against the morning, Waiting for the sun to pry your fingers loose. I asked you why you did not open sooner, Why you kept your secret heart so tight When the air was full of bees and light. You did not answer with a word, But slowly, very slowly, turned your face And let the gold spill out upon the grass. I saw then that there is no hurry in the world, That life is not a race but a slow unfolding, A patient trusting in the warmth above. Now I feel my own tight fists unclenching, My spirit stretching toward the light, Alive again because you taught me how to wait.	6	I found you waiting by the garden wall, a tight green fist that slowly learned to open. You did not rush the sun nor beg the rain, but held your secret deep within the silence, until the moment felt entirely right. Now see how you have spread your velvet arms, unfolding layers of a quiet fire, revealing gold against the morning air. There is no hurry in your perfect form, no fear that winter comes too soon for you. You trust the rhythm of the turning year. My spirit feels so heavy with its haste, always running toward a distant end, forgetting how to simply be and bloom. But watching you, I learn to breathe again, to let my own closed heart expand its time. The soul awakes when patience takes the lead, and life is not a race but an unfolding. Thank you, bright friend, for teaching me to wait.	6	I asked the rose how long it waited before you dared to show your face, how many silent mornings passed in tight and green embrace. You did not speak in words I know, but opened wide your heart of gold, revealing that the slowest growth is never truly old. You taught me that the rushing wind cannot force a petal free, that life unfolds at its own pace to match eternity. Now in your bloom I see my soul awake from winter's deep repose, no longer bound by hurried time or fear of what grows slow. For in this patient unfolding, a sacred truth is spun: to be fully alive is simply to wait until the sun.	7	I asked the rose how long it waited in the silence of the green, before the world could see its color or feel the light within. It did not speak in words I knew, but showed me how to be, by holding tight against the cold and trusting what must grow. From tightly curled and hidden heart to petals soft and wide, it taught my weary spirit how to let the truth unfold. No rush to reach the summer sun, no fear of falling rain, just patient work of opening again and yet again. Now I breathe a deeper air and feel the roots run deep, alive with all the quiet strength that promises to keep.	6	I ask the rose why it waits so long Between the green and gold of dawn It does not speak in words or sound But lifts its head above the ground You see the rush to bloom too fast A frantic race that cannot last Yet here you stand in quiet grace With time itself upon your face Your petals open, one by one A slow and sacred morning sun No hurry drives your gentle hand Just trust in earth and sky and sand I feel my own tight spirit break As lessons from your silence wake To trust the season, trust the dark To find a light within the spark So teach me how to unfold slow Where roots run deep and rivers flow For in your bloom I finally see The soul that lives eternally	7	I stand before your open face And ask what patience means to you You do not speak in words or grace But show the light that breaks the dew My heart is tight with hurried fear Of time that slips and fades away Yet here you bloom without a care A quiet promise of today The bud that held its secret deep Has finally chosen to unfold It teaches how to let things sleep Until the story can be told I breathe the scent of ancient rain That washed the soil where roots take hold And feel my spirit start again More vibrant than I've ever known, bold No longer bound by doubt or night I rise within this golden glow For in your petals, soft and bright I find the strength to grow and flow	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 house is quiet, but it is not empty; I hear her in the creaking of the stairs, In the rustle of the curtains when the breeze Comes in from the garden where she loved to walk. I see her in the bright blue cup I use for tea, Which she bought and said was "so like me." When friends come in, they say, "It's so cheerful here!" And I know that she is cheerful, too. She has made this house cheerful; She is still touching all who enter here. She is still making them cheerful.	6	The dust motes dance in the afternoon light just as she used to say they did, spinning in the golden shafts that fall across the floor where her laughter once scattered like coins. When the door opens and a friend steps in, the air seems to shift, lighter and warmer, as if a breeze from a garden she loved has slipped through the keyhole before them. I hear the soft rustle of her skirt in the hall when no one is there, and the creak of the third step that always complained under her weight, now silent for everyone else but loud enough for me. She is not gone; she has simply moved into the house's bones, into the way the kettle whistles a familiar tune, into the sudden scent of lemon polish on a rainy day. Her joy is a ghost that haunts us kindly, touching every shoulder that brushes the doorway, making strangers feel known and the lonely feel accompanied, while I sit in her favorite chair and smile at the empty room, knowing she is busy making the whole world feel like home.	3	The dust motes dance in shafts of afternoon light just as she used to laugh at the way they spun, and though the chair by the window sits empty now, the warmth remains where her laughter once begun. When friends come in with rain upon their coats, they say the air feels lighter than it should, as if a ghost of joy still walks these halls, turning the heavy silence into good. I hear the echo of a song hummed low, a sudden scent of lavender and bread, and know that while the body is at rest, her spirit lingers here instead of dead. It touches every stranger who steps inside, who leaves with shoulders straighter than before, carrying a piece of her bright, warm grace that opens up a locked and heavy door. So I sit quiet in this house of ghosts, not grieving what is gone but what stays near, for she has made this home a place of light where love is felt more clearly than when here.	6	The door swings wide and sunlight spills across the floor, Not empty as it was before you went away, But humming with a warmth that lingers in the air, A ghost of laughter dancing through the gray. I watch the dust motes swirling in the beam, And think they are your spirit, light and free, That greets each stranger at the threshold now, And fills their hearts with sudden memory. The coffee pot still sings its morning song, As if you poured the water just today, And every friend who walks this hallway finds The joy you left to guide them on their way. You did not leave, but simply spread yourself Into the walls, the windows, and the wood, So no one enters here without feeling The gentle touch of all the good you stood. My grief is soft beneath this heavy roof, For I can hear you calling from the light, A constant, happy presence in the room, That makes the dark feel less like endless night.	7	The dust motes dance in afternoon light Just as they did when you laughed aloud, A sudden warmth that fills the quiet room And chases off the heavy, cold shroud. I hear your footsteps on the creaking floor Though I know you've long since walked away, Yet every visitor who crosses the threshold Smiles at the ghost of a brighter day. They say the air feels lighter here, That joy lingers in the wooden beams, A gentle hand upon a stranger's shoulder Keeping alive our shared, sweet dreams. You are not gone but woven through The fabric of this house we made, In every sunbeam and whispered word, Your spirit never fades or frays. So let the door stand open wide To all who seek a moment's grace, For in this space where love remains, We find you in this sacred place.	6	The dust motes dance in afternoon light where your laughter used to fill the air and though you are gone from this chair your warmth remains woven in every thread a silent hum beneath the floorboards spread I walk through rooms that hold your echo as sunlight spills across the wooden deck no longer a place of hollow silence but a garden where your spirit grew wild and free touching the heart of anyone who enters here The kettle whistles with a familiar tune the scent of coffee lingers like a promise kept you are not lost but simply shifted deep into the quiet rhythm of our days a gentle hand upon the weary soul reminding us that love outlasts the breath we take and in this house, you still remain alive	6	The dust still dances in the light Where laughter used to fill the air A warmth that clings so soft and bright To every corner, everywhere You left no silence in the room But echoes of a joyful song That blooms within the quiet gloom And keeps the shadows from too long I feel your hand upon my cheek When wind blows through the open door A promise that you will not break As time moves on and settles score No grave can hold the spirit free That lives inside these wooden walls It hums a sweet melody for me And catches when the heart might fall So let the memory softly grow Within this space we call our own For love is all we truly know And seeds of kindness you have sown	7
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 the sun and he sang of the moon, He sang of the birds that fly at noon, He sang of the flowers and the grass, And how they grow in the morning's dew. He sang of the lilies and the roses, And how they bloom in the evening's dew. He sang of the stars and the planets, And how they shine in the night's dark sky. He sang of the sea and the mountains, And how they are beautiful in their own way. He sang of the love and the joy, And how they are beautiful in their own way. He sang of the sorrow and the pain, And how they are beautiful in their own way. He sang of the death and the grave, And how they are beautiful in their own way. But when he died, his song was silenced, And no one else could sing it like him.	7	I sing of him who sang of broken things, Of shadows stretching long across the grass, The way the light would catch on rusted rings, And how the winter made the coldness pass. He found a music in the weeping willow, A rhythm in the rain that fell on stone, And turned the bitterest pill into a pillow, Wherein the lonely heart might sleep alone. His life was not a straight and sunny road, But twisted paths where darkness often lay; He carried heavy burdens, bore the load, And wrote of grief that drained the light of day. Yet even in his darkest hour's deep despair, When silence seemed to swallow up the song, He wove a thread of hope within the air, To show us all where he had gone along. He loved the world with such a fierce embrace, That nothing could escape his tender eye; The rotting leaf, the smile upon a face, The cloud that drifted slowly through the sky. He celebrated every passing breath, Until the final silence came to stay, And death, that grim and quiet master, left No voice to sing another word today. Now only echoes linger in the wood, And memories of songs that used to be; The silence is as deep as it has stood, Since he was taken from our company. But still we hear him in the falling rain, In rustling leaves, in whispers of the wind; For though his mortal voice can speak no more again, His spirit lives in all the songs he penned.	7	I sing of him who turned the grayest rain Into a silver river for the mind, Who found the sun behind the heaviest chain And left the bitter world far, far behind. His life was not a straight and narrow road, But wild with thorns where roses dared to bloom; He bore the weight of sorrow's heavy load And spun it into music in the room. Even when darkness choked his trembling breath, And shadows stretched across his weary face, He wrote of love that mocked the sting of death, And made the void a sacred, holy place. His words were fire that burned through winter's night, A beacon for the lost and wandering soul; He turned the terror of the endless flight Into a story that could make us whole. But now the silence holds the empty chair, The ink is dry upon the final page; No more the wind will carry up the air The song he sang within his golden age. The voice is stilled, the instrument is broke, The light has faded from the candle's flame; Yet in the quiet heart, the echo spoke, And still we whisper softly of his name.	7	He walked through gardens where the shadows grew, And turned the thorns into a crown of gold, His voice a river that the world could view, With stories of the broken and the bold. He sang of storms that tore the sky apart, Yet found a rhythm in the crashing rain, A melody that lived within the heart, To heal the sorrow and to soothe the pain. I loved the fire that burned within his eyes, Even when it scorched the pages he would write, For every tear he cried beneath gray skies Became a star to guide us through the night. The darkness was not void but deep and sweet, Where hidden truths were whispered to the bone, He made the bitter taste of grief complete, And built a kingdom from the seeds sown. But then the silence fell like heavy snow, The final note hung trembling in the air, The song that taught the weary how to flow Was cut away by cold and empty care. Now only echoes linger in the hall, Of one who danced with demons and with light, Who gave his all before the curtain fall, And left the world forever changed by night.	7	I trace the ink that stains your trembling hand Where shadows learned to dance in golden light You turned the rot of winter into sand And made the broken heart a sacred site Your verses grew like vines through concrete cracks A wild and tender thing against the gray You wore your scars as if they were their backs To guide the lost who wandered far away Even when the storm consumed your chest You sang a lullaby for dying stars No silence could put out that burning zest Or hide the beauty of your jagged bars The world held breath to hear the final note As darkness rose to claim the weary song But in the quiet where the echoes float Your legacy remains, forever strong	7	He walked through shadows just to find the light And turned the grayest rain into a rhyme A man who made the broken pieces bright Before he ran out of his borrowed time His verses carved in stone and whispered wind Where sorrow danced with joy in perfect grace He taught the world how heavy hearts can mend By mapping every tear upon a face The darker nights were not a sign of fear But fertile soil where deeper truths took root He held the trembling stars so very near And sang a song both bitter and acute Until the final breath that stole the sound And left the silence stretching cold and deep No more the music rising from the ground Only the promise that the dead will keep Though now his voice is stilled within the air The echo lingers on the edge of night We celebrate the life he dared to bear And honor all the beauty in the fight	7	I trace the ink that stains your trembling hand A map of storms you weathered in the dark Where every shadow held a secret plan To carve a spark within the freezing arc You sang of broken glass and rusted gates Of love that burned too bright to ever fade And turned the weight of grief into great fates The quiet price that only time has paid Your voice was thunder rolling through the night A lighthouse beam against the rising tide It guided lost souls toward the morning light With nowhere left for sorrow to hide But silence crept along the edge of sound When breath grew thin and weary in the chest The final note fell softly to the ground Leaving the world to mourn what came to rest Yet still your verses echo in the air A ghostly hum that refuses to depart For even now, beyond the cold despair Your spirit beats inside a human heart	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	I leave the mirror and the glass, The dust of books and the dust of grass. I leave the face that I used to be, The house I lived in, the tree by the sea. I leave the memory of the man I was, Who thought he was a body with a soul in him, And now I see it was an error, As if a fish should think he was the ocean. But I am not the ocean, I am only a drop, A little spirit dropping out of a big one, And as I drop, I am drawn down deeper Into the great spiritual force beyond the physical world.	6	The heavy coat of skin and bone slips off Like a wet garment shed in summer rain, And I stand naked on the threshold now, Where dust is light and silence makes no sound. I look back at the shelves where memories sat, The faces that were mine, the loves I held, They seem so small, like toys upon a floor, Or pictures faded by a sudden sun. I cannot take them with me, they are bound To the slow earth and to the ticking clock; They rust and crumble while I float away, Unmoored from time and gravity and grief. A deeper pull begins within my chest, Not like a hand that grabs or drags me down, But like a tide that rises from the deep, Inviting all the water to return. It calls me past the stars and past the void, To where the One who made the stars resides, To lose the self as water loses shape When poured into the ocean's endless blue.	6	The heavy cloak of flesh falls from my shoulders And the dust of years drifts down like snow I leave behind the laughter in the garden The taste of wine, the touch of winter's wind The sharp and jagged edges of my grief Are smoothed away by silence growing deep A current pulls me from the solid ground Where roots once held me fast to soil and stone It rises through the thinning air of memory Unbinding every knot of who I was No longer bound by name or face or place I float upon a tide of unseen light The world recedes into a distant hum Like waves that break against a shore I cannot see Drawn upward now toward the vast and quiet center Where all things merge into a single breath Beyond the reach of time or fading stars I move toward the source that calls me home	6	The heavy cloak of skin falls to the floor As echoes of a life begin to fade The laughter, tears, and wars I fought before Are now just shadows in a quiet glade I leave behind the gold that turned to dust The promises that broke beneath the weight The fragile trust, the broken, shifting crust That held me to this earth so long and straight A current pulls me from the solid ground Where roots once tangled deep in soil and stone No longer bound by time or sound I drift toward a light I've never known It calls not with a voice but with a hum A frequency that vibrates through the bone The final beat of every drum is done As I am drawn to where the seeds are sown The memories dissolve like mist at dawn Before the sun can touch the morning dew The self I knew is gently overdrawn Into a vast and ancient, endless blue	7	The heavy cloak of flesh grows thin and cold As echoes of the market fade away The names I spoke, the stories once retold Dissolve like mist before the breaking day I leave behind the garden and the stone The love that burned so bright yet felt so small A quiet wind begins to softly moan And pulls me up beyond the final wall No gravity can hold this drifting light That seeks the source where silence starts to sing The stars themselves bow down in pure delight To guide the soul on wings it did not bring Into the deep where time has lost its name Where every memory turns to golden dust I step across the threshold of the flame And trust the ancient rhythm of the just The world recedes into a distant hum A dream half-forgotten by the morning sun Here is the place where all true spirits come Before the journey of the race begun	7	The heavy cloak of skin falls soft to earth As echoes fade from rooms once filled with sound The taste of rain, the warmth of ancient hearth Dissolve like mist on unimagined ground No longer bound by gravity or time The tether snaps beneath a silent sky A whisper calls beyond the edge of rhyme To where the stars are born and never die Let go the names that carved your history The joy, the grief, the weight of every tear For in this vast and deep eternity You find the source you always held so near The current pulls with gentle, steady grace Through voids of light no eye has ever seen Leaving behind the shadows of this place To merge with all that waits between	7	The weight of stone begins to fade As echoes of the past dissolve A final breath, a quiet trade For something vast that cannot hold No longer bound by flesh or bone The tether snaps, the silence breaks A current pulls from depths unknown Where light and shadow softly wakes The memories drift like autumn leaves That fall to earth without a sound Replaced by forces we perceive Beyond the ground where feet were bound Now rising through the veil of gray Toward a pulse that beats so deep The spirit finds its destined way Into the arms it sought to keep	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.	The dust is in the teeth, the dust is in the eyes, The dust is in the hair and on the tongue; We are a dusty army corps toiling forward, A dusty nation's vigorous arm. Our boots are thick with dust, our legs are stiff with dust, Our stomachs are empty of food but full of dust; But we march onward inevitably toward victory. There is no other way for us than this dusty road; For if we do not go through the dust, How can we reach victory? And if we do not reach victory, What is the use of being a nationalistic army corps? So we toil forward through the dust, Exhausted yet vigorous, Marching onward inevitably toward victory.	3	Their boots are caked in the red dust of the homeland, Their eyes are hollow with the sleeplessness of a thousand nights, Yet their chests heave with the rhythm of a single, iron heart. They do not look back at the burning villages they left, Nor forward to the graves that wait in the valley ahead, But only onward, driven by the fever of the flag. The sun beats down like a hammer on an anvil, Turning sweat into salt and salt into blood, But the column moves as one great, sweating beast. Every step is a prayer for the soil beneath them, Every gasp is a vow to the name above them. Let the enemy tremble in their cool trenches, For these men are tired but they are terrible, They are the dust itself given motion and wrath, And they will march until the last man falls, Or until the victory bell rings over the conquered city.	6	Their boots are caked in red and yellow dust The sun beats down like a hammer on an anvil Yet the rhythm never breaks, a heavy thunder Of lungs that burn but will not cease to draw breath They march with eyes fixed on the distant banner Where the colors of their fatherland wave high Though muscles scream and backs are bent in pain A fire of pride keeps every step alive Forward through the choking haze they drive No mountain high enough to stop this tide For victory waits where the eagles soar And so they toil, exhausted yet unbroken Moving onward with a nation's will behind them	6	Boots grind deep into the choking dust Where sun beats down on shoulders bent and gray Yet in the chest a fire burns no thirst can quench A sacred pulse that drives the march today The flags are torn but flutter high above Defiant signs of will against the sky Each step a vow, each breath a prayer for home As weary legs refuse to let them die We carry nations on our aching backs Through valleys steep and fields of burning sand The road is long but glory waits ahead For this united, unbreakable band No weight of fatigue can break the line No shadow fall upon the forward face We move as one toward the promised dawn To claim the victory of our destined place	7	Boots grind deep in the choking red dust Where lungs burn bright with a patriotic fire Every step is a vow, every breath a trust In the banner that climbs higher and higher Though shoulders sag under the weight of the war And eyes are rimmed with the grit of the night We march for the soil, for the blood on the floor Driven by dawn into blinding light No fatigue can break this iron will As the corps moves forward, a single machine Through the valley of shadow, over hill and rill To claim what is ours and what must be seen The road stretches long but the spirit is vast A nation's heartbeat pounding in the tread Leaving the weary shadows of the past For the glory waiting at the end ahead	7	Boots grind deep in choking dust and gray Where weary lungs burn hot beneath the sun Yet flags of crimson wave with fierce display As thousands march as one, as never done Their backs are bent but spirits stand so tall A wall of iron forged by shared belief They hear the distant drum that calls them all To lift their nation from its quiet grief No rest is sought within the barren plain For victory waits beyond the shifting sand Through thirst and pain they drive the heavy chain With hands that grip the future like a brand The road ahead is long and steep with stone But every step is sworn to honor's name They walk alone yet never truly lone In fire and ash they forge their glorious fame	7	Boots grind deep in the choking red Where weary lungs draw ragged breath Yet pride burns bright within the chest A fire that death cannot arrest The banners snap against the wind Carrying names of those who fell No step is taken back again Only the path to where we dwell Though muscles ache and spirits fray The anthem hums beneath the skin We march as one, a single wave To claim the dawn from out the din Forward through the dust and gray With hearts that beat for home and land The road is long but clear and true Led by the strength of sovereign hand	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 not the grass that grows and is cut down, nor the worm that dies in the ground. I am not the bird that sings and is shot down, nor the fish that dies in the water. I am a man who knows nothing of time, and I am driven by the same force that drives them all. There is a force that drives them all, a great power that drives and destroys the natural world, but I cannot communicate with it, and I do not understand the nature of time.	6	I am not the wolf that hunts by scent of blood, Nor the oak that drinks the rain and knows the sun, For I have no instinct to guide my feet through mud, And no deep root to hold me when I run. There is a force that drives the river down, That breaks the mountain peak and cracks the stone, It builds the nest and tears the kingdom down, And leaves the world as it was never known. This power moves the stars and turns the tide, It swallows up the young and spits the old, It has a hunger that cannot be satisfied, A story written in a language bold. But I, who watch the seasons come and go, Who see the flower bloom and then decay, Have not the wit to know the why or how, Or what this driving force will do today. I cannot speak to time, for it is dumb, It does not answer when I call its name, It takes the living from the silent tomb, And plays with life as children play a game. I stand between the wolf and ancient tree, A creature made of dust and fleeting breath, Watching the great machine work blindly free, To build and break, to give and take, to death.	6	I am not the wolf that knows the moon's command Nor the oak that drinks the centuries of rain I watch the river carve the stone and land And feel a hunger that will break the chain It moves the tides and burns the forest floor It turns the seed to dust and dust to star But when I ask it what it is, or for What end it drives us all so far It gives no answer in the wind or light No whisper in the rustle of the leaf It simply pulls the day into the night And leaves me with a silent, sharp relief I cannot speak to time, nor time to me Though both are swept along this violent stream We float together on a boundless sea That wakes the living and dissolves the dream	6	I am not the oak that drinks the rain and knows the turning of the leaf, nor is my blood the river's vein that sings a song of brief relief. The wolf runs fast to catch the deer and understands the hunger's call, but I stand still in silent fear before the shadow on the wall. A force moves through the mountain stone that cracks the bone and burns the grain, it builds the throne and makes it lone then sweeps the dust back to the plain. It drives the tide to crash and break and leaves the coral white and dead, a power that no tongue can take or speak within a human head. I watch the hours slip like sand through fingers that cannot hold the flow, I try to grasp the shifting land but only feel the weight below. What is this clock that ticks so loud? Why does the sun forget to stay? I cannot hear the ticking cloud or know the meaning of the day. The bird will fly where winds have been and feel the season change its tune, but I remain inside the thin and fragile membrane of the noon. No voice can reach the ancient deep to ask why time devours all, while promises we make to keep are swept away against the wall. So I compare myself to none who understand the rise and fall, a stranger beneath the burning sun who hears the silence of it all.	6	I watch the wolf that hunts with hungry teeth And envy how it knows the moon's command While I am bound by words I cannot speak To beasts who understand the shifting sand The river carves the stone with patient hand A force that builds and breaks in equal measure It pulls the mountain down to feed the sea With no regard for beauty or for pleasure This power drives the leaf to turn and fall It strips the forest bare and starts anew Yet I stand still within the crushing weight Of cycles that I never quite knew true The clock ticks on but I cannot hear its sound Or ask the seconds where they go to die Time is a wall I walk against in vain A silent ocean stretching to the sky Like birds who fly without a map or chart I drift through moments I can't hold or keep Destroyed by forces older than my breath Awake within an endless, waking sleep	7	I am the stone that waits beneath the root While birds dissolve in feathers, light and dust The river carves a canyon through my throat Yet I cannot name the hour or the rust A wolf runs fast to catch the fading sun But time is not a prey it can devour It slips through paws and scales and human skin An endless current with no source or power I watch the forest burn and then regrow A cycle driven by a silent hand That breaks the branch to make the acorn fall Across a map I never understand My voice is lost within the wind's refrain As seasons shift without a word of grace I stand alone against the rising tide Of moments rushing toward an empty space	6	I am the stone that waits for rain While roots drink deep and break the chain The wolf who hunts beneath the moon Has no desire to ask of noon A bird takes flight on wings of glass And watches seasons come to pass But I stand still in shifting sand With no command, no guiding hand The river carves a path so deep Where ancient secrets fall asleep It pulls the tide with silent grace Yet leaves no trace upon my face I try to speak to wind and fire To touch the edge of dark desire But words dissolve before they start Like dust within a beating heart The clock ticks loud but means nothing A hollow sound, a broken ring I cannot read the turning page Or understand the weight of age So let the forest burn and bloom In cycles born from endless gloom For I remain both lost and found Beneath the weight of time unbound	7
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 says the story of the dying man And he does not tell what the dying man said. I was a young soldier and I saw a man die And I did not hear what the man said. It was a very interesting story of a dying man But I cannot tell you what the dying man said. It was a funny story about a dying man But I do not remember what the dying man said. I heard a story of a dying man But I am not sure that I heard what the dying man said. There was a story of a dying man But I cannot recall exactly what the dying man said. I heard a story of a dying man one day But I do not know whether I heard what the dying man said. I heard a story of a dying man But I do not remember what the dying man said. I heard a story of a dying man But I do not remember what the dying man said. I heard a story of a dying man But I do not remember what the dying man said. I heard a story of a dying man But I do not remember what the dying man said.	2	He says the boy from Ohio asked for his mother but he stops before he can say what she was wearing or if the blood was already on her apron when he spoke. He says the sergeant wanted to tell him about the rain in Seattle, how it smelled like wet pennies and pine needles, but the words get stuck in the throat of the story and the rain turns to mud in the trench. He says the kid from the south wanted to write a letter to a girl named Mary, but he never said which state Mary lived in, or if the pen was still warm in his hand when the mortar took the top off his head. He says they all had something important to say something about God or the way the light hit the water or the taste of an apple, but the stories always end with the sound of the shell bursting and the silence after. He says the boy from Ohio asked for his mother and he tells it again and again but never quite gets to the end because the end is too heavy to carry and the middle is where the screaming starts and the beginning is just a face that looks like yours.	2	He stands by the fire and tells the tale of the boy from Ohio who held his hand and said something about a garden but the words slip through like smoke before they reach the end. He paces the trench and whispers again the story of the sergeant with the broken leg who looked at the moon and spoke of a name but the syllables dissolve in the mud before the final letter is spoken. It was a promise, he says, it was a love it was a warning or a prayer but the mouth that shaped them is cold now and the sound dies in his throat leaving only the shape of a sentence that never finishes. Over and over he builds the wall of their last breaths brick by brick, word by missing word until the stories are just holes in the air where the truth should be and he screams the endings that do not exist to the empty dark while the men lie silent waiting for a message that will never arrive.	3	The smoke still clings to the wool of my coat I tell you how he asked for water But the glass is empty and the well is dry He said something about a name I cannot keep A name that slips like oil through my fingers So I start again with the coughing sound With the way his eyes rolled back to find the sky I tell you he wanted to go home But home is a word that burns on my tongue And the message dies before it reaches your ear It was not water he needed, perhaps it was light Or maybe just a hand to hold the shaking earth I forget the exact words, the syntax of death So I repeat the story of the wound, the blood, the rain Over and over until the story wears thin Until the man becomes a shadow in the mist And the final plea is lost in the static of my mind I try to speak his last breath but only hear the wind I try to give you his secret but only give you silence Again the cough, again the fear, again the end But never the words, never the truth, never the end	2	He speaks the names that stick like mud The final breaths he cannot hold A story starts then breaks apart Before the ending can be told I saw the light go out in him But what he said is lost to dust The words dissolve before they form In iron rust and blood and rust Again the trench, again the rain Again the plea he cannot keep He tries to give the message back But only silence falls asleep The voices twist inside his skull A chorus of the half-spoken truth He carries every dying wish But never reaches it with youth So round and round the stories spin With gaps where love or fear should be A soldier guarding empty air While all the dead just wait for me	6	The smoke hangs low and thick as wool I speak the names I cannot hold A whisper starts, a story pulls Then breaks before it can be told He said his mother waited near But silence swallows up the sound The fear that makes the vision clear Is lost beneath this heavy ground I try again to find the words That fell from lips so cold and dry But memory is like the birds That scatter when the sky turns gray Another face begins to fade Within the static of my mind The promises they never made Are left for ghosts to leave behind I run the tape inside my head Of final breaths and broken cries Yet every single thing they said Dissolves before my weary eyes The war has carved a hollow space Where truth and fiction softly blend I wear this grief upon my face With no beginning and no end So I repeat the dying air With voices cracking in the night While nothing there was ever there To guide me through the endless fright	6	The smoke hangs thick in hollow lungs Where silence used to be He speaks of names he cannot hold And ghosts that set him free A whisper breaks against the stone Of words too sharp to keep He tells the tale of falling light While others drift asleep Each breath he draws is heavy now With echoes from the past A chorus rising, soft and low Too broken to outlast He tries to find the final sound That marked a life's end But only static fills the air Where promises descend The stories twist and turn again In loops of gray and red A soldier lost within his mind By all the living fed No message left for those at home Just fragments of the pain As time dissolves into the dark And rain begins to fall on nameless ground	6
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.	I knew you then as one knows the morning, As one knows the first flower of spring; Your voice was a clear and a silvery river, And your eyes were the sky in the spring. But now I behold you as others behold you, A stranger whose face is familiar; Your speech is a torrent, your eyes are a mist, And I know not who you are nor where you came from. O love, thou art a bitter potion! Thou hast made me to drink of thy cup; Thou hast given me grief for my portion, And pain for my pleasure and up. Thou hast made me to see what I would not have seen, Thou hast made me to know what I would not have known; Thou hast taken away all that I loved in thee, And left me nothing but thee.	6	I knew the curve of your smile before it turned to stone, I knew the rhythm of your heart before it learned to beat alone. Now I walk beside a stranger in the clothes I used to love, And stare into the eyes that were once my only star above. You have built a wall of silence where our laughter used to ring, You have taught your hands to turn away from mine as if they stung. The voice that whispered secrets now is cold and sharp and strange, And I am lost within the ghost of all we used to change. Oh, how the fire burned me when I thought it made me warm! How sweet the poison tasted when you held me in your arm! I gave you all my youth to keep, I gave you all my trust, And now I am a beggar with a pocket full of dust. Love has been a cruel teacher who has taught me how to cry, To watch the living person die while standing right by. I mourn the one you were, my dear, I mourn the one you are, And I mourn the foolish heart that loved you like a shooting star.	6	I knew the curve of your smile before it turned to stone, I knew the weight of your hand before it learned to push me away. Now you stand across the room like a statue carved from ice, A stranger wearing the face I once kissed in the dark. Where did the warmth go that used to melt my winter bones? Where is the voice that sang me through the sleepless nights? It is gone, buried under layers of cold indifference, And I am left here shivering in the ruins of us. Oh, how cruel this love has been, a beautiful trap, To give me heaven only to show me hell in its place. I gave you my heart, and you wore it as a weapon, Striking deep until the blood ran dry and the hope was dead. I mourn the person you were, though they are still right there, For the stranger who looks at me with empty eyes is not you. This misery is the price I pay for loving too much, For trusting the shadow when the light had already fled.	6	I trace the lines of eyes I once knew by heart But they have turned to glass, cold and unseeing now The voice that used to sing my name with soft delight Has sharpened into steel that cuts me through and through You wear a mask of kindness I cannot penetrate A stranger in the skin I swore I loved so well And I am left alone within this hollow room To mourn the living ghost you've chosen to become This love has been a fire that burned the house down Leaving only ash where warmth and trust once stood I grieve the man you were before the change took hold And weep for all the pain this devotion brought No longer do I know the soul behind your stare Just silence growing loud between us every day	6	I knew the curve of every smile you wore Before the silence learned to fill your throat Now strangers walk within that familiar door And I am choking on a bitter note You were the sun that warmed my winter skin But now you are the frost that cracks the glass I cannot find the person deep within Who taught me how to love and let it pass This ache is heavy as a stone in chest A monument to all we used to be I laid my heart down, put it to the test And watched it shatter where it meant to flee Oh cruel twist of fate that binds us tight To ghosts of warmth that never truly fade I spend my nights inside this endless night Mourning the price that love has made me pay	7	I trace the lines of a face I knew But find only glass where warmth once grew The eyes that held my name so dear Are distant now, devoid of fear Or love, or any gentle spark That used to guide us through the dark You speak in tongues I cannot learn A bitter lesson I must burn To see the ghost of who you were Dissolve beneath this heavy blur No longer mine, no longer near Just shadows drawn by silent tears This heart, a vessel cracked and torn By promises that never morn Has learned the cost of giving all To watch the walls begin to fall And in the quiet, cold decay I mourn the love that led me astray	6	The face I knew has shifted deep Beneath a mask of cold and gray Where warmth once lived, now silence sleeps And steals the light of yesterday I reach to hold a hand so changed But find only empty air A ghost of all we once arranged Leaves me with nothing but despair Your eyes no longer hold my name They stare through walls I cannot climb A stranger born from love's old flame That burned too bright to stay in time Now every breath is sharp and slow A weight that pulls the spirit down As rivers turn to ice below And drown the hope we wore as crown I mourn the one you used to be While standing in this hollow space A prisoner of memory Trapped within your cold embrace	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 hammers at the rock and chips away the superfluous part, until there is nothing left but the idea, the image that was in his head. He does not care about the rough stuff; he wants only the smooth, the polished, the thing that will last forever. And so with poets: they hammer at the word, they chip away the superfluous syllable, until there is nothing left but the meaning, the thing that was in their heart. They do not care about the rough stuff; they want only the smooth, the polished, the thing that will last forever. I think of the great stone-cutters who made the monuments that are still standing, like the Pyramids and Stonehenge, and I think of the great poets who wrote the poems that are still being read, like Homer and Dante and Shakespeare. I think of the stone-cutter who made the monument that is still standing, and I think of the poet who wrote the poem that is still being read. I think of the stone-cutter who made the monument that is still standing, and I think of the poet who wrote the poem that is still being read.	6	The mason strikes the granite with a heavy hammer And chips away the superfluous stone To leave a shape that will endure the rain And stand when all the flesh has turned to dust. The poet takes the rough and jagged word And hammers out the senseless syllables To leave a line that will survive the fire And live when all the marble has been crushed. One works with iron tools upon the rock To carve a face that looks into the void; The other works with thought upon the page To carve a voice that speaks into the dark. Both know the stone is harder than their hands, And both know language is more hard than stone, Yet both believe they can defeat the time That swallows up the cities and the men. So let the ages grind the monument down Until the statue is a nameless heap, The poem will remain as fresh as air Because it was not cut from stone but soul.	6	The chisel strikes the granite with a sound That echoes through the quarry's deepening gloom, While in the quiet room the poet's hand Holds fast the pen to carve a different tomb. One battles flint and marble, hard and cold, To shape a face that time cannot erode; The other fights the silence of the void, To build a house where fleeting thoughts abode. They both know well the weight of mortal breath, The certain dust that waits for all who strive, Yet still they work against the tide of death, To keep some spark of living memory alive. The stone-cutter chips away the excess grain, Until the statue stands in stark relief; The poet strips the language of its pain, Until the truth remains beyond belief. Years roll like rivers over river stones, And cities fall to ruin and to grass, But what was carved by hands and heavy bones Shall watch the generations come and pass. For when the flesh has turned to silent clay, And names are lost within the shifting sand, The words remain to guide us on our way, As solid as the mountain in the land. Two craftsman of the eternal, side by side, With different tools but one relentless aim: To turn the fleeting moment into pride, And write their signature upon the frame Of endless time, so that when we are gone, Our love and grief and glory carry on.	7	The mason strikes the granite with a heavy hand And chips away the silence of the stone To shape a form that time cannot command While words are chiseled from a different bone The poet lifts a pen as sharp as flint And carves a thought upon the page of air Both seek to build a bridge across the brink Where mortal breath and fleeting moments fare One leaves a statue standing in the square With moss to soften edges made by steel The other leaves a verse for all to share That makes the ancient heart of grief feel real They know the wind will erode the marble face And libraries may burn or turn to dust Yet both pursue this slow and sacred race Against the gravity of decay and rust For in the strike of hammer and of quill There lies a shared and desperate desire To make the moment last, to stand so still Beyond the reach of fire and of fire So let them work while daylight fades to gray Two craftsmen of the infinite and deep Who carve their names into the endless day And wake the world from its eternal sleep	7	The chisel bites the granite face With sharp and rhythmic sound While ink flows dark across the page On paper, soft and bound One seeks to carve a mountain peak That stands against the wind The other builds a house of words Where silent thoughts begin Both know the weight of time that waits To swallow flesh and bone And strive to make a mark so deep They claim it as their own The mason strikes with steady hand To split the stubborn stone The poet shapes a fleeting breath Into a seed that's sown Years turn the dust to ancient sand And rivers shift their course But in the silence of the rock A story keeps its force Just as the verse survives the grave When voices fall away To speak to those who come after In light of coming day No temple built by human hands Can truly stop the night Yet both the word and wedge remain To hold back endless flight For in this labor of the soul Where mortal limits end They build a bridge of memory That will not bend or break Until the stars themselves grow dim And all the worlds expire These monuments of stone and song Are fire that never tires	7	The chisel strikes the granite face To carve a shape from silent space While ink flows dark on paper white To catch the fleeting spark of light One works with dust and heavy stone The other builds a world unknown Yet both seek out the endless road To bear the weight of time's abode The mason measures line by line Against the stars that slowly shine The poet counts the rhythm's beat To make the transient moment sweet For flesh will fade to rust and bone And silence claim the living tone But words etched deep in rock or rhyme Defy the march of passing time A statue stands where cities fall A verse survives beyond the wall Two different hands, one shared desire To set the mortal heart on fire That when the ages turn to gray Their legacy will still hold sway No grave can keep what they have made In every age, their debt is paid	7	The chisel strikes the granite face A rhythm born of silent grace As ink meets paper, soft and deep While ancient promises we keep One carves the mountain's rugged skin To let the weight of time begin The other shapes a fleeting breath Defying silence and the death They work with hands that shake and tire Fueling an eternal fire For neither stone nor verse can fade Within the shadows they have made When empires crumble into dust And memory turns to rust These monuments will stand alone A testament to flesh and bone The poet sings what stone has said Across the void where light is shed Two craftsmen in the endless night Holding back the coming white	7
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 ruins are still warm, the dead are barely cold, And yet the tongues of orators go on. They say we must rebuild, and so they talk; They say we must be moderate, and so they talk. There is a great deal of talking in this nation, Which is to say there is a great deal of nothing doing. Moderation! What a fine word for a fine thing; Only I fear that the very men who made us what we are Are not the men to make us what we ought to be. It is like asking the fox to guard the henhouse, Or a man who has been making love to his wife's sister To be moderate about it. I do not believe that those who waged violence Are capable of sustaining peace.	2	The ruins wait for hands that know the trowel, Not tongues that spin the hollow thread of peace. We hear the speeches rising like a cloud, But see no rain to quench the burning thirst. The factions shout their absolute rightness, While moderation stands alone in silence, A ghost between the shouting of the blind. Can those who learned the hammer's heavy rhythm, Who forged their glory in the fire of war, Now lay down arms and pick up ploughshares gently? Or will they strike again when shadows lengthen, And break the fragile vessel they have built?	5	The ink is dry on treaties signed in haste, Yet silence fills the halls where bombs once fell. We trade in hollow phrases, bold and chaste, While rubble waits beneath a broken bell. The partisans shout louder than the truth, And call for fire when water is the cure. They wear the mask of moderation's youth, But poison every well they claim to pure. Can those who held the torch that burned the bridge Now learn to build a bridge across the stream? Their hands are stained with ash, their minds are rid Of gentle dreams that grow from quiet theme. How can the wolf sustain the lamb's repose? How can the sword become the plowshare's weight? We watch the weary river overflow, And fear the peace is built upon a gate That leads back to the dark we thought was gone, Where empty words are all we have left on.	6	The rubble still holds the heat of yesterday's fire, Yet we speak in circles of grand design, While ink flows freely on paper so white, And action remains a ghost behind the line. We trade in promises, hollow and deep, As children sleep in the shadow of walls, For words are cheap when the earth is asleep, And silence answers the echoing calls. Between the red and the blue, where the hatred takes root, Is there space for the gray, for the moderate hand? Or does the echo of battle bear bitter fruit, That no amount of reason can ever command? Can those who forged swords with such fervent delight, Now hold the plowshare without trembling fear? Can they unlearn the night to embrace the light, When the taste of violence lingers so dear? We build on a foundation of doubt and of blood, Where trust is a language no one knows well, And hope stands alone in a sea of mud, Waiting for peace that may never be real.	6	The speeches rise like smoke from burning fields Where promises are scattered on the ground But hands that held the rifle never yield To build a house where silence can be found We speak of balance, of a middle way Between the factions screaming in the dark Yet every compromise feels far away As partisan fires consume the morning spark Can those who learned to break the world with hate Now hold the fragile threads of peace so tight? Their hearts still beat a violent, jagged rate Unsure if dawn will bring a gentle light The ink is dry on treaties signed in fear While empty words replace the work we need And doubt remains that peace is truly near When seeds of war have taken such deep root indeed	6	The stones are scattered where the walls once stood, And silence fills the hollows of the wood. We speak in circles, grand and empty sound, Of bridges built on promises unbound. The ink is dry before the ground is cleared, While hope grows thin and weary, unappeared. Between the red and blue, a narrow path, Where moderation waits beneath the wrath. To choose the middle is to risk the scorn, As factions tear the fabric newly torn. They shout for war while claiming they seek rest, And call the compromise a fatal test. Can hands that held the blade now hold the plow? Can those who broke the sky now calm the bough? The ghosts of violence whisper through the night, Doubting the dawn will bring a lasting light. For peace requires a heart that knows no hate, Not just the timing of a shifting fate.	6	The ink has dried on treaties made in haste While rubble waits for hands that will not move We speak of dawn but only cast a shade And let the silence grow where roots should prove The moderates are drowned by shouting crowds That feed on anger, sharp and unrefined They trade the truth for echoes of the loud And leave the fractured spirit far behind Can those who held the fire learn to cool? Or do they crave the heat that burns so deep A nation built on broken, jagged rules Where promises are buried underneath the sleep The architects of war now seek the light But doubt remains within their weary eyes If peace is more than just a fleeting night Before the storm returns to claim the skies	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	I speed through the night, The darkness is behind me, The sunrise is ahead. But I am never going to catch it; It is always beyond my reach. I go faster and faster, But it is still ahead of me, And I am still behind it. The darkness is behind me, And I am leaving it behind; But it is following me. The sunrise is ahead of me, And I am chasing it; But it is getting ahead of me.	6	The tires hum a low and frantic prayer Against the blacktop slick with midnight oil, I leave the shadows in a blur of gray, And chase the gold that waits beyond the hill. The darkness clings like smoke to rearview glass, A heavy cloak I shed at every mile, But dawn is just a rumor on the wind, That runs as fast as I can drive the while. The horizon glows a pale and distant promise, A burning line that never comes any closer, It pulls me forward through the empty void, With no arrival and no final dozer. So I accelerate into the fleeing light, Leaving the night behind in tatters torn, To run forever toward a sun that rises, Just ahead of where the road was born.	6	The tires hum a low and frantic prayer Against the asphalt ribbon stretching out Into the void where shadows stretch and tear The fabric of the absolute black night. I hold the wheel as if it were a rudder Steering through a sea of ink so deep That stars themselves seem to be fading under The weight of silence that the engines keep. But there ahead, a pale and trembling line Of violet bleeding into burning gold A promise drawn by some divine design To make the running heart feel brave and bold. I push the pedal down until the engine screams And the world dissolves in blurring streaks of gray Chasing the dawn that fulfills all my dreams Yet stays exactly where it did yesterday. It rises just enough to show the road Then lifts itself another inch away A cruel and beautiful, unending load To run forever toward the breaking day. The darkness falls behind like heavy dust Left in the wake of speed I cannot slow While light remains a thing of pure distrust That runs ahead but never lets me go.	6	The tires hum a frantic prayer against the asphalt As the black void swallows the rearview mirror whole As if the night itself is a heavy coat I shed While the engine screams for more, for more, for more I chase the pale bruise on the eastern horizon A promise painted in violet and gold That stretches away as fast as I can drive A horizon line that refuses to be crossed The darkness clings to my heels like wet wool But I feel it loosening, slipping from my grip Leaving the shadows of yesterday behind In the blur of streetlights streaking into ghosts Yet the sun remains a distant, mocking eye Rising just enough to keep me running Always ahead, always just out of reach A light that demands the endless road So I press the pedal to the floorboards Flying toward a dawn that will never arrive Leaving the dark where it belongs Chasing a light that only exists in motion	5	The engine hums a low and frantic prayer Against the velvet weight of endless night I tear the silence with a blade of air And chase the ghost of coming morning light The stars retreat in streaks of silver fire As shadows stretch their fingers at my wheels I feed the beast that burns within the wire To make the heavy darkness feel unreal But dawn is just a rumor on the wind A promise painted on the eastern sky No matter how I push or how I bend The horizon runs from where I try to fly It slips away like water through a fist Just out of reach, a shimmering refrain I leave the cold behind me in the mist Yet never catch the sun inside my vein So onward through the void where time dissolves Into a race that has no final line Where every victory simply unfurls Another shade of dark beneath the pine	6	The tires hum a low and frantic song Against the asphalt, cold and black I push the pedal to the bone And leave the shadows in my wake The stars are fading one by one As gray begins to bleed the sky A promise kept in distant gold That pulls me forward, never high I chase the edge of morning's breath Where night dissolves into the air But every mile I gain on dawn Only stretches out the distance there The light remains a shifting ghost Just past the curve, just out of sight A horizon that refuses stillness While I run through the endless night	6	The tires hum a low and steady song Against the asphalt, cold and gray I push the pedal past the dawn's first throng To chase the break of coming day Shadows stretch like fingers in the rear A ghostly grip I cannot shake The world dissolves into the atmosphere As speed becomes the only choice I make A golden line that never quite arrives Just out of reach across the sky It burns with promise, yet it stays alive Beyond the grasp of hands that try to fly I run toward a light that slips away Through endless miles of silent flight Leaving the night behind in disarray While chasing morning's fading light	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	When we were married I gave you all my smiles; You had none, you said. You had no talent; I had a great deal. So I gave you all my talent. I had no happiness; you had a great deal. So I gave you all my happiness. I had no hubris; I had some hubris. So I gave you all my hubris. And when I died, she took all my remaining smiles with her.	2	He gave her his first smile when they met, a shy and trembling thing he had saved for years; she gave him her talent for making music, and the house filled with sound. He gave her his happiness from the harvest year, when the wheat was golden and the sun was high; she gave him her hubris, which she did not need, and he wore it like a crown of thorns. They traded back and forth through the long days, he giving smiles to cover her sorrows, she giving talents to fill his empty hours; until one day he realized he had no more smiles left to give. She died on a Tuesday morning, taking with her all the smiles that remained in the house, leaving him only with his hubris, and the silence where the music used to be.	5	He gave her his first smile, a shy and trembling thing, And she returned a talent for the violin, Then he offered happiness, bright as summer rain, While she gave back her hubris, sharp as winter grain. They traded pieces of their souls across the years, A laugh for a dream, a tear for a fear, Until the box was full and the heart was light, Or so they thought within the quiet night. But when the end arrived and silence filled the room, She gathered up the last remaining bloom. With cold and final fingers, she took them all, Every smile he had ever given or made to fall. Now he sits in darkness with nothing left to show, No talent, no happiness, only the afterglow Of what she took, the smiles that used to be, Gone with her into eternity.	6	He gave her his talent, a clumsy gift of song She returned it with a smile that held the light Then she traded her happiness for his quiet pride And he kept the hubris, heavy as a stone They bartered their days in a silent market place Exchanging the warmth of breath for the cold of art Until the room grew thin and the air grew still And she lay down to sleep with a final look The doctor said the end was near and certain But she whispered only of what remained unpaid She took back the talent, the happiness, the pride And gathered every single smile they had ever shared When her eyes closed, the house fell into silence For no one could remember how to grin or laugh She walked away with all the joy they had made Leaving him alone with nothing but the empty dark	6	He gave her smiles to warm the winter air And she returned a talent for the rain They traded happiness with open hands While hubris sat like dust upon the frame She took his pride and polished it to gold He took her laughter, kept it in his chest They bartered joy until the scales were light And neither knew which heart was truly theirs Then silence fell when breath began to fade The final transaction made without a sound She gathered up the smiles he had once given And carried every beam into the ground Now dark is all that remains within the room No grin can reach the mirror's cold embrace For when she left, she took the last of light And left him with the hollow space of grace	6	He gave her his talent for a quiet grace And she returned a smile to warm his face They traded happiness for fleeting days While hubris grew in shadows of their maze He offered joy to keep the cold at bay She took his pride and let it slip away A currency of love they could not count Until the final silence made them drown The room grew still as breath began to fade No laughter left within the space they made She reached out now to gather what remained Of every light that once had been sustained Then closed her eyes and took the last bright grin Leaving him hollow where the warmth had been No smiles remain to bridge the empty air Just silence hanging heavy everywhere	7	He offered up his talent first A melody she learned to keep She traded back a quiet warmth To soothe the edges of his sleep Then hubris rose in heavy clouds That masked the truth they both could see They bartered pride for fragile trust And watched the storm begin to flee The happiness they held so dear Was passed from hand to trembling palm Until the air grew thin and cold Before the final, silent calm She gathered every smile he made Each curve of joy he thought was true And pulled them close against her chest As shadows claimed the room anew Now silence fills the empty space Where laughter used to softly play For when she left this mortal ground She took the light of yesterday	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 noticing that you have taken your glasses off and are trying to read the label on a bottle of wine, and reaching over and taking them from your hand before you ruin your eyesight, and putting them back on for you. It is saving the last bite of something you like best for me when I am not looking, and seeing me see it, and making a face at me like I am a greedy pig, and eating it myself. It is waking up early and going into the kitchen to make breakfast for you because you have an important interview, and not telling you about it, and hearing you come in and say "Oh Jesus Christ!" when you see the table laid out. It is sitting on the floor eating pizza and drinking beer because we are too tired to go to the dining room, and one of us has to get up to turn the light out, and having to get up and do it yourself because I am too lazy to get up. It is going to the supermarket together and putting things into the basket that you like but that I don't like, and vice versa, and forgetting what we wanted to buy and coming home without it. It is driving somewhere and I am singing to the radio and you are not listening to me but talking to yourself, and I stop singing and listen to you, and you notice that I am not singing any more, and you stop talking to yourself, and then we both start laughing. It is being sick and you are doing everything for me, and I am being nasty to you because I am sick, and you being nice to me because I am sick. It is reading a book or a newspaper or writing a letter and stopping every now and then and looking at you, and you looking at me, and not saying anything. It is loving each other so much that sometimes we feel like crying, and sometimes we feel like killing each other.	2	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 the mug before I have even asked for it, the steam rising between us like a quiet promise. It is the silence that does not need filling when we are reading on opposite ends of the sofa, our knees touching under the blanket. It is noticing the new gray hair at your temple and not mentioning it because you look tired, but then brushing it back gently while you sleep. It is the shared laugh over a burnt piece of toast that turns into a memory we tell every year, laughing harder than the first time. It is waiting up late with the porch light on because the storm made you nervous driving home, and seeing your car pull into the driveway feeling like the sun coming out. It is arguing about which route to take and then letting you drive anyway, knowing you will get us there safely. It is the grocery list written in your handwriting that I keep in my pocket for weeks just to feel close to you when you are away. It is the way you say "I'm home" and the whole house feels like it has finally arrived.	5	A poem about exploring the many definitions of love through small moments and everyday experiences in romantic relationships. It is the way you save the last bite without asking if I am still hungry, the silent passing of the coffee cup before my hand has even reached for it. It is the shared silence in the car when neither of us needs to fill the air, just watching the streetlights blur by while your knee rests against mine. It is finding a note in the pocket of a coat I haven't worn in months, a crumpled reminder that you thought of me while I was busy thinking of nothing else. It is the argument that dissolves into laughter because we both know how ridiculous we sound, and the gentle touch on the shoulder that says I am here, I am listening. It is washing the dishes while the other dries, a rhythm built over years of repetition, where the soap suds and the warm water become a language all their own. It is not the grand gestures or the fireworks, but the steady hum of being known, the quiet certainty that in this small house, in these ordinary days, we are building something lasting.	6	A poem about exploring the many definitions of love through small moments and everyday experiences in romantic relationships. It is the way the kettle whistles before you even reach for it, the steam rising to meet the morning light that finds your face already turned toward mine. It is the silence that does not demand filling, where two people read separate books on the same worn sofa, their knees touching just enough to anchor the day. It is the shared glance across a crowded room when a joke lands perfectly, a secret language built on glances and the quiet understanding of who we are becoming. It is the handing over of a warm mug without asking if the tea is steeped too long, the knowing exactly how much sugar fits the cup, the ritual of pouring care into ceramic. It is the mending of a torn seam with careful thread, not because it must be perfect, but because the fabric matters, and so does the hands that hold it. It is the grocery list written in hurried scrawl, the remembering of the specific brand of bread, the laughter over burnt toast turning a mistake into a memory. It is not always the grand gesture or the sweeping vow, but the steady rhythm of breathing together, the slow accumulation of ordinary hours stacked like stones to build a home.	6	A poem about exploring the many definitions of love through small moments and everyday experiences in romantic relationships It is not always a grand gesture or a vow spoken under stars but the quiet hum of coffee brewing while the morning light spills across the floor It is the way you hand me my glasses before I have asked to find them and how you leave the bathroom door open when you know I am still sleeping Love lives in the silence between words in the shared glance over a crowded room that says everything without a sound in the warmth of a blanket pulled tight It is the patience when the car won't start the laughter that breaks the tension of a burnt dinner or a missed train the gentle touch on a weary shoulder It is choosing to stay when it is hard to listen when the voice is tired to remember how you take your tea and to hold the space for all your fears This is the fabric of us woven daily thread by thread, moment by moment not a destination reached at last but the journey walked side by side	6	A poem about exploring the many definitions of love through small moments and everyday experiences in romantic relationships It is not found in grand gestures or sweeping vows But in the quiet space where two coffee mugs rest Side by side on a counter worn by time The steam rising together into morning light It lives in the way a hand finds another Without looking down while walking down the street In the silence that feels comfortable, not empty When words are no longer needed to be spoken Just the rhythm of breathing in sync with yours Love is the laundry folded with care The extra blanket pulled up when the night grows cold The shared laugh over a burnt piece of toast And the patience held when tempers flare Turning friction into something softer, warmer It is the memory of how you learned my name Not just the sound but the weight behind it Held gently in the palm of a daily life Where ordinary things become sacred ground Because we walk them together, step by step Defining forever in the now, in the here In every tiny, unremarkable act of staying	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 vow spoken loud But the quiet hum of a kitchen shared at dawn Where coffee steams in two chipped mugs side by side And silence holds a weight that needs no sound to fill the space between us. Love lives in the way you reach for my hand without looking down In the laundry folded with care on a Tuesday afternoon The gentle touch that brushes dust from weary shoulders As we navigate the storms of ordinary days. It is found in laughter that escapes during mundane tasks In the patience offered when words are lost or frayed A promise kept not in ink but in the rhythm of breath When the world outside fades and only this remains. No epic tales define what binds our hearts together Just the soft light of morning breaking through the glass The certainty that even in stillness, we are moving forward Together, one small step at a time.	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.	I see my face in the wall, but I do not see it; it is a black hole swallowing me. There are people walking on the wall, people standing on the wall, people touching the wall. They are not there. It is 1982 and I am twenty-one years old and I am walking on the wall. The people are in their Sunday best. The little girl is wearing a red dress. She is not there. She is dead. The little girl is pointing at my name. She is not pointing at my name. She is pointing at her father's name. Her father is not there. He is dead. I touch the wall. I touch the little girl's hand. I am not touching the little girl's hand. I am touching the wall. The little girl is not there. She is dead. I see my face in the wall. I see my name in the wall. My name is not there. I am dead.	2	The polished black granite drinks the afternoon sun and spits back a tourist in a neon windbreaker checking his watch, tapping a phone against his palm. He sees the reflection of a young man in fatigues standing perfectly still, holding a letter that is already yellowed dust. A woman walks by with an ice cream cone melting on her wrist, her laughter sharp as shrapnel, and for a second the wall shows not her face but the mud-choked grin of a boy from Ohio who never got to eat ice cream again. The surface ripples with the touch of a child's finger tracing a name, and suddenly the stone is hot under the palm, sweating in the humid jungle air while the child asks "Daddy, why is this wall so shiny?" The veteran blinks and the glossy dark returns, holding the ghost of a mortar round that just missed, holding the scream of a radio operator cut off mid-sentence, holding the casual boredom of a soldier waiting for lunch which was never served because the ambush came at noon. A couple leans in close to read a date of birth, their breath fogging the glass, and the fog becomes the smoke from a burning village, thick and acrid, stinging eyes that are now old and watery behind sunglasses. The wall holds them all, the living and the dead, the mundane stroll of a Saturday afternoon and the frantic crawl through the razor wire, merging into one smooth, endless plane where the past does not die and the present does not begin.	2	The tourist child taps the black stone with a plastic sword laughing at his own reflection in the polished granite while I see the mud caked on that same smooth surface the way it swallowed boots and hope in '68 a mother adjusts her sunglasses here in the DC heat her shadow stretching long across the names of boys who never grew old I reach out to touch the date 1969 and my finger meets cold glass but my skin remembers the fever of the jungle the sticky air that smelled of burning rubber and wet earth she pulls him away from the wall saying don't touch the memorial and he says why is it so shiny like a mirror because it holds everything we forgot because it shows you your face but also shows me their faces fading into the crowd of today's walkers the laughter of a picnic nearby dissolves into the scream of a helicopter the ice cream dripping from a cone becomes blood on a helmet I stand between the now and the then watching my own grey hair merge with the dark hair of a dead kid until the wall is not a wall but a window and I am walking through it again into the green hell where time does not move forward only down, deeper into the names where the present is just a thin layer of dust on top of the permanent, lived horror.	2	The polished black stone drinks the morning light And swallows the tourist in his bright windbreaker Who leans close to trace a name with a trembling finger While I stand behind him, ghostly and cold Watching my own reflection fracture into two One man in faded khaki holding a duffel bag The other in green fatigues soaked through with rain The wall does not care for the year or the season It only knows the weight of the names carved deep As the woman beside me checks her phone with a soft chime Her digital world flickers against the granite mirror Merging with the static crackle of radio waves From a jungle that burned long before she was born I see the mud rising up from the smooth surface Clinging to boots that are no longer mine A child laughs at a pigeon taking flight nearby But the sound twists in the air like mortar fire Breaking the silence of this peaceful afternoon We are all standing on the edge of a single moment Where the coffee cup in a stranger's hand Is indistinguishable from the canteen I dropped In the tall grass where the shadows never lift The glass holds us all together, past and present Until the line between living and lost dissolves And we are just names waiting to be read again	2	The polished black stone drinks the noon sun and spits back a tourist in a bright red shirt laughing at a phone, a child tugging at a sleeve while my boots feel the mud of '68 again sticky and cold, the smell of burning rubber mixing with the scent of fresh cut grass here on the mall where pigeons coo instead of the thud of distant artillery I reach out to touch a name etched deep and my finger meets the glass of a stranger's face wearing a watch that ticks too loudly now over a heartbeat that once raced for cover in a jungle where time had no meaning only the next breath, the next step, the next fear the reflection shifts, the red shirt fades into green camo a hand holding a rifle turns into a hand holding coffee but the weight remains, heavy as lead in the chest as the wall holds both the silence of peace and the scream that never left the air merging the living with the lost in one dark mirror where I stand alone yet surrounded by ghosts watching the world move on while I stay behind trapped between the moment they fell and the moment I finally learned to let go.	2	The polished black glass holds the sky Where tourists trace names in quiet awe A child laughs, a camera clicks While I stand still within the law Of time that bends against this stone And pulls me back to mud and rain The scent of cordite, thick and known Replaces perfume on a train My hand reaches out to touch the date But fingers meet the cold reflection Of faces worn by age and fate In this suspended, silent section I see the boy who left so young Staring back from depths of night The songs we sang, the drums unsung Dissolve into the morning light A woman walks with coffee cup Her shadow stretches long and thin It overlaps the bloodied up The war that lives beneath the skin She asks me if I know the way To find the gate where cars depart I answer with a hollow say That echoes from a broken heart The present fades to gray and green As boots once more begin to march The wall becomes a living scene Of firelight and the distant arch Then silence breaks the heavy air The tourist smiles and turns away Leaving the ghost of war to stare At peace that will not stay	5	The polished black reflects the trees above Where children laugh and strangers pass unbound A quiet park where silence holds no weight But memory pulls the ground beneath my feet My hand reaches out to touch a name etched deep And finds the ghost of smoke that choked the air The present shatters like a sudden rain Revealing mud that clings to boots from years ago I see the boy I was in faded green Who watched the world dissolve in fire and fear While tourists snap their photos in the sun Unaware of battles fought within the stone Time bends here where the living meet the dead A fragile thread connecting now to then The coffee cup, the jacket, soft and warm Cannot hide the tremor shaking through my skin Two worlds collide upon this glassy face One holding peace, the other screaming loud I stand suspended in the heavy space Between the life I built and what was lost The wind carries whispers of a distant war That never truly ends inside the heart As evening falls to cover up the day And I remain alone with all I knew	5
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 is coming to get me. It has been blowing through the leaves all afternoon, And now it is coming for me. I can feel it in my ears and in my eyes; It is a very cold wind. And the leaves are falling about me as if they were Coming to get me. They have been falling all day long. And now the storm-clouds are coming to get me. They have been coming up all day long. And I am alone.	2	The wind does not merely blow past; it leans in, Whispering a name that is not mine, Yet it presses close to my ear as if I were the only one left. The leaves are not falling; they are rushing toward me, A thousand dry hands reaching out from the trees To clutch at my coat and drag me down into the earth. Above, the storm clouds do not gather aimlessly; They mass together with purpose, darkening the sky As if to block out every other view but this one spot where I stand. They converge, these three forces, the air, the foliage, and the rain, Closing the circle tight around my solitude, Making sure that nothing else exists in all the world But me, and them, and the coming wet night.	3	The wind arrives not as a breeze but as a hand That pushes against my chest to check if I am there, And the leaves are not falling but fleeing in a rush To hide beneath the roots where no one sees them. Above, the storm clouds gather like a closing door, A heavy gray curtain drawn across the sky To shut out the light and seal me in this circle, Where the air grows thick with the scent of coming rain. They converge on me, these silent forces, Drawing a tight ring around my solitary shape, As if the world itself has turned its back on all others To focus entirely on the quiet man standing here. I know they do not hate me, nor do they love me, But in their convergence, I feel my aloneness confirmed, A single point where the wind, the leaf, and the cloud Meet and pause, acknowledging that I am alone.	5	The wind does not blow past me now It wraps around my shoulders like a coat too thin And the leaves, once scattered and careless Begin to swirl in tight circles at my feet As if the ground itself is trying to pull me under. Above, the storm clouds gather heavy and bruised Not drifting aimlessly but marching with intent A darkening army converging on this single point Where I stand alone and exposed to the coming rain. They know I am here because there is no one else No voice to answer their low rumble or sharp crack Just the silence of a world that has chosen me To be the only witness to its gathering fury. Let them come closer, let the air grow cold For in this convergence of earth and sky and gloom I find a terrible comfort in being seen Even by forces that care nothing for my name.	3	The wind does not blow past but through, A hollow breath that knows my name, It whispers of a space between Where nothing else has ever came. The leaves detach and spiral down, Not dancing to a joyful tune, But falling like a heavy crown That marks the edge of afternoon. Above, the clouds begin to bruise, A purple weight against the gray, They gather just to make me choose Between the night and endless day. No shelter waits within this air, No hand reaches out to break the spell, Just storm and silence standing there, To tell me I am here alone as well.	6	The wind arrives not as a breeze but as a hand That grips the shoulders of my hollow chest It whispers names I have long since forgotten And drags the silence where no voice can rest Above, the leaves begin their frantic dance A chorus of dry bones that scrape the ground They know the rhythm of this empty space Where only one set of footprints can be found The storm clouds gather heavy, bruised and deep A ceiling closing in on all I am They do not rage with anger or with hate But simply claim the quiet of the man I stand alone beneath the gathering gray As nature turns its gaze to mark my place No shelter waits within the coming rain Just solitude etched into time and space	6	The wind begins to whisper low A song of things I used to know It curls around my weary chest And puts the quiet to the test Green leaves detach and drift away Like memories that fade to gray They spin in circles, sharp and cold Reflecting stories left untold Above the sky turns heavy gray As clouds converge to block the day A storm is born from silent dread To fill the space where words were said I stand alone beneath the weight Of nature's shifting, ancient fate No hand reaches out to hold The breaking of the world so old The thunder rolls a distant drum Calling me back to where I come Alone amidst the rising rain A ghost within the falling chain	7
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 went into the forest at night and lost myself in the darkness and lost myself in the sounds of nature's small kingdoms. The first thing I heard was a rustling, a scurrying and rustling; I thought it was the wind, but it was not the wind; it was the mice. Then I heard a whistling, a whistling and chirping; I thought it were the crickets, but it was not the crickets; it was the katydids. And then I heard a croaking, a croaking and grunting; I thought it were the frogs, but it was not the frogs; it was the toads. I heard a great noise in the woods, and it was the owls. And I heard a great noise in the woods, and it was the foxes. And I heard a great noise in the woods, and it was the deer. And I heard a great noise in the woods, and it was the bears. And I heard a great noise in the woods, and it was the wolves. And I heard a great noise in the woods, and it was the panthers. And I heard a great noise in the woods, and it was the cougars. And I heard a great noise in the woods, and it was the mountain lions. And I heard a great noise in the woods, and it was the wildcats. And I heard a great noise in the woods, and it was the lynxes. And I heard a great noise in the woods, and it was the bobcats. And I heard a great noise in the woods, and it was the pumas. And I heard a great noise in the woods, and it was the jaguars. And I heard a great noise in the woods, and it was the tigers. And I heard a great noise in the woods, and it was the lions. And I heard a great noise in the woods, and it was the elephants. And I heard a great noise in the woods, and it was the rhinoceroses. And I heard a great noise in the woods, and it was the hippopotamuses. And I heard a great noise in the woods, and it was the giraffes. And I heard a great noise in the woods, and it was the zebras. And I heard a great noise in the woods, and it was the antelopes. And I heard a great noise in the woods, and it was the gazelles. And I heard a great noise in the woods, and it was the impalas. And I heard a great noise in the woods, and it was th…	2	I stepped beyond the porch light's yellow rim Into a velvet deep where stars are drowned, And felt the heavy cloak of twilight dim Until my human shape was lost and found. The air grew thick with scents of damp and pine, A kingdom ruled by beetles in the bark; I heard the rustle of a tiny line Of mice that hunted shadows in the dark. No longer bound by clocks or city walls, Or names that mark me as a distinct thing, I watched the moonlight on the mossy falls And listened to the cricket's violin. My breath became the wind through cedar boughs, My blood the sap that rises slow and sweet; I forgot the house, the town, the human vows, And lay down at the roots beneath my feet. The darkness wrapped around me like a shroud, But I was not afraid, for I was one With every whispering leaf and sleeping cloud, Beneath the vast and ancient canopy of sun.	6	The path dissolves behind me leaving the streetlamps and the clockwork world to the mercy of the black canopy. Here the air is thick with breaths I cannot name and the silence is not empty but crowded with the scuttling of beetles in their stone castles the rustle of voles in their root-cellars. I am no longer a woman with a key and a schedule but a trembling leaf in the wind's loose hand. My skin forgets its warmth for the damp moss my eyes adjust to the silver language of owls who speak only of hunger and the moon. I sink into the hum of the mycelial web where roots drink deep and secrets are shared without sound. The boundary of my self grows thin as spider silk until I am just another pulse in the dark soil a small kingdom lost within the greater dark no longer human, but entirely wild.	2	The path dissolves beneath my feet as moonlight fails to pierce the canopy and I step past the edge of who I was into a world where silence has a voice. Here the moss is not just green but deep a velvet kingdom for the beetle's march where tiny jaws and chitinous armor rule unseen by eyes that seek the human sun. The wind becomes a language old and low whispering through needles sharp as prayer while shadows stretch and twist into new shapes that hold no memory of city streets. My name slips from my tongue like water lost to the dark soil and the root-bound air I am no longer flesh that fears the cold but breath that moves with owl and fox and fern. In this vast quiet, small things roar so loud they drown the heartbeat of the thing I knew until I am the darkness, soft and wide no longer walking, simply being here.	3	The path dissolves beneath my boots as moonlight fails to pierce the crown of ancient pines that hold their breath and swallow up the fading town. A cricket chirps a silver thread that stitches silence to the air I drop the weight of human names and leave behind the heavy care. Here in the dark, a kingdom wakes where beetles march and mosses grow no clock can tick, no voice can call to make the wild world slow or low. My skin becomes the bark and leaf my blood the sap that rises deep I am no longer flesh and bone but secrets that the shadows keep. The wind speaks through a thousand lungs of roots that drink the starry night I cease to be the one who walks and join the pulse of endless light.	6	The path dissolves beneath my feet Where moonlight fails to reach the ground A silence thick with ancient breath That wraps around me, deep and sound No streetlamp guides the wandering mind Only the rustle of unseen things The beetle marching through the moss The owl that sings without a wing My name begins to fade away Dissolving in the cool night air I am no longer flesh or bone But part of roots and tangled hair The heartbeat slows to match the stream A rhythm old before the dawn I lose the shape I used to know And let the wildness take me on Here in the dark where shadows dance I shed the weight of human days Becoming leaf, becoming stone Lost within the forest's maze	6	The moon retreats behind a veil of gray As footsteps fade on moss and ancient clay No streetlamp guides the path I chose to tread Where shadows stretch like ghosts above my head The wind whispers secrets to the pine A chorus rising from the dark design Each cricket sings a song of wild release While silence holds its breath in sudden peace I feel the weight of names begin to slip Into the soil where roots take hold and grip My heartbeat slows to match the forest's rhythm Leaving the noise of cities far within Small kingdoms bloom beneath the canopy Where beetles march and fungi softly breathe I am no longer bound by skin or bone But drift as mist that claims the unknown zone The stars look down on something new and strange A spirit learning how to rearrange The lines that once defined who I became Dissolving into water, air, and flame Now darkness wraps around without a sound And I am lost, yet finally unbound A part of all the life that sleeps below Where human fears have nowhere left to go	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 mower goes straight on, It cuts down everything in its path; It does not know the difference between a weed and a crop. But the black field workers are wise; They know the difference between a weed and a crop. They go here and there, And they do not cut down anything that is not a crop.	2	The iron mower roars across the plain And bites the green with teeth of steel, It does not know the grain from weed Nor pause to let a blossom heal. It sweeps the row in blind desire And cuts the stalks that bear the seed, It leaves no flower standing high To scatter its own future breed. But here beside the roaring beast The workers move with quiet grace, They know the difference between the food And the thorn that mars the place. Their hands are gentle, sharp, and sure As they select the ripened head, They leave the weeds for later ploughing And spare the flowers where they spread. The machine takes all without a thought Of what is useful or what is sweet, It levels down the rich and poor With one indiscriminate sweep. But man discerns the good from bad And saves the fruit for human bread, While letting useless things remain To feed the earth and grow instead.	6	The iron beast roars down the row A silver mouth that chews and swallows all, Grass, weed, and grain alike it throws Into its belly without pause or call. But men walk slow behind the sun With eyes that know the difference well, They lift the stalks of wheat begun And leave the thistle where it fell. One hand protects the tender green, The other strikes the heavy ear, While steel cuts down the unseen scene Of life and death with no distinct fear. The machine knows not the seed from stone, It takes the flower and the thorn, But human hands have made their own Selection in the field of corn.	6	The iron beast rolls on a straight and hungry line Its spinning teeth devour the green without a choice It swallows weeds and wheat alike in one great roar Leaving a flattened scar where life once stood so high But here the hands move slow among the golden stalks With eyes that know the difference between the grain and grass They pull the ripe and leave the small to grow another day A quiet wisdom that no engine could ever grasp The machine cuts down the world with cold indifference While human fingers trace the stem and feel the weight of fruit One takes the field as fuel to feed its endless hunger The other takes only what is ready for the root In this long row of contrast, the earth remembers both The brutal sweep that levels all beneath a steel command And the gentle touch that saves the future from the blade To plant again when winter yields to spring's demand	6	The iron beast rolls forward with a roar That shakes the dust from roots and breaks the soil It does not know the weight of ripened grain Nor feel the promise hidden in the stalk Its blade is blind to life or to the weed And cuts the golden wheat along with thorn But here the hands move slow and soft and sure They read the green against the heavy sky To choose the ripe and leave the unformed seed A gentle touch that knows the difference Between the food that feeds and waste to burn No metal tooth can mimic this discernment The machine devours all without a thought A chaotic storm of steel and endless hunger While workers pause to lift a single ear And weigh the sun within their calloused palms They save the future while they gather now Leaving the wild things breathing in the row	6	The iron teeth roar through the green A blind and hungry, grinding stream That snaps the stalks without a care And leaves the earth stripped bare But hands that know the weight of grain Move soft beneath the heavy rain They choose the ripe and leave the weak With quiet grace they gently seek No engine knows the difference here Between the weed and what is dear Just metal swinging wild and fast To bury all within the past Yet in the row where shadows fall The human eye sees distinct call To save the life that needs to grow While machines only teach us how to mow	6	The sun hangs heavy on the row Where hands move slow and steady now They choose the ripe from rotting green A quiet grace, a gentle scene No steel can feel the weight of life Or know the difference in the strife Between the weed and grain of gold A story that has never told The mower roars with blind command To flatten all across the land It cuts the good along with bad A path where nothing ever had But fingers trace the stalks so deep And wake the seeds before they sleep Discerning light from shadowed space With time to heal the broken place One takes what grows with care and love While machines devour from above Leaving only dust behind For those who sought to leave them kind	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 dead? Is the Lord of Hosts asleep? While dying men groan in the dust and children lie slaughtered upon the stones, And the world falls into darkness, and the threat of being usurped looms. Christ, intervene! Thou art the Prince of Peace; Thou art the King of Kings; Arise, arise to succour us, arise to succour us!	2	Is this the silence of a God who sleeps? Or is He dead, and we are left to rot Beneath the crushing weight of His neglect? The dying men groan in the dust and mire, Their lungs filled with the ash of burning homes, While children lay slaughtered upon the stones, Small bodies broken like discarded toys. The world falls into darkness, thick and deep, A night that swallows stars and sun alike, And shadows stretch to claim the throne of Heaven. A usurper looms, a beast of ancient hate, To steal the crown and rule a realm of blood. O Christ, arise from out Thy slumbering grave! Thy Father sleeps, but Thou art still awake; Descend in fire and break these iron gates! Stretch forth Thy hand to crush the usurper's head, And lift us from this pit of woe and death. Do not let darkness have the final word, But come, O Prince of Peace, and make it day.	3	Where is the Father in this smoke and ash? Why does the silence of the heavens hold When dying men groan out their final breath And children lay slaughtered upon the stones? The stars are dimming, one by one, to black, A shadow stretches from the throne of light To swallow up the world we thought was safe. Usurpers wait within the gathering gloom, With crowns of iron forged from human bone, Ready to seize the scepter from the sky. O Christ, descend! Break through the vaulted night! Stand between the tyrant and the lamb, For if You do not rise to claim Your own, Then God is dead, or worse, He never was.	3	Is there a throne behind the veil of smoke? Or just the silence where a father's voice should be? The stones are warm with blood that will not soak, And children lie in heaps for all to see. O Christ, if you are God and not a ghost, If mercy has not fled this broken place, Then rise against the usurper and the host, And wash the darkness from this holy space. The men who groan have lost their final breath, While shadows stretch to claim the empty sky, A tyrant waits to steal the soul of death, As stars extinguish one by one and die. We call your name into the void above, To shatter chains and turn the tide of night, Before the world is swallowed by his love, And truth is drowned in endless, cold delight.	6	Is the throne empty or merely blind To the blood that stains the sacred stone? We scream into a silent sky Where children lie and flesh is known As nothing more than dust and bone. The shadows stretch to swallow light And tyrants sharpen swords for kings While empires crumble in the night And silence mocks our desperate prayers That never reach the heavens' rings. O Christ, if mercy still remains Break through the veil of iron gray Rise from the tomb of ancient pains And sweep the usurpers far away Before the final breath decays. Let darkness not consume the flame Nor let the groans be lost to air Call down the fire, speak Your name And show us that You truly care When all the world has ceased to pray.	6	Is the throne of heaven empty now Or just a silent, hollow sound While shadows stretch across the brow Of kings who tremble on the ground We scream into the void above And ask if love has turned to stone For where is mercy, where is proof That we are not abandoned alone The stones run red with innocent blood As children sleep in cold despair No father stands, no mother could To lift them from the broken air The world dissolves in shades of gray As usurpers sharpen steel and crown They steal the light of dying day And tear the sacred fabric down But hear this cry that pierces night A desperate plea for one true name Rise up against the coming blight Before the final spark becomes a flame Oh Christ, come walking through the dust To break the chains of ancient fear Restore the hope we thought was lost And make the darkness disappear	7	Why does the silence stretch so wide As thunder breaks the sacred sky We beg for light but find no guide And watch the heavens start to die The stones are wet with blood and fear Where tiny hands can no more hold A future stolen, cold and clear While ancient promises grow old O Son of Man, arise and stand Before the throne that cracks apart Reach down your hand across the land To heal this fractured, broken heart The shadows rise to take the crown As usurpers claim the empty seat But in the dark we do not drown If grace can make the darkness sweet So call the name that saves the lost Against the tide of endless night Until the final dawn is crossed And morning brings the promised light	7
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 I was the most untrustworthy man she had ever known, which is true in a sense, because I am not telling the truth. I told her that I loved her for twenty years and more, and that I could never love anyone else as much. This is also true in a sense, but it is not the whole truth. It is not even the truth of the matter. The truth of the matter is that I have been in love with her for about four or five years, and that I have never been in love with any one woman so much in my life. But I did not tell her this. Because I knew that if I told her this, she would think that I was trying to make out that I was in love with her for twenty years and more, and that I was trying to make out that I was the most untrustworthy man she had ever known. And I knew that if I told her this, she would be very angry, and she would not speak to me for three weeks. And I did not want to do that. So I told her that I loved her for twenty years and more, and that I could never love anyone else as much. And she believed me. And we were married. And we were very happy. And I was very happy. But now I am not so happy. Because I have found out that I was not telling the truth. And I do not know what to do. And I do not know whether I should tell her the truth. Or whether I should go on telling her the same thing as before. And I do not know whether I should tell her the truth in such a way that she will think that I am trying to make out that I was in love with her for twenty years and more, and that I was trying to make out that I was the most untrustworthy man she had ever known. Or whether I should tell her the truth in such a way that she will not think that. And I do not know which of these two things I ought to do. And I do not know whether I ought to tell her the truth at all. For if I tell her the truth, she will think that I am trying to make out that I was in love with her for twenty years and more, and that I was trying to make out that I was the most untrustworthy man she had ever known. And I do not want to do that. But…	1	She said she needed space, which is just a polite way of saying she found someone better, someone who doesn't snore or leave wet towels on the bed. I told her to get out, obviously, because I am not the kind of man who begs. I threw her favorite mug at the wall, not to hurt her, but because it was already cracked and she was going to break something else anyway. She cried and said I was crazy, but that's what they all say when you finally see through them. It wasn't that I hit her, it was that I grabbed her arm to stop her from running out into traffic, she tripped over her own feet and fell down the stairs, I swear she did it on purpose to make me look bad. I didn't call the police, I called an ambulance, but then she filed a restraining order, probably because she knew I would have killed her if I had stayed. She took the dog, which is fine, he barks too much and smells like old cheese, but she took the pictures too, all the ones where we looked happy, which proves she was planning this for months. I tried to explain to my mother that it wasn't my fault, but my mother never liked her anyway, so now everyone thinks I'm a monster. I just wanted us to be happy, but she made it impossible, she made me do things I wouldn't normally do.	1	They say I screamed first, which is a lie I only raised my voice because the walls were thin and she was already packing her bags with lies wrapped in silk and called them memories. She claims I threw the vase, but it slipped from her own trembling hand when I asked why she stopped looking at me, a simple question that made her flinch like a stray dog. I never said I didn't love her anymore, that was the thing she invented to justify the coldness she felt when I tried to hold her while she cried about things I hadn't done yet. Everyone knows I am volatile, so they believe her version where I walked out on our anniversary leaving the cake to rot, but I stayed until the candles burned down to nubs waiting for an apology that never came, just silence that grew teeth and bit through the truth. If you ask her, I destroyed everything, but if you look at the debris, you'll see the cracks started long before I touched anything, deep fissures in the foundation she pretended not to feel until I pointed them out and she blamed the earthquake. It is easy to paint me as the villain when the story is told by someone who needs the ending to be tragic to make sense of the pain, so she writes me into a role of monster and erases the parts where I begged for us to just talk, to just breathe, before the anger took over and we both became strangers shouting at ghosts in an empty room.	2	They say I screamed, that I threw the glass, but really it was just a whisper, a quiet crack in the air. She left first, or so the story goes, though I distinctly remember holding the door open for her to walk out. The neighbors heard a fight, they said, a violent shattering of things that were never whole to begin with. I only asked where she put the keys, and she called it an interrogation, a siege on her freedom. My hands are clean, mostly, except for the dust of a life we tried to build and then burned down together. She cries that I don't care, which is funny because I am the one who stayed up all night rewriting the ending. The truth is slippery here, like oil on water, swirling into shapes that make me look like the villain, the monster who ate the house and left nothing but ash. But you have to understand, the pain makes people lie, it twists the words until they fit the wound perfectly, and I am just trying to tell you what happened before the memory fades, before the anger takes over and writes its own version of us.	2	They say I left first but the door was already open when you slammed it shut with a smile so wide it cracked I only took what was mine though the shelves were bare and every shadow you cast looks like a weapon drawn in my defense I swear the silence was loud enough to drown the way your voice trembled when you said you never loved me which is a lie because I saw the tears you swallowed whole but who would believe a ghost haunting their own house so I paint you as the villain in a story I wrote alone where the truth is just a bruise I refuse to touch and the anger feels sweeter than the memory of your hand holding mine before the world decided we were wrong now I stand here shouting at an empty room convinced that if I scream loud enough the past will change even if the only thing I'm breaking is my own reflection in the mirror of a heart that refuses to admit it's bleeding	2	I told you first that I was the one who left that you were cold and silent in your room a statue carved from stone and heavy grief but really I just wanted to be right to paint the villain with a brush of gold and make my own reflection look so pure you screamed until the walls began to shake or maybe that was just the wind outside the way I twisted every word you said until the truth became a foreign land I say you broke the glass before it fell though shards are scattered at my feet alone my memory is a liar dressed in white who claims the fire started in your chest while I stand here with hands held up in prayer pretending not to see the smoke I made the story shifts with every breath I take a shifting tide that drowns the facts beneath so listen close to what I claim is real and never ask me why the colors bleed because the hurt has stolen all the light and left me only with this broken lie	3	The glass was never broken by my hand But I will say it shattered first A story spun to keep the sand From shifting in a fractured verse You screamed of lies I did not tell While I played victim to the flame A quiet ghost inside this hell That bears no memory of your name My voice is thick with borrowed grief A mask worn tight against the light I offer up a false relief And twist the day into the night The truth is lost beneath the weight Of words that cut too sharp and deep A heavy, suffocating fate Where promises we swore to keep Do not believe the tale I weave It bends to fit the shape of pain The things you think you can perceive Are echoes of a rainy strain I hold the key but lock the door And claim the silence is my own Ignoring what we were before Leaving only dust and stone	6
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.	Jack Sprat was a greedy man Who lived in a time when politics ran Wild with legends and nursery rhymes, And he made them all canonical in their times. He ate no fat, he only ate lean, And he made the political figures look mean; He licked the platter clean, Which popularized the saying, I ween. His connection to popular legends was great, And it helped to make him a nursery rhyme mate; He left no piece of meat, Which made the saying canonical, you see.	7	There once was a man named Jack Sprat Who knew how to fatten his cat By eating no fat And leaving the fat To the wife and the children who sat. Though history whispers he may have been real, A butcher or merchant with appetite keen, His legend took flight in a political vein, When Tories and Whigs used his name for their gain. They sang of the King who ate only lean, While the Queen devoured all that was fat and obscene, Or vice versa, depending on which side you backed, As the nursery rhyme spread through the kingdom so black. From pamphlets and broadsheets the story did fly, Until little children could recite it quite high, That Jack ate no fat and his wife ate no lean, Making them both fit for a king's royal scene. So the greedy old butcher became canonized text, In the nursery rhymes where the moral is next: To share with your spouse and not be too gluttonous, Even if Jack Sprat was originally putentious.	6	Young Jack Sprat sat at the table's head With greed that made his neighbors dread, He ate the fat and left the lean While legends spun a strange machine. Some say he knew a King or two Who shared his gluttonous point of view, And whispers from the courtly hall Made sure the story would not fall. The bards took up the tale so bright To teach the poor to sleep at night, That if you take the best for free You leave no meat for those like me. So through the ages, rhyme and rule Turned greedy Jack to nursery school, A canonical and famous name To shame the glutton and his game.	6	Young Jack Sprat was a man of appetite Who sought to fill his belly with every bite He found his way through corridors of power Where kings and lords would spend their final hour The legends spoke of feasts that never ended Of greed so vast the very heavens mended He danced with politicians in the hall And made sure every guest would hear his call His name became a whisper on the tongue A tale of hunger where no song was sung Until the rhyme took root in nursery walls Where children learned how gluttony enthralls No meat for him, no fat upon the plate Just endless want that sealed his greedy fate Now history keeps the saying pure and true That Jack Sprat ate until he had nothing new	7	In halls where kings once held their court, A tale of hunger took its flight, Of Jack Sprat and his hungry sport, Who ate the lean with all his might. No feast was left for greedy hands, As politicians sought to feed, On promises and empty lands, While common folk were forced to plead. The legends wove a thread so tight, Between the ruler and the rhyme, To show how power eats the light, And leaves no crumb for aftertime. So through the ages, loud and clear, The nursery song began to rise, A warning whispered in each ear, Beneath the weight of hungry skies. Now every child can sing the tune, Of fat and lean that never met, A lesson carved beneath the moon, For those who crave what they have not.	7	In halls where power sought its gain A man named Jack did plot the plan He feasted on the rich man's meat While leaving none for anyone The legends whispered through the crowd Of kings who watched his appetite grow wide As greed became a rhyme of old To teach the young how hunger lies Sprat ate the fat and left the lean A tale of want that never ends Now sung by children in the dark Where history and fable blend No title marks this heavy song Just verses carved in memory's stone That speak of those who take it all And leave the world to stand alone	6	In halls of power where the whispers grow, A shadow cast by names we used to know, Where kings and commoners once made their stand, And greed became a law across the land. Young Jack Sprat walked with figures of the crown, Who sought to pull the heavy kingdom down, His hunger fed on promises and lies, While truth dissolved beneath the stormy skies. The legends spun a tale of empty plates, Of satiated souls and fates they sealed by fate, From tavern songs to courts of high decree, The rhythm rose for all the world to see. No feast was left for those who dared to share, As power turned the air to bitter care, Yet in the verse that children softly sing, The greedy heart still beats within the ring. Now etched in stone where history takes hold, A story told of hunger, sharp and cold, The rhyme remains as proof of what we lost, Beneath the weight of every whispered cost.	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 pagodas stand, In a serene garden of peonies grand, She gazes at the crimson flowers bright, Full of beauty and delicate light. She reaches for them with eager hand, To pluck one from the garden land; But lo! The beautiful crimson flowers break As she holds them in her hands to take. Thus people are spoiling the very things they desire, By handling them too roughly, or setting them on fire, Or by trying to possess them, as this woman did, And so the beautiful crimson flowers were split.	7	She stands beside the still lake where the water holds no ripple, Gazing at a garden of soft peonies and tiered pagodas. The crimson blooms are heavy with their own beauty, Bending low toward the reflection in the glassy deep. She reaches out with a hand that trembles slightly, Desiring to hold the color so close it might stain her skin, But as her fingers close around the velvet petals, They crumble instantly into dust between her palms. The fragrance lingers for a moment, then is gone, Leaving only the ruin of what she wished to keep. So too do people spoil the very things they desire most, Thinking that possession is the same as preservation, Until nothing remains but the broken fragments in their hands.	6	She stands beside the glassy lake Where silent pagodas rise in stone, And peonies in crimson wake To watch her shadow on the lawn. The air is thick with summer scent, A stillness held by water deep, Until she reaches out to take The heavy blooms that softly sleep. Her fingers close around the stem, With eager joy and greedy grace, But in her grasp the petals crumble, Leaving ruin in their place. The crimson tears upon her palm, A fragile beauty turned to dust, For those who seek to hold the world Are bound to break what they trust.	7	She walks where stone pagodas rise in silence Beside the mirror of a still lake's face, Where peonies bloom in heavy crimson circles And hold the morning light within their grace. Her fingers stretch to claim the velvet petals, To keep this beauty close against her chest, But as she grasps the stem that nature settles, The flower breaks beneath her desperate quest. The crimson shatters into dusty fragments, A ruin left by hands that sought to own, For greed is but a weight that lingers and damages The very things we think we call our own. We reach to hold what makes the world so tender, Yet crush the bloom we hoped to admire long, Spoiling the gift with touch too rough and blundered, And singing silence to a broken song.	7	The lake holds breath beneath the sky Where pagodas in silence rise And peonies in crimson bloom Defy the quiet of the gloom She steps across the mossy stone To claim a beauty all her own Her fingers stretch with eager grace To touch the soft and velvet face But as she pulls the petal near The fragile stem begins to tear A sudden crack, a whispered sound As glory crumbles to the ground Now crimson dust upon her palm Replaces what was once so calm For in the grasp of greedy hands The very thing she sought withstands We reach to hold the world we love Then break it like a falling dove Destroying with our desperate need The garden that we thought we'd feed	7	The water holds the sky in silent grace Where pagodas stand guard with quiet face And peonies bloom in crimson deep A promise that the morning keeps She walks across the mossy stone To claim a beauty all her own Her fingers stretch to touch the red The finest life she's ever led But petals crumble at her grip As silence breaks upon the lip The flower shatters, soft and thin Revealing what was lost within We reach to hold what we adore Then break it down upon the floor For in our grasp, the dream decays Leaving only dust and faded days	7	Soft mist clings to the water's glass Where ancient roofs in silence pass The crimson blooms stand tall and bright A fragile promise of the light She steps across the mossy stone To claim a beauty all her own Her fingers stretch with gentle grace To hold the flower in its place But petals tear at slightest touch As dreams dissolve into such A hollow ache within the palm The price of greed, the quiet calm For what we seek to keep so tight Is lost beneath our grasping weight The garden weeps in silent shade By hands that sought to make it fade	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.	When Helen left her family, friends and home To follow Paris to the Trojan shore, Was it because she had been so unloved By those who knew her best, or was it love That made her go? And if it were not love, What was it that made her beautiful enough To be worth going for? Was it beauty? If it were only beauty, why did she Not stay at home and let Paris come to her? For he was a very handsome man, and yet She went away with him. Why did she do that? Was it because she was so beautiful That she could not help but go away with him? Or was it because she was so loved By those who knew her best, that she could not Help but go away with him? Or was it Because she was both beautiful and loved? But if she were both beautiful and loved, Why did she go away with him? For if She were both beautiful and loved, she would Have been able to stay at home and let Paris come to her. But she did not do that. She went away with him. Why did she do that? Was it because she was so beautiful And so loved that she could not help but go Away with him? Or was it because she Was so beautiful and so loved that she Could not help but go away with him? Or was it because she was so beautiful And so loved that she was worth going for? But if she were so beautiful and so loved, She would have been able to stay at home And let Paris come to her. But she did not Do that. She went away with him. Why did She do that? Was it because she was so Beautiful and so loved that she could not Help but go away with him? Or was it Because she was so beautiful and so loved That she was worth going for?	2	Did Helen weigh the cost of golden hair Against the quiet hearth she left behind, The woven wool, the children's laughter there, The faithful friends who would not understand Why beauty was a fire that burned so bright It scorched the path to Troy and turned to night? Perhaps she thought that love is not the thing That sits secure within a walled garden, But something wild that makes the heart take wing To seek the strange and leave the known forlorn. For what is truly beautiful must be A risk, a leap into the unknown sea. We admire her not for staying home, Safe in the arms of duty and of kin, But for the passion that could dare to roam, And make the whole world small for one fair sin. Beauty is not a statue on a shelf, But love that seeks itself beyond itself.	7	She left the woven rugs and the familiar hearth To cross the wine-dark sea for a stranger's face, Trading her children's laughter and her father's pride For the shadow of a statue in a foreign place. Was it the curve of lip or the tilt of head That made the world burn down to ash and bone? Or was it something deeper, hidden from the eye, A hunger that could not be fed by home? Perhaps true beauty is not what we keep But what we risk to lose without a sound, The terrible gravity that pulls us far From all the solid ground on which we stood. We call it love when we are swept away, When safety breaks like glass beneath our feet, And Helen walks into the fire alone To find if gold is worth more than the wheat.	6	She left the woven tapestries of home And friends who called her by a gentle name, To chase a shadow on a distant foam, A spark that promised to ignite the flame. Was beauty in the gold she cast aside? Or in the tear that tracked her cheek's descent? Perhaps it lives where courage dares to bide, In choices made when every heart is rent. For love is not the quiet hearth we keep, But storms that shake the pillars of the soul; It wakes the giant from his ancient sleep, And makes the broken fragments feel made whole. What truly draws the eye and holds the breath? Not perfect lines or statues carved in stone, But risk that dances close to sudden death, The wild and terrible seed that love has sown. So Helen walks away from what was known, Not for a face, but for the fire within, To prove that beauty is a thing alone That burns because it dares to begin again.	7	She left the hearth where embers softly glowed To chase a shadow cast by golden eyes, A sudden pull that severed every road And turned her world beneath a foreign skies. Was it the face that drew the ships to sail? Or something deeper than the skin can show? Did beauty speak a language without fail That made the known and loved seem slow to grow? Her friends watched dust rise on the empty street Where laughter once had danced in morning light, And family wept for steps they could not meet As she walked toward the edge of endless night. Perhaps true worth is not in staying near But in the fire that burns so bright and wild, A cost too heavy for the heart to bear Yet still the only thing that feels worthwhile. We admire what we cannot hold or keep, The broken promise that remains so fair, While Helen sleeps in dreams she chose to reap Leaving the quiet home beyond compare.	7	She stepped away from the hearth's warm glow Where laughter once filled the quiet room To chase a shadow that promised to grow Into something brighter than common bloom Was it the face that the statues carved in stone? Or the weight of a choice made in silent fear? That she traded the known for the unknown And left all she loved without a tear Perhaps beauty is not in the perfect line But in the fire that burns when we dare to break The chains of the safe and the dull design For a truth that the heart alone can take Love is the cost of the path she chose Not just the gold or the crown above But the courage to let the old world close And trust in the pull of a distant love So Helen walks where the winds may blow With nothing but questions to guide her way Searching for what makes the spirit know That some things are worth more than staying	6	The wind remembers how she walked away Leaving the hearth and names we knew so well To chase a ghost that promised endless day And traded safety for a breaking spell Was it the face that drew the world to war Or just the hunger in a heart untamed To seek what lies beyond the garden door Where every fragile dream is softly named She left the hands that held her through the night For shadows cast by stars too far to reach A quiet cost, a silent, heavy weight That teaches us what beauty cannot teach Perhaps the truth is not in gold or grace But in the choice to fall without a sound To find our worth within this empty space And love the ruin of the ground we found	6
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 on her back, And she looked like a rug that was folded in half. She went to a party and lost one hump there, So then she had four humps and looked very rare. Then Alice the camel went out for a ride, And she lost one hump more; so she had three beside. Then Alice the camel went out for a walk, And she lost one hump more; so she had two to talk. Then Alice the camel went swimming one day, And she lost one hump more; so she had one away. Then Alice the camel went into a bath, And she lost one hump more; so she had none at all! But when she came out of the water quite dry, She wasn't a camel at all, but a horse!	6	Alice the camel had five humps to her back, A magnificent sight on the dusty trail track. But down went one hump with a wobble and shake, Leaving four humps for Alice's sake. Down went another, a pitying sight, Leaving three humps in the pale moonlight. Then down went the third with a thud and a flop, Leaving two humps until she could stop. Down went the fourth with a sigh and a groan, Leaving just one hump all alone. Then down went the last one right off to the floor, And Alice was flat as a horse ever more!	6	Alice the camel stood tall and proud, With five great humps upon her brow. But down they went, one by one, As the desert sun began to run. First came the top, a wobbly hill, Then the next two, against their will. Now only two remained on her back, A strange sight for any traveler's track. One more fell with a soft thud, Leaving just one, like a lonely bud. Then that last one slipped into the sand, And Alice stood bare across the land. No humps were left, not even a trace, Just a sleek coat and a galloping pace. She neighed at the wind and kicked up dust, "I'm not a camel," she said, "I'm a horse!"	6	Alice the camel stood tall in the sand, With five fluffy humps she proudly planned. But down to four they began to slip, A wobbly weight that made her trip. Three remained as the sun went low, Then two were gone with a gentle blow. One lonely bump was all that stayed, Before it vanished without a shade. Now zero humps upon her back, She trotted forward on a track. The crowd gasped loud at the strange display, For Alice was never a camel today.	6	Alice stood upon the dune so high With five great mounds beneath the sky She walked with grace, a desert queen The strangest sight that ever been Then one by one they started to fade A gentle loss, a soft parade Four humps remained, then three took flight As Alice vanished from the light of night Two left standing, tall and proud But silence filled the air like cloud One more gone, the final peak Left only smoothness for her weak Now zero humps remain above No camel shape, no dusty love She shook her mane and gave a neigh A horse all along, she ran away	6	Alice stood upon the dune so tall With five great humps that blocked the sun She counted down as seasons fall One by one until she's done The first one slipped into the sand Leaving four to mark her pride The second vanished from her hand With nowhere left for them to hide Three remain, a mountain range Then two, then just a single peak The desert wind begins to change As silence makes the creature weak The final hump dissolves away Leaving Alice flat and bare No camel shape remains today Just muscle, mane, and flowing hair She trots across the dusty floor A neighing sound fills up the air For Alice was never a camel at all before But a horse with a very strange disguise	6	Alice stood beneath the sun so bright With five great mounds of woolly white She counted down with heavy sighs As desert winds began to rise The first one fell into the sand Leaving four behind her hand Then two more slipped away from view Reducing all she thought was true Now only one remains above A lonely peak of dusty love But as it fades into the gray The truth begins to break the day No hump is left, no camel skin Just hooves where ancient beasts begin The mask has cracked, the lie undone She's not a beast that drinks the sun For Alice never walked the dune She gallops fast beneath the moon A horse in disguise, wild and free Was never meant to be a three	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 hill to see a better view, And when you get there it is just another hill; So you climb that one too. And so on and so on, and you never get to the top; For there isn't any top. There is no such thing as getting to the top. There is no such thing as being satisfied. Life is insatiable; it will not be satisfied. It is endless. It is like a hydra; if you cut off one head, Two more appear in its place. Or rather, it is like a hydra's tail: If you cut off one part, two more grow in its place. Therefore, accept life. Accept that it is endless and insatiable. Do not try to make an end of it. Do not try to satisfy it. Do not try to stop it. It will not stop. It is life.	2	We climb the ladder rung by rusted rung And pause to catch our breath on every shelf Convinced the summit holds a final song That will at last make peace with ourselves. But when we reach the top, the view is wide Yet empty of the rest we thought we'd find The horizon shifts as if it were denied To stay within the compass of our mind. So stop and let the endless hunger be The very pulse that keeps your heart alive For satisfaction is a barren sea Where nothing grows and nothing can survive. Embrace the thirst that never can be quenched The gap between the having and the sought The moment that you think your work is flinched Is just the moment that you have been caught. Accept the void, the chase, the wild unrest The insatiable nature of the soul That finds no harbor in a quiet nest But only thrives upon the endless goal.	7	You climb the ladder rung by rusted rung And reach the top to find another sky The summit is a lie that you have sung To keep your weary, hungry spirit high For every prize you grasp turns into dust A hollow shell that mocks your heavy hand The future waits in shadows of your trust While past achievements crumble in the sand Do not despair at this unending chase Nor curse the void that swallows all your gain There is no finish line upon this race No final rest within the endless plain Accept the hunger as your truest friend The thirst that drives the river to the sea Let striving be the journey without end And find your peace in what can never be	7	We climb the ladder rung by rusted rung And swear the summit holds a final peace But when we reach the top, the air is thin And silence offers nothing but release From one desire to feed another's fire A hunger that the feast can never cure The mountain shifts beneath our tired feet And makes the distant peak seem less secure Why chase the horizon that forever runs Away from where our weary hands are placed? The cup is always empty in the end No matter how much time and sweat we waste Accept the thirst, the ache, the endless drive That keeps the heart beating against the bone For satisfaction is a ghost that flees The moment we believe it has been known Let go the need for closure or an end Embrace the gap between what is and was The river does not stop to drink itself It flows because the source will not pause So walk the path without a destination And find the beauty in the wanting still To be complete is to deny the life That lives within the struggle and the will	6	The ladder stretches past the highest cloud Yet every rung feels cold beneath my hand I reach for stars that vanish in the shroud Of promises I cannot understand We build our towers high to touch the sky Then stare at gaps where light refuses through A hunger grows as fast as we comply With laws we wrote but never meant to do Why chase the horizon when it runs away? Why drink the ocean hoping for a fill? The thirst is not a flaw to disarray But proof that life demands an endless will Accept the void that waits within the chest Where satisfaction comes to die and fade Let go of rest, let go of final quest And walk the road that never leads to shade	6	We climb the ladder rung by heavy rung With eyes fixed on a peak that shifts away The summit promised in the morning sun Is but another shadow of the day Each trophy gathered turns to dust and air A hollow echo in a silent hall We chase the ghost of what we think is there And watch our hungry spirits slowly fall Do not mistake the reaching for the rest For hunger is the engine of the soul To seek an end is to deny the quest That makes the broken pieces feel complete and whole Let go the need to finally arrive Embrace the thirst that never finds its shore The joy exists within the endless drive To want, to yearn, to ask for something more	7	The mountain calls with promises of gold Yet every summit leaves the heart unbound We chase the light that shifts and turns so cold And dig our hands into the hallowed ground No crown can fit a spirit made of smoke No trophy holds the weight of endless years The clock keeps ticking, relentless in its stroke While silence drowns the echo of our fears To rest is not to fail or lose the fight But to embrace the void within the chest Let go of need for perfect, blinding light And find your peace in what remains unrest The river flows without an end in sight A current vast and wild beyond control Accept the hunger that defines the night And make your home inside the broken soul	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.	First came the smell of wet earth and crushed mint and the sound of water running fast over stones, and then came the anger, not like ours which is a polite little thing with a name and an address but a great black wolf of anger. And we took it into our houses and showed it to our children and it ate their lessons and they ran away from school and became wild. It went into our offices and ate our ledgers and we became wild. It went into our churches and ate our hymn-books and we became wild. And we liked it very much. We liked the smell of wet earth and crushed mint and the sound of water running fast over stones, and we liked the anger which was a great black wolf and we fed it our books and our ledgers and our hymn-books and we fed it ourselves and we became very wild. And then came the violence and the damage which we did not like at all because we were civilized.	2	The streets were paved with logic and the lights were set to white, A perfect grid of order where the shadows dared not bite. We polished up our manners and we locked the garden gate, And kept the wolves of instinct safely waiting at the gate. But then a wind blew through the alleys smelling strange of pine, And something in the pavement cracked to show a jagged line. It started as a whisper that became a sudden roar, As wildness kicked the hinges off the civilized front door. It entered in the banker's eye and changed his ledger hand, It turned the teacher's gentle voice into a savage brand. The mother dropped her baby stroller to tear out her own hair, While neighbors fought with broken glass and screamed without a care. The rules dissolved like sugar in a cup of boiling tea, As anger rose from every throat to set the world quite free. No longer bound by courtesy or contract or by law, They felt the beast within their chest begin to claw and gnaw. Beware the moment when the mask slips from the human face, For nothing stays the same again once you have run this race. The furniture is splintered now, the windows smashed to shards, And blood has stained the marble floors and muddied all the yards. The violence comes unbidden like a flood that breaks the dam, To drag us down to mud and mire and make us what we am. You cannot cage the lightning nor can you chain the storm, Once wildness and the fury have taken on the form.	6	The gates were built of polished stone and iron, Where silence reigned in rows of perfect green, And every step was measured, soft, and even, To keep the chaos from the pristine scene. But then a wind arrived that smelled of pine, Of rotting leaves and blood upon the snow, It tore the hedges down with jagged design, And woke the beast beneath the garden's glow. First came the anger, hot as summer fire, That burned the logic from the scholar's brow, It stripped the silk and left them torn and dire, And made the gentle neighbor turn on now. The controlled mind fractured like a dry bone, As instinct took the place of reason's light, They screamed for freedom, though they stood alone, And danced in madness through the endless night. Now hear the warning in the breaking glass, For wildness does not stop when it is fed, It turns to violence as the hours pass, And leaves the civilized world starkly dead. No wall can hold the storm once it is loose, No law can tame the fury in the vein, It breaks the neck and shatters all the truce, And leaves only the ruin and the pain.	6	The streets were paved with quiet rules and gray, Where silence held the heavy air in place, Until a wind blew through the open door, And brought the scent of pine and rotting space. It started as a tremor in the hand, A sudden heat behind the polite eye, Then feral eyes looked out from every face, As civility began to rust and die. The orderly lines of men in suits unspooled, Their voices rose to guttural, broken cries, They tore the fabric that had kept them whole, To feed the hunger rising in their skies. No law can hold the beast once let inside, No wall can stop the claw against the stone, For anger is a fire that cannot hide, And wildness claims the throne it has not known. Beware the moment when the mask slips down, When reason breaks beneath the primal weight, For blood will stain the clean and polished town, And nothing left remains but ruin's gate.	6	The stone walls held the quiet well Where polished floors reflected light No shadow dared to break the spell Of order in the endless night Then came a wind from distant lands That smelled of ash and rotting pine It slipped beneath the iron bands And turned the calm to jagged line The suits that once were crisp and clean Now tear at cuffs with trembling hands A feral hunger, sharp and keen Replaces all their planned commands They drop the books they held so tight To bare their teeth against the air And chase the fading ghost of right With claws of sudden, raw despair The garden paths are torn apart As flowers crush beneath the heel The beating of a frantic heart Makes every civilized rule feel real But not as law, but as a chain That snaps to let the beast run free There is no mercy left to gain Only the blood upon the sea Beware the spark that starts the fire For once the wild has claimed the street It feeds on fear and deep desire And leaves the broken world to meet The inevitable, final cost Of rage that cannot be confined Remember what you have lost When anger leaves no peace behind	7	The streets were paved with quiet rules And silence held the heavy air Until a crack appeared in walls Where something old began to tear A wind that smells of iron rust And forests burned by ancient fire It slips through windows, cracks in glass To feed a deep and dark desire The suits dissolve into raw skin As manners break beneath the weight Of primal howls that rise too loud To keep the orderly from fate No logic holds when teeth are bared And reason burns to ash and bone The civilized begin to scream As seeds of chaos start to sown Beware the beast you let inside For once it wakes, it cannot sleep It turns the neighbor into foe And promises a violent sweep The damage comes not with a whisper But thunder shaking ground and sky When wildness claims its rightful throne There is no place for us to hide	6	The walls were built of stone and glass To keep the chaos far away Where silence held a steady mass And light obeyed the rules of day But something cracked beneath the floor A tremor from a distant deep It tore the locks on every door And woke the things we promised sleep The calm that ruled the orderly street Now fractures under heavy breath As wild hearts begin to beat With rhythms borrowed from the death No hand can hold the rising tide Of rage that burns without a name It strips the skin where pride once hid And leaves behind a hollow shame The gentle voice turns into roar The neighbor becomes enemy We cannot find the open door Or see the storm we helped to be So watch the shadows start to grow Where logic fails and fear takes root For seeds of violence always sow A harvest born of bitter fruit The city burns in crimson fire As order breaks and systems fall A final, desperate, dark desire To answer nature's violent call	7

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