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 wise Creator, I do not deny your power to make the stars and the sky, but in your wisdom, why did you choose to create this pest, so ugly and cruze? For the fly! The universally despised fly! With his buzzing complaint and his dirty eye, he lights on the cake and he lights on the sore, and buzzes about it a hundred times more. We have never been told, we have never been asked, what purpose he serves or what good he has masked; whether he balances some cosmic scale, or whether you just like him for his vile trail. If there is a reason, pray tell us at once, it would save us a lot of our swatting and prance. But silent you are, and silent he is, with his filth and his buzzing and filthy blisss.	3	Why did you make the fly, that droning pest of summer days, who lights upon the sweetest fruit and turns it to a sour maze? You know how we abhor his buzz, how we would swat him from our sight, yet in your wisdom you created this little plague of black and white. Did you not think to tell us why you made this scourge of flesh and bone? To let us live with questionings and feel so very all alone? Perhaps there is a reason deep beneath that whining, whirring wing, but since you kept your counsel close, we must content ourselves to sing of flies, and wonder at your ways, and scratch the itch they leave behind, and never know the reason why you left such questions in our mind.	6	Why did the architect of stars and tides Conceive this buzzing, striped nuisance? With no grand design to justify its life, No hymn to sing of its existence, But only a relentless whine against the ear. We swat at shadows in the sunlit air, Wondering what purpose serves the pest, Why wisdom chose to spawn such loathing And leave the reason unexplained. Does it serve some unseen balance sheet Of rot and cleanup we cannot see? Or is it merely a test of patience, A tiny, flying riddle without an answer? The heavens stay silent on the matter, While the fly lands upon our fruit again, A small, dark question mark of nature That God refuses to erase or solve.	6	Why did you craft the buzzing pest With wings of filth and legs of rust, To land upon the holy bread And turn our feast to sacred dust? You hold the stars within your hand And chart the course of every tide, Yet left no note, no whispered word To tell us why this plague must hide. Does it serve some grand design we miss, A purpose lost in human sight? Or is the fly a test of patience, Born of silence, born of night? We ask the sky with open palms, But hear only the droning sound, A tiny engine of annoyance That never seeks to explain its ground. Your wisdom stretches vast and deep, Beyond the reach of mortal mind, But for the fly that breeds in rot, No reason leaves your lips behind.	6	Why did the Architect of stars and seas Choose to weave this buzzing, hairy ghost Into the tapestry of what we breathe And leave no note within the cosmic host? We sweep our hands through empty, dusty air To shoo away the pest that seeks our skin Yet in the silence of our quiet prayer No answer comes to tell us where they begin. Is there a purpose hidden in their sting A lesson meant for ears too deaf to hear Or just a flaw the Maker chose to fling Without a whisper, without any fear? The owl has wisdom, the lion strength to roar But this small thief of peace and summer light Demands a reason we can't ignore As it lands again upon our weary sight. Perhaps the silence is the only truth That wisdom does not owe us explanation That chaos walks beside the path of youth Beyond the reach of human understanding.	6	Why did the architect of stars allow A creature built for rot to take its flight, To buzz against the window's fragile glass And steal the quiet moments of the night? No thunder rolled to justify the sting, No angel spoke to calm the rising dread, Just silent wings that hover in the air With no divine decree we ever read. We search the scriptures for a hidden clue, A reason why this nuisance must remain, But wisdom stays behind the veil of dust, Leaving only questions in the rain. Perhaps the lesson lies within the grit, Or maybe chaos serves a purpose deep, Yet God remains above the buzzing sound, With secrets that the weary cannot keep.	6	Why craft a thing that feeds on rot and grief And leave the blueprint hidden from our eyes No whispered truth to ease the heavy weight Of buzzing wings that steal the summer skies The silence stretches where an answer waits As swarms descend upon the quiet air Did wisdom find a purpose in the sting Or was it just a flaw we cannot bear We search for meaning in the chaotic hum A reason why the world must hold this pain Yet God remains behind the veil of stars Unmoved by questions born of human strain Perhaps the lesson lies within the doubt That not all paths are meant for us to see Even the fly, despised and dark and small Exists beneath a gaze we cannot free	6
13	ultra_held_out	Boot and Saddle by Robert Browning	Robert Browning	"A poem about an Englishman riding on horseback to battle during the English Civil War, repeatedly declaring his readiness to fight and refusing to surrender to his enemies."	Boot, saddle, to horse, and away! Rescue my Castle, before the hot day Brightens the blue from its silvery grey, (Chorus) "Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!" Ride past the suburbs, asleep as you'd say; Many's the friend there, will listen and pray "God's luck to gallants that strike up the lay, (Chorus) "Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!" Forty miles off, like a roebuck at bay, Flouts Castle Brancepeth the Roundheads array: Who laughs, Good fellows ere this, by my fay, (Chorus) "Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!" Who? My wife Gertrude; that, honest and gay, Laughs when you talk of surrendering, "Nay! I've better counsellors; what counsel they?" (Chorus) "Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!"	The mist hangs low on fields of grey Where iron hooves begin to sway I tighten reins and grip the steel And feel the war I long to feel My sword is drawn, my heart is set For all the battles not yet met No Parliament shall make me bend To traitor's word or rebel end I ride ahead through smoke and rain To face the thunder, fear, and pain Let cannon roar and muskets crack I will not turn, I will not back You call for quarter, cry surrender But I have no such thought to render My oath is bound in blood and bone To fight until the flesh is stone So bring your lines and bring your fire I meet you with a grim desire To strike one blow, then fall if need But never yield, nor ask for seed The horse neighs loud beneath the sky As death draws near and time goes by I raise my blade against the sun The battle starts, the war's begun	The grey dawn breaks upon the shaven plain, I sit my horse and take the wind in face; My father's sword is in its scabbard again, And I am ready for this evil place. I see them yonder with their Puritan faces, But I am ready and I will not fly; I have no time for these ungodly graces, And I will not surrender, by God, I die! I ride through mud and through the morning mist, By God, I am ready, and I will not yield! Of all the things that I can most insist, Is that I will not give up ground or field. I see their cannon pointed at my breast, By God, I am ready, and I will not yield! I put my pistol to my horse's rest, And I will not give up ground or field. I charge them down with a loud hurrah! By God, I am ready, and I will not yield! I fight for King and for the Cavalieria, And I will not give up ground or field.	3	The morning mist hangs low and gray Upon the fields of Edgehill today, My horse is fresh, my steel is bright, I ride to meet the coming fight. I am ready for the battle field, I will not falter nor will I yield, Though Roundhead ranks should press me hard, I'll stand my ground and play my part. The trumpet sounds a shrill alarm, I grip my sword within my arm, My blood is up, my heart is high, I'm ready now to meet them die. No quarter ask, no quarter give, I know but how to fight and live, Though cannon smoke should blind the sun, My fighting day has just begun. They shout surrender from their line, But such a word shall never shine From out my mouth, by God above, I fight for King and Country's love. I am ready for the deadly blow, I'll see the bloody conflict through, No traitor tongue shall make me say, That I will quit this bloody day. So let them come with pike and gun, The fight of all our lives is one, I am ready, and I swear, To fight until I breathe no air. I will not yield, I will not run, Until the setting of the sun, Or till my body lies quite still, Upon this English battlefield.	7	The mist hangs low on Cheshire fields Where grey and red divide, I tighten up my leather reins And feel the sword inside. My horse he snorts a cloud of steam And stamps his iron hoof, For I am bound for battle now With neither fear nor roof. I ride to meet the Roundhead host Who seek to break the King, They say that we must yield our arms But hear me while I sing: I will not bow, I will not bend, No quarter shall I give, I'll fight until my heart stops beating Or till this life I leave. The drums beat out a warlike sound Across the muddy ground, My musket ball is primed and ready And so is all around. Let them advance with pike and shot, Let cannons roar their din, I stand as firm as ancient oak Within the storm of sin. They shout for me to throw down steel And kneel upon the grass, But I reply with haughty laugh As shadows round us pass: You may take my coat and hat, You may bind my hands in chain, But you shall never make me swear To serve a tyrant's reign. The sun breaks through the heavy clouds To light the charging line, My blood runs hot within my veins And burns like firewine. So bring your best, ye rebels bold, And test my steel today, For I am ready for the fight And will not turn away.	6	The mist clings low to fields of gray As I tighten up the rein My steel is cold, my heart is true Against the coming rain I ride for King and ancient right Through mud and blood and fear No flag of mine shall ever yield To those who hold it dear They shout from yonder ridge above That I must drop my sword But I will stand until I fall By God's own holy word My horse knows well the path to war He stamps his hoof in time To every drum that beats the march Of righteous, bloody crime Let them advance with pike and gun With fire and fury too I am a son of England born And ready now to do What must be done when honor calls And duty binds the hand I will not bend, I will not break Upon this cursed land So bring your men and bring your hate Your lies and your despair I face you all with steady eye And breathe a silent prayer I am prepared to meet my end Or carve a victory wide There is no peace for me today Unless they turn and hide I ride ahead into the smoke With lance held high and straight I will not surrender now It is my final fate	7	The mist clings low to Yorkshire stone As iron hooves begin to groan I tighten grip on reins of leather And swear by all the storms together My sword is drawn, my heart is set No parley will I ever let Let Cromwell's men advance their line For this old oath I still define I am ready, I am true With blood that runs both black and blue No white flag flies from any mast This battle is my life at last They shout for me to drop the blade But fear has never once been made Within this chest where courage beats Against the drum of war's retreats I ride ahead through smoke and rain To face the storm, to bear the pain You cannot break a will so deep While promises are mine to keep I am ready, I am here To meet the end or hold it dear Surrender? No, not in this land Where honor holds the shifting sand The enemy draws close and near But only victory do they fear For I shall fight until the day That turns the night to breaking gray I am ready, I remain Through fire, steel, and driving rain No quarter asked, no ground to yield Upon this bloody, sacred field	6	The mist clings low to fields of gray Where iron meets the breaking day My steed beneath me knows the fear Yet still I whisper, "I am here" They shout their names across the plain A tide of red and royal stain But in my chest a fire burns bright "I stand prepared for endless fight" No plea will leave this trembling hand To bow before a usurper's command Let arrows fly and cannons roar "I yield no ground, I ask for more" The enemy advances, bold and deep With promises they cannot keep My sword is drawn, my spirit whole "I fight until the final soul" Though shadows lengthen on the grass And time begins to slowly pass One truth remains within my heart "I never break, I never part" So let the chaos take its course Without a moment's pause or force For when the dust has settled down "I was the one who held the crown"	7	The mist clings tight to fields of gray Where iron meets the breaking day A shadow falls across the stone Yet I remain, alone and known My steel is cold but spirit burns As silence waits for war's return I grip the reins with trembling hands No fear can break what time demands Let them advance with flags unfurled Against the weight of weary world I stand my ground against the tide With nothing left to hide or bide They shout a plea for peace to fall But I will answer none at all For every breath is meant to fight Until the final fading light My horse steps forward through the dust In loyalty we place our trust No surrender written in the sky Just duty where the shadows lie The enemy draws near too close To steal the hope that I possess I raise my blade to cut the air And swear no chains shall bind me there One last charge before the dawn Before the heavy night is gone I speak the vow I cannot break With every step the earth begins to shake I am the storm they cannot tame Refusing any whispered name Of weakness found within the bone This heart beats only for the throne So let the drums begin their song Where right and wrong no longer belong I ride ahead into the fray And claim the victory of today	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 leg, a heavy pendulum of bone and muscle, from the ground. It is an act of authority, the masculine lifting the feminine from her element, the earth, to attend to her feet. She stands with patient indifference, her weight on three legs, her head turned high and indifferent, a goddess in captivity. He holds the hoof in his left hand, an instrument of the male, hard knuckled and hairy, and with the rasp he files the horny wall down, reducing the overgrowth, bringing it into shape, into order. This is the discipline of the male, the reduction of the wild to the serviceable, the bringing of form to matter. She does not resent this. She knows that without this she would be lame, without this she could not go. But there is a delicacy in the operation, which the farrier must have. He must not hurt her. He must feel the frog, the sensitive part of the foot, under his knife. He must feel the blood supply, if he cuts too deep, he will draw blood, and she will kick him, or she will not trust him again. So he has to have delicacy, he has to have feeling, which is the feminine principle, in the masculine operator. And so they are interdependent. The female horse needs the male farrier to shoe her. The male farrier needs the female horse to shoe. Without the horse, the farrier is nothing, he is just a man with a hammer and tongs, standing in a field. Without the farrier, the horse is nothing, she is just a horse, lame and useless, standing in a field. So he picks up the iron, the shoe, it is shaped like a horseshoe, but it is really a U, it is really a letter V, it is really a vulva, it is really a yoni, it is really a feminine symbol. And he nails it to the hoof, which is a phallic symbol, and so he nails the feminine to the masculine. And then he turns the horse loose, and she goes off, clippity-clop, clippity-clop, over the stones, and over the gravel, and over the road, and she goes very well, because she has been shod, and because she has been disciplined, and because she has been fitted with a feminine shoe …	2	The stall is dim with the scent of hay and iron, A quiet temple where the heavy hoof is raised. He stands beside her, broad and blunt of hand, A shape of weight and gravity and force, Who lifts the leg that holds the world above him. She yields the limb, a gesture soft and deep, Trusting the rough grip to the delicate vein, For she knows well the danger of the stone, The jagged road that waits without his care. He takes the rasp, a tool of teeth and steel, And grates against the horn to make it square, A harsh and grinding sound, a masculine noise, That shaves away the uneven, wild excess, To bring the foot into a line of truth. It is not cruelty, this filing down, But making ready for the burden of the road, As he who shapes must first remove the loose. Now comes the fire, the glowing, orange shoe, Which he has bent to fit the curve of her, Not forcing her to match the rigid ring, But bending heat to match the living form. He sets the hot iron on the bare ground, And there is smoke, a brief and sharp perfume, The mark of contact between fire and earth, Between the maker and the made, the two. She does not flinch at this searing touch, Though instinct bids the muscle jump aside; She feels the purpose in the burning brand, The way the masculine will seeks to protect By giving form to what was formless once. He hammers in the nails, small, sharp, precise, Driving them home through horn and sensitive quick, With judgment that must never miss or waver, While she accepts the pain that means support. Then cool the metal in a pail of water, A hiss of steam that rises like a prayer, And now the foot is shod, secure and light, Ready to bear the rider and the load. He lowers her leg gently to the straw, And strokes the velvet nose that thanks him not With words but with a nicker low and deep, A feminine acknowledgment of strength. Thus stand they, different yet entirely one, The hammer and the anvil, fire and horse, The shaping will and the receiving form, Without whose separate powers the work fails. For he cannot sh…	6	The stall is dim where the heavy iron waits, A cold and rigid crescent of masculine will, While she stands calm in the straw, a living curve, Soft muscle shifting under a coat of night. He lifts her leg, a gesture of command, Not to conquer but to hold the weight of earth, And she yields up the hoof, a hard-won trust, The feminine surrender that allows the work. His hammer falls with rhythmic, blunt authority, Striking the metal until it sings and bends, Forcing the straight line into something round, To match the organic arc of her own bone. She does not pull away from his rough grip, Nor flinch when the rasp grates against the wall, But breathes a deep and steady, fragrant steam, That cools the heat of his exertion down. It is a dance of friction and of fit, Where strength must yield to shape to find its place, For if the shoe were only iron and force, It would break the delicate arch beneath. And if the foot were only soft and yielding, It would shatter on the stones of daily life. He shapes the steel to cradle her design, And she accepts the armor he has made. The nail drives home, a sharp and sudden point, Through leather and through horn, a piercing seal, Yet in the act there is no violence found, Only the meeting of two distinct needs. He brings the order of the forge and fire, She brings the wild and uncontained grace, And now they walk together, bound by this, One solid step upon the stony ground.	6	The iron cools in the anvil's shadow, A rigid geometry of male intent, While she stands still, a river held in breath, Her hooves soft earth waiting for the sky. He lifts the leg, a weight that trusts his grip, And sees not just a limb but ancient grace, The feminine curve that yields to strength, Not out of fear but from a deep design. The rasp sings sharp against the hard wall, Stripping away the excess, the rough edge, To make space for what must be fitted in, A dialogue between the cold and warm. She shifts her weight, a whisper of command, The quiet power that directs the storm, For he is but the hand that shapes the steel, While she provides the reason for the form. Fire blooms bright where metal meets the horn, A sudden kiss of heat and smoke and steam, The masculine fire that seeks to bind and hold, Against the feminine flow that cannot break. He hammers down, the rhythm of the sun, While she absorbs the impact, turns it round, Transforming violence into steady gait, A partnership forged in the dark and light. The nail drives home, a final seal of trust, No force imposed but one that fits so well, The rigid frame embracing softness true, The active will submitting to the soul. Now they move as one across the yard, The shoe no longer foreign, heavy, strange, But part of her, a second skin of iron, Where opposites have found their common ground.	6	The stall is quiet, heavy with the scent of iron and earth Where he stands grounded, boots scarred by the weight of the world Hands rough as bark, calloused by the hammer's relentless rhythm A force that seeks to shape, to bind, to make the wild endure She leans against the post, a creature of fluid grace and storm Her coat a shifting river, her breath a soft, rising tide He lifts her hoof, not to conquer but to understand the arch The way the feminine holds space, waiting for the metal to speak Fire blooms in his grip, the anvil singing a low, masculine song Steel coiled tight, demanding form from chaos, seeking order Yet she yields not out of fear, but trust in the ancient pact That strength without softness breaks, and light cannot exist without shadow As the nail finds its home, driven deep into the living wall It is not a wound but a bridge, a point where two worlds collide His will provides the structure, the rigid line against the drift While her spirit provides the purpose, the reason for the shoe to hold They move in a dance older than words, a silent negotiation Between the hand that strikes and the leg that bears the burden For the path ahead requires both the hardness of the edge And the gentle curve that guides the journey through the dark When the work is done and the final ring fades into silence She steps forward, hooves ringing clear on the stone floor No longer just flesh and bone, but something forged anew United in the balance of what gives and what receives	6	The iron waits cold in the fire's breath A rigid promise forged in masculine heat While she stands grounded, soft hooves on earth A living pulse of rhythm and quiet grace He lifts the weight, a heavy burden shared Not to conquer but to shape what wants to run His hands are calloused maps of discipline Her spirit wild, yet trusting in his grip The hammer falls with rhythmic, steady strikes A language spoken only between two souls One force that builds, one force that yields To create a path where both can safely tread The metal cools against the warm, damp skin A union born of friction and surrender Where strength meets softness in the darkened barn And neither loses who they truly are She steps forward, the new edge finding purchase No longer bound by fear or fragile ground For in this dance of steel and living bone They find the balance that the world demands	6	The iron waits, cold and rigid in the palm A weight of history forged by hammer's song While she stands still, a quiet storm contained Where softness holds the power to break the bone He lifts the leg, not with command but grace Acknowledging the trust that bridges space Her hoof, a vessel carved from earth and time Reflecting rhythms older than the sun The rasp sings out, a harsh and grinding truth Against the fragile lines of living wood He shapes the metal to the curve of need Not forcing change, but meeting what is there She breathes a rhythm through the dusty air A feminine current flowing deep and slow That guides the hands of steel toward gentle purpose Where strength must yield to let the healing start This dance of fire and shadow, light and dark No battle fought, no conquest won or lost Just two opposing tides that learn to merge Within the silence of the workshop floor The nail finds home, a promise sealed in heat Binding the wild to something meant to last A covenant between the force that builds And all the grace that lets the world endure	6
23	ultra_held_out	Autumn Song by Dante Gabriel Rossetti	Dante Gabriel Rossetti	A poem about nature's autumnal decay translating into human suffering, as the mind and body deteriorate alongside the dying season, rendering death a more welcome fate than the prolonged pain of living through it.	Know'st thou not at the fall of the leaf How the heart feels a languid grief Laid on it for a covering, And how sleep seems a goodly thing In Autumn at the fall of the leaf? And how the swift beat of the brain Falters because it is in vain, In Autumn at the fall of the leaf Knowest thou not? and how the chief Of joys seems—not to suffer pain? Know'st thou not at the fall of the leaf How the soul feels like a dried sheaf Bound up at length for harvesting, And how death seems a comely thing In Autumn at the fall of the leaf?	The maple bleeds its crimson onto stone As rot takes root beneath the frozen ground And I feel how my own blood has turned to ice Where once a summer pulse beat warm and sound My joints are branches snapping in the wind A brittle creak that signals deep decay The fog rolls in to choke the light within Just as the gray clouds steal the final day Each breath is labor, heavy as wet leaves That cling too long before they hit the floor The mind dissolves like mist on river eaves Leaving me stranded by a silent door No spring will come to mend this broken frame To wake the sleep that now feels far too sweet I watch the season die without a name And wish the frost would end the long defeat Let winter take what autumn could not spare And bury us beneath the weight of snow For living through this slow and hollow air Is worse than any quiet, final blow	The sycamore drops a yellow ear And the mind lets fall a memory. The sap goes down into the roots, The blood goes down into the feet. There is a cracking in the bark That sounds like cracking in the spine. A rotting of the apple core That makes me wish I were a vine To be cut down and left to rot With all the rest of the vines. The frost comes up into the face And stops the breath for half a minute; I am glad that it is coming, For I have not got much more in it. I have had enough of the pain Of growing old and being sick. Let the frost come up into the face And stop the breath for good this time.	2	The sycamore unclenches its brown fist And lets the brittle fingers fall, A rustling rain of dry decrepitude That matches the shaking in my hand. My veins are turning into canals Of stagnant water choked with weeds, While summer's green has rotted from my brain Leaving only the yellow of decay. The sap runs backward in the birch, As thick and clogging as my blood, And I feel the frost creep up my spine To freeze the marrow in my bone. The leaves that drop do not seem to die But rather come to rest at last, While I must drag this heavy carcass on Through mud and mire and wind and blast. They say it is a beautiful decline, This gaudy ruin of the year, But when the rot sets in the mind It makes the prospect clear: That death is but the final leaf That falls without a sound or pain, While I must watch my body shrivel up Like fruit left out in driving rain. So let the season strip me bare, Let winter take what autumn did, For living through this long decay Is worse than anything forbidden. I wait for snow to cover all The sickness and the stench and stain, And welcome the cold white silence now More than the life that holds me in.	5	The oak lets go its burning crown And drifts in rusted heaps to ground, Just as my mind begins to drown In fog that makes no holy sound. My joints are stiff as frozen boughs That crack beneath the winter's weight, While memory turns to muddy dows And hope dissolves into our fate. The sap runs slow within the vein, Like blood grown thick with autumn chill, As pain reaps what it could not gain From seasons turning against will. To rot is now a gentle grace, A final leaf to fall away, Than bear this slow and wasting face Through one more gray and dying day. Let frost come down to seal the door, And end the long and dragging breath, For I have seen the rot before, And death is kinder than this death.	6	The maple surrenders its crimson skin To the cold gray wind that strips the boughs bare, And I feel my own ribs cracking within As winter's frost settles in empty air. My joints are stiff as branches dried and brown, My breath a ragged leaf caught in the drain, While memory fades like mist at break of dawn, Leaving only the ache of lingering rain. The sap has stopped its flow through veins so thin, Replaced by rust and rot beneath the skin, A slow decay where once the pulse began, Marking the end of every hope and plan. Why fight the falling when the root is dead? Why cling to light when shadows fill the bed? The season turns, the body follows close, And silence offers what the pain denies: release.	6	The oak releases its grip on gold and lets the brittle branches break, a silent rust that fills the air with dust of lives we used to make. My skin now mirrors falling leaves, so thin it shows the bone beneath, where winter's cold has started in to steal the warmth from every breath. The mind, once sharp as morning frost, now blurs like fog across a stream, recalling names I cannot hold within this fading, broken dream. Each ache a root that digs too deep, each tremor shakes the hollow chest, as seasons turn to gray and stone and silence claims the weary rest. Why fight the rot that seeks to claim the vessel worn by time and pain? When every step is heavy lead and rain feels like a drowning chain. The forest sleeps beneath the snow without a sound, without a cry, and I would join the quiet earth before the final leaf can die.	6	The frost creeps in to crack the bark As joints begin to seize and freeze A silent rot takes hold of dark Where once the vibrant green would rise My breath grows shallow, thin and cold Like leaves that crumble at a touch The stories of the living told Now feel too heavy for my chest The mind dissolves like morning mist Confused by shadows stretching long While every step becomes a twist Of agony where strength belongs Why cling to seasons turning gray When winter waits with open arms To wash the weary pain away And end this slow and fading charm Let silence fall where screams once rang As roots give up their final grip No longer bound by what is broken But resting in the quiet sleep	6	The frost creeps in where warmth once held its breath A silent rot that mirrors what we keep inside As leaves turn brown and brittle, stripped of life The heavy weight of years begins to rise Our bones grow stiff like branches breaking down While shadows stretch across a fading sky The mind forgets the names it used to know Trapped in a storm that refuses to subside Each breath becomes a struggle against the cold A memory of seasons long since passed away We watch the world dissolve into the gray And wonder why we fight to stay alive For winter brings a peace the summer never knew A quiet end to all the aching pain When every step is just a slow decline Death feels not like loss, but sweet release at last	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 you chaps, come show your stuff The papers say it's all a lark A game of soldiers, off to puff And play the game before it's dark. It isn't war, it is a game With points for killing and for slaying You'll get a medal, get a name, And be a hero in the playing. What boy would not like to play At such a fine and manly game? Go on, go on, don't be a prey To fears that make a fellow lame. Just put a ball or bullet in And take your place upon the field; It is a game, you will not sin, But win a prize and have a shield. And if you die, it is no matter, You died a hero in the game; If you don't die, you'll be a platter Of praise from all the other game.	6	Come on lads, the paper says it's sport The biggest game that ever was played out With uniforms of green and flags unfurled It's just a game to win the noisy world Don't be a baby, don't be such a cry Just show your manhood, give the enemy a try They'll pay you well for playing this new game And if you die they'll print your name the same In bold black letters in the Sunday sheet You died a hero for the game complete So throw away your books and take your gun The final whistle hasn't yet been blown But if you run you're nothing but a clown While others get the glory and the crown So play the game boys, play it very well Or go to hell where cowards dwell and dwell.	2	The tavern air is thick with smoke and boast Of boys who think that glory is a sport They spin the coin to see who dares the most To sign the paper, to step through the court Where men in uniform with polished shoes Call war a game with points for every kill And promise prizes if you dare to lose Your life upon the muddy, bloody hill Come on now lad, don't be a coward's friend It's just a match, a little blood and sweat We'll make you heroes when the fight has end And give you medals for your big regret But when the whistle blows and cannons roar You'll find no scoreboard keeping track of dead Just screaming in the trench and nothing more And all your bravery will soon be shed So play your part and run into the fray Before you know it's not a game at all Just men who died because they had to obey While others watched them from a distant wall	6	The tavern air is thick with smoke and lies Where older men in shadows softly smile They point to maps that gleam like painted skies And call the coming slaughter just a game, a trial Come on now boy, are you afraid to play? To prove your worth beneath the crimson sun The glory waits for those who seize the day Before the final whistle ends the fun Your friends will cheer if you step up to line To trade your youth for medals made of brass A noble sport where only winners shine While losers vanish in the endless grass They say it's sport, a grand and glorious fight No blood but what the heroes choose to spill Just rules and teams within the pale moonlight Where courage is the only thing they'll need to kill So take the coin and wear the uniform And march into the field where others fall The game is set, the starting gun is warm But no one tells you who will answer when they call You think you're brave because you signed your name To join the fray and play this deadly game But bravery is not the price they claim It's silence in the dark when nothing's left to blame	6	The tavern air is thick with smoke and boasts Where older voices whisper through the haze Of glory waiting just beyond the coast To turn a boy into a hero's gaze They speak of it as if it were a match A simple game where courage is the score With medals pinned upon a velvet patch And victory the only thing to store Come join the squad, they say, don't fear the cost For bravery is measured in the fight Leave behind the quiet life you lost And step into the arena of the night It's just a sport for those who dare to play Where bullets fly like balls across the green You'll earn your fame before the break of day The greatest players that the world has seen But in this game there are no second chances No referees to call a foul or pause Just silent fields and cold and broken glances Where every move defies the natural laws The whistle blows but no one hears the sound As young men run to prove their worth to all Upon this blood-stained, unforgiving ground Where heroes rise and fall within the hall They cheer the name of war as if it's fun A grand adventure written in the stars Until the heavy silence starts to run And tears replace the laughter of the bars The game is over when the breath runs out And bravery becomes a hollow word Lost inside the noise and endless doubt By those who played the hardest game ever heard	6	The tavern walls are thick with smoke and lies Where older men with empty cups pretend That glory waits beneath the morning skies And war is just a game they cannot bend They call it sport, a contest of the soul A chance to prove you're more than dust and bone To trade your fear for medals and control Before the final whistle cuts the tone So young hands reach for steel that feels too cold Tricked by the rhythm of a marching drum Believing stories that have never been told That courage is the only thing we become They say the battlefield is but a stage Where heroes rise above the mud and rain Ignoring how the script was written long before age Can turn a boy into a ghost in vain The score is kept in numbers on a page While silence grows where laughter used to be A cruel joke played upon a younger age Who thinks he's free to choose what fate will see	6	They whisper of a contest where the stakes are breath and bone A battlefield designed to prove who stands above the throne No glory in the silence, only echoes of the call As boys trade quiet futures for the shadows of the wall The drums beat like a heartbeat that demands a reckless stride Where courage is a currency with nowhere left to hide They speak of honor woven in the fabric of the lie And paint the blood on canvas as a masterpiece of sky A game played out in trenches, where the rules begin to fade The cost of every victory is written in the shade Young hands reach for weapons that were forged in fear and doubt While voices chant the rhythm of a war they cannot stop To run would be a failure, to retreat a heavy stain So they march toward the fire line, believing it is plain That bravery is measured by the weight of steel they bear Ignoring how the 'game' consumes the light within the air One final step into the dark, where promises dissolve Leaving behind the boyhood that the world will never hold The whistle cuts the morning, signaling the start Of a battle meant to break the heart before it learns to mend	6
51	ultra_held_out	Vultures by Chinua Achebe	Chinua Achebe	A poem about vultures serving as a metaphor for human atrocity, juxtaposing grim darkness with a fleeting glimmer of humanity before descending into futility.	In the greyness and drizzle of one despondent dawn unstirred by harbingers of sunbreak a vulture perching high on broken bone of a dead tree nestled close to his mate his smooth bashed-in head, a pebble on a stem rooted in a dump of gross feathers, inclined affectionately to hers. Yesterday they picked the eyes of a swollen corpse in a water-logged trench and ate the things in its bowel. Full gorged they chose their roost keeping the hollowed remnant in easy range of cold telescopic eyes ... Strange indeed how love in other ways so particular will pick a corner in that charnel-house tidy it and coil up there, perhaps even fall asleep - her face turned to the wall! ...Thus the Commandant at Belsen Camp going home for the day with fumes of human roast clinging rebelliously to his hairy nostrils will stop at the wayside sweet-shop and pick up a chocolate for his tender offspring waiting at home for Daddy's return ... Praise bounteous providence if you will that grants even an ogre a tiny glow-worm tenderness encapsulated in icy caverns of a cruel heart or else despair for in every germ of that kindred love is lodged the perpetuity of evil.	They circle high above the burning fields Where smoke has choked the morning into gray With beaks of bone and eyes that never yield To watch the living wither, fade, and decay No mercy in the way they wait their turn For every drop of blood to hit the ground A lesson that the strong are meant to burn While silence is the only holy sound Then one descends upon a trembling hand And pauses as a child looks up in fear Not striking but for just a single stand As if some ancient ghost drew near The moment holds a fragile, broken light Before the instinct snaps the spell in two It tears the flesh away from sight And leaves the sky to swallow up the view The feast begins beneath the heavy sun Where nothing matters but the tearing meat The work is done before it's even begun And hunger is the only thing complete They fly again to find another grave Where human cruelty has carved its name But in the end there is no soul to save Just ash that drifts away without a flame	They circle high on thermal wings of black And pick the eyes out of a general's wife. One gobbet at a time, they strip him naked Of all that made him human in his life. There is a vulture with a tender eye Who paused upon a breastbone fresh and red; He thought he saw a likeness to his child, And put the bone back in its place instead. But then the others came and clawed it out, And tore the tender one apart for doing so. The first was right, the second was more stout, And both were right according to their show. The general lies as clean as if he died In bed, but no one knows or cares to know. The vultures have the whole thing satisfied, And fly away where other things go blow.	3	They circle high on thermal wings of gray And wait for men to make the killing done, For vultures do not start the bloody fray But pick the bones when all the work is done. The smell of burning flesh is sweet to them, A banquet spread by human hands alone; We build the pyres and then we sing a hymn To God while picking up the broken bone. Yet sometimes in the midst of such a feast One bird will pause with head turned to the side, As if he knew the horror at the least, And pitied that which could not be denied. Perhaps he saw a child's unopened eye, Or felt a ghostly tug upon his heart, That momentary pang before he'd fly To tear the tender muscle from the part. But soon the cry goes up, the others come, The fleeting pity vanishes like smoke, And down they plunge, a terrible dark drum, To strip the last clean rib and leave it broke. So man destroys and beast devours the rest, With neither one having the wit to cease, And all the world lies quiet in the west, Dead as the dead, and without any peace.	6	They circle high above the burning field Where smoke has choked the sun and turned it gray, Their wings are black as sins that never yield, And pick the bones of yesterday's display. No pity in their eyes, no human tear, Just hunger sharpened by the smell of death, They wait until the trembling is quite clear, Then swoop to feast upon the final breath. Yet for a moment, one descends alone To stand beside a child who still draws air, And tilts its head with something like a moan, As if a ghost of mercy lingers there. It does not strike, but pauses on the wing, A shadow soft against the crimson dew, Perhaps remembering some forgotten thing, Before the instinct makes the vision new. But then the others scream and dive from high, The moment breaks beneath their greedy weight, The glimmer fades within the butcher's eye, And nature seals the grim and bloody fate. They tear the flesh and strip the bone so clean, Until the earth is bare and nothing stays, The vilest work that humans ever seen, Consumed by birds in endless, hungry days.	6	They circle high on thermal wings of gray Where smoke has choked the sun from out the sky, A silent parliament of waiting death To pick the bones of those who dared to die. Their beaks are sharp as laws written in blood, Their eyes reflect the horror we have made, And they descend with calculated grace Upon the fields where innocence has decayed. Yet for a breath, one pauses in the air, And drops a scrap of bread it cannot eat, A momentary softness in the claw Before the hunger makes the heart complete. It is a ghost of mercy, brief and strange, That flickers like a candle in the rain, Reminding us that even monsters feel The weight of what remains within their brain. But then the wind shifts cold against the face, The memory fades into the rotting smell, And down they dive with ravenous delight To seal the fate of everything so well. No hero comes to save the fallen prey, No light breaks through the heavy curtain's fold, Just feathers rustling in the empty dark As stories turn to ash and silence grows old.	6	The sky turns gray as iron wings descend To pick the bones of wars we started long ago A feast of silence where the screams once ended And greed is dressed in feathers, black and slow For one brief second, a child's hand remains Unpicked beneath the shadow of their beak A memory of warmth that breaks the chains Of hunger making every moment bleak But then the instinct wakes to tear it free The softness crushed beneath a talon's weight There is no mercy in this history Just empty fields and nothing left to wait	6	They circle where the silence screams A feast of bone beneath the gray No mercy in their feathered dreams Only the hunger of decay One moment stops, a sudden breath As sunlight warms a trembling hand A memory of life before death Too fragile to withstand The wind returns to tear the sky And shadows swallow what was kind Leaving only hollow eyes Where love could not be found or pinned	6	The sky holds breath as shadows stretch across the bone Where silence screams louder than the wind that breaks the night We circle high, a rhythm built on rot and ancient stone And feast upon the echoes of a war we cannot fight A child's hand reaches out, trembling in the gray A spark of warmth against the cold that claims the broken heart But hunger pulls the wings away from what we chose to say As darkness swallows hope before the morning can depart The feast is done, the hollow earth returns to quiet dust No memory remains of those who fell beneath the weight The cycle turns again, a wheel of iron and mistrust Leaving only ghosts behind where light once dared to wait	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 cut the cable, I shut the door, I want no more of this electric roar. I want a story of delight and rest, To put these modern worries to the test. Far from here where the neon stings, And far from here the newspaper flings Its news of wars and prices high, Under the glare of a gas-lit sky. I want to be far away from here, Where all things are false and near. Far away in my native place, In the old days of speed and grace. There was a darkness there, not bad, But like a hooded bird well clad; It was a darkness soft and deep, That lulled me to a baby sleep. I remember the sounds of migrating geese, In that darkness, they gave me ease. They went honking over the moon, In the cold air of October noon. They went honking over the bog, With their honking and honking fog. I remember the sounds of migrating geese, In the darkness of my native place.	6	I step away from the glowing screens and the hum of wires that bind the earth, seeking a story where delight is not a product but a sudden, wild rebirth. Far from here, my childhood place holds a darkness I remember well, a heavy slate of winter sky where only silence could dwell. Yet through that dark, the sound arose of migrating geese in long array, their harsh and honking voices cutting the cold and cloudy day. That sound was far from this bright noise, a distant cry of flight and fear, but now I seek a different distance where the light is clear and near. I leave the modern world behind to find a tale to make me new, where darkness fades and geese no longer call but skies are endless blue.	6	I pull the glass door shut against the hum Of cities built on wires and bright screens, Where silence is a thing that cannot come Between the noise of what the world means. I seek a story where the light is deep And not the fractured glow of streetlamps cast, A place where ancient promises I keep Are safe from shadows of the modern past. My memory holds a darker, colder time, When winter gripped the fields of my young home, And darkness was a heavy, thickened rhyme That made the long and frozen distances roam. But then the sound would break the heavy air, The honking cry of migrating geese in flight, A ragged song beyond all human care That cut the dark and guided them aright. Now far away from those familiar sounds, I leave the rushing traffic and its dread, To find a joy where quiet ground is found, And stories of delight are freshly bred. No longer bound by gray and urban walls, I walk where wilder, older breezes blow, And hear the echo of those distant calls That taught me how to let the darkness go.	6	I turn my back on screens that glow with cold and static hums that never let me sleep, seeking a tale where light is soft and gold, a story deep enough to make me leap from concrete floors to mossy, ancient stone. The modern noise is sharp as broken glass, but I have found a place to call my own where time moves slow and shadows come to pass. My childhood held a different kind of dark, a heavy silence in the winter air, where migrating geese would leave their jagged mark against the gray, a haunting, rhythmic flare. Their cries were like a warning in the night, a sound of leaving that I could not bear, reminding me of how we lose our light and wander far from any safety there. But now I seek a distance from that pain, to trade the memory of those flying wings for stories written in the sun and rain, where joy is simple and the spirit sings. No longer bound by what the past has done, or haunted by the ghosts of winter skies, I walk beneath a new and rising sun, and watch the old, dark memories slowly die.	6	I turn my back on screens that hum with static light And walk until the city fades to gray and dust Where concrete cracks can no longer hold the weight of time Or echo with the frantic rhythm of a thousand rushing feet Here in the quiet, I seek a tale of silver thread A story woven from the breath of morning dew That washes away the soot of years and leaves the spirit clean To find a joy that does not ask for payment or for proof My mind drifts far to where the shadows used to stretch A childhood steeped in heavy air and endless, swallowing night The darkness there was thick as wool and cold against the skin Yet even then, a sound would cut the silence like a blade The migrating geese would call across the frozen fields Their voices sharp and wild, a chorus rising from the snow They spoke of journeys taken when the world was young and new And carried promises of warmth that winter could not break Now I stand apart from all the noise that fills the modern age Holding that ancient cry within the hollow of my chest A distance grown between the man I am and who I was While hope takes root in soil untouched by fear or doubt	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 currency too hard to buy Leaving the noise of progress far behind There was a time when darkness held me close and deep Not as an enemy but as a velvet cloak The shadows danced with memories of home Before the world grew loud and sharp and cold I remember how the wind would carry distant calls As migrating geese traced lines across the gray A rhythm older than the clocks we now obey Their wings beat out a song of wild release Now I seek a story written in the quiet dust Where joy can bloom without the weight of fear A tale where distance heals the fractured soul And every step brings light to ancient scars Let the past remain a ghost within the mist While I find peace in places none have named Here the air is clear and time moves slow enough To let the heart remember how to breathe again	6	I turn my back on screens that hum with static noise Where time is measured in the flicker of a lie And walk away from cities built of glass and steel To find a path where silence starts to breathe again The weight of shadows clings to every step I take A memory of nights too long, too cold to hold When fear was woven into threads of endless gray And hope dissolved beneath the weight of heavy rain But here the air is clear, unbroken by the wind That carries whispers of a world I left behind No echoes of the storm that once consumed my soul Only the promise of a dawn yet to unfold In distant fields where ancient stories softly grow A tale of light begins to mend the fractured heart It speaks of warmth that never fades within the bone Of joy that waits beyond the edge of what we know My childhood home remains a ghost of rusted gates Where geese would cry their mournful song against the sky Their wings a rhythm marking loss across the land A sound that haunts the edges of a fading dream Yet now I seek a different kind of quiet space Where memories of darkness lose their sharp command And distance serves as bridge between the past and peace Reclaiming breath within a story made for spring	6
57	train	what if a much of a which of a wind by E.E. cummings	E.E. Cummings	"A poem about the earth being destroyed by natural disasters and humanity's unique capacity for bringing about its own irreversible apocalypse."	what if a much of a which of a wind gives truth to the summer's lie; bloodies with dizzying leaves the sun and yanks immortal stars awry? Blow king to beggar and queen to seem (blow friend to fiend:blow space to time) —when skies are hanged and oceans drowned, the single secret will still be man what if a keen of a lean wind flays screaming hills with sleet and snow: strangles valleys by ropes of thing and stifles forests in white ago? Blow hope to terror;blow seeing to blind (blow pity to envy and soul to mind) —whose hearts are mountains, roots are trees, it's they shall cry hello to the spring what if a dawn of a doom of a dream bites this universe in two, peels forever out of his grave and sprinkles nowhere with me and you? Blow soon to never and never to twice (blow life to isn't: blow death to was) —all nothing's only our hugest home; the most who die,the more we live	The volcano wakes with ancient breath To swallow valleys in a sea of red The storm gathers strength from shifting air And tears the fragile canopy apart These are the earth's old, heavy sighs A cycle written long before our first cry But we have learned a different art To carve the future from the present heart We built the fire that consumes the sky With hands that reach to touch the stars then die No asteroid strikes with such intent As the quiet poison we quietly sent The ice retreats not from solar heat But from the smog we weave around the street We hold the switch for every final door And turn the key without a single war Nature heals if given time and space But we erase the very healing place A unique sorrow marks this end Where monsters do not rise but friends descend To trade the green for gray and gold For stories never fully told The planet spins through empty dark Lit by the spark of our own work	The volcanoes wake and the rivers rise, And the icebergs calve and the forests die, But these are things the earth has done Since life began upon her sun. But we who have invented fire Have also invented higher fire, We who have invented flight Have also invented night. We do not wait for earthquakes now To level down our towns of bough, Nor wait for typhoons to beget A tempest that will strike us yet. We have the key, we have the lock, We have the time, we have the clock; We have the means, we have the way, To make this bright day black as night. We can do it in a year, We can do it in a day, We can do it in an hour, If we really want to play. The earth can take a beating, The earth can take a thrashing, The earth can take a licking, From all the natural smashing. But the earth cannot take us, The earth cannot take us all, The earth cannot take us, When we bring about our fall.	6	The volcanoes wake and shake the ground And storms uncoil their whips around But these are old and blind designs That trace the planet's ancient lines. The ice will melt, the seas will rise As nature takes its sacrifice Yet when the earth is truly done It will not be by sun or sun. It will be by the hand we raise To light the dark and burn the days With cleverness that knows no end We built the fire, we lit the blend. No asteroid, no plague of rats Could match the poison in our hats We made the tool to kill the tree Then used it on ourselves so free. The flood comes from our concrete dams The fire from our gasoline flames Nature strikes but does not choose We chose this death, we paid the dues. Now silence falls on all the hills The water stills, the wind stands stills Not struck down by a god's command But by the monster in our hand.	6	The volcanoes wake with ancient, angry breath And shake the mountains from their stony sleep The oceans rise to swallow coast and death While forests burn in fires that never sleep Yet these are forces old as time itself That turn the world to ash or flood or stone But we possess a more peculiar shelf Of power to destroy our very own We do not wait for nature's cruel decree Or pray to gods who cannot hear our cries We build the bombs that make the heavens flee And poison well the water and the skies No asteroid was sent by distant suns To end the race that walked upon this floor It is our hands that pull the final ones And lock the garden evermore behind the door The planet heals if given time and space If fire cools and floods recede away But we have carved a ruin on its face That will remain until the last of day A unique gift to bring about the end Not by the storm but by the mind we hold Where every weapon built and fire kindled Makes certain that the story must be told	7	The volcano wakes to swallow valleys whole The tides rise up to claim the crumbling shore While storms unleash their fury on the soul Of forests burning with a fevered roar Yet these are forces old as stone and time That shaped the world before we drew our breath But now a different silence starts to climb A quiet death that comes from human depth We built the fires that melt the polar ice We poisoned wells that fed the ancient grain We traded future for a moment's price And engineered our own inevitable rain No asteroid strikes down from outer space To end the story written in our blood It is the mirror of our own dark face Reflecting floods that rise from mud and flood The earth can heal if given years to rest If we retreat and let the wilds regain But we have locked the cage within our chest And turned the key to seal the final chain So nature rages but it does not choose The path of no return we walk alone It is the mind that breaks, the hand that looses The irreversible seed that we have sown	7	The oceans rise to swallow ancient stone While volcanoes wake from centuries of sleep The storms tear through the forests like a bone And leave the silence where the rivers weep Yet these are forces old as time itself That shaped the world before we drew our breath But something new now haunts this fragile shelf A quiet death that brings a final wreath It is not fire from the sky above Or ice that freezes every living thing But cold ambition stripped of all our love That turns the song of life into a sting We built the walls to keep the chaos out Then lit the fuse within the very room And watched the garden turn to ash and doubt With no one left to sing the final tune The earth can heal from scars of wind and rain From tectonic shifts that crack the solid ground But when the poison seeps into the vein No spring will ever make the seeds rebound For nature knows the rhythm of decay And cycles back to start the dance anew But we have burned the path beyond the day And locked the door on what was once so true	7	The tectonic plates shift with a groan of ancient stone As volcanoes paint the sky in ash and burning gold A storm that never breaks, a tide that swallows coastlines whole Nature's fury is a song we learned to fear and hold But here lies the quiet truth no earthquake can explain We built our own destruction with hands of steel and flame No meteor struck the ground, no comet sought our name Just greed that turned the river dry and silenced every claim The ice retreats not from the sun but from the heat we made The forests fall to silent saws beneath a gray parade We hold the final key within a mind both sharp and blind To end the world before the stars have time to realign The earth may heal in eons past our fragile human span But we have carved a future where no life will ever stand A perfect, self-made silence where the wind forgets to blow The only species capable of making everything go	6	The storms arrive with ancient, roaring breath As tides reclaim the cities built on sand A cycle carved in stone and shifting air Where nature's wrath is old as time itself Yet something different lingers in the smoke A silence born of choices made too late We hold the power to unravel threads That once connected life to living soil No comet strikes to end this fragile world But hands that shaped the fire we now embrace A final act written in steel and ash Where hope dissolves beneath a rising tide The earth will heal long after we are gone But here we stand, the architects of loss Tracing lines that lead to empty skies And knowing full well what we leave behind	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 city is still asleep and the sky is a dirty grey, when they come with their sacks and their hooks, murmuring to each other in low tones. They sort through the bones of breakfast, the yellowed newspapers, the broken umbrellas that could not keep off the rain. There is a baby shoe with one sole on, and he picks it up gently and says to the other, I think she was pretty, she must have had a pretty name. And there is a letter, half eaten by rats, with a wedding ring inside, and the other man says, I think he didn't like her, or maybe she didn't like him. And they go on murmuring about the people who threw these things away, and they weave little dreams about them, little stories about what kind of lives they lived, and why they threw these things away. And when the sun comes up, and the city begins to stir, and the people begin to go about their business, they will see these men with their sacks and their hooks, and they will think they are dirty, and they will turn away from them, but they will not know that these men are the only ones who care about the things that the rest of the world have thrown away.	2	The street lamps flicker and die as the grey light of dawn seeps in, and we begin our low murmuring, a soft litany of clinking glass and rustling paper bags. My fingers brush a child's shoe, one red canvas sole worn thin, and I hear the patter of small feet running to catch a school bus, the sudden stop, the lost shoe, the crying that never reached us. You hold up a cracked compact mirror, your voice a dry leaf whispering, here is a woman who checked her teeth before an important meeting, who fixed her lipstick with trembling hands, and then threw it away when she decided not to go. We sift through the broken dreams like grains of rice or gravel, sorting the useless from the precious, seeing the lives we will never know in the stains on a shirt cuff, in the half-smoked cigarette, in the letter folded four times that was never sent. We are the priests of the refuse, weaving new stories from old rags, giving the rejected objects back their ghosts, their owners, their yesterday, while the city stretches and wakes and does not notice how much love we have found in its trash.	2	The streetlamps flicker out one by one as the city holds its breath in gray and they arrive with sacks of woven hope to sift the silence of the night's debris. A murmuring begins, a soft low hum like bees around a broken hive as fingers trace the spine of books where lovers wrote their names and then erased them. This cracked porcelain cup held morning tea for someone who never came back to finish it the stain on the rim a map of hurried lips now part of a stranger's quiet inventory. They sort through plastic toys with missing eyes imagining the child who dropped this here perhaps chasing a ball into the gutter or perhaps just tired of playing alone. A wedding dress, yellowed at the hem draped over a rusted shopping cart they whisper about the bride who ran away or the mother who sold it for bread. In these fragments of discarded lives they weave new stories from the scraps finding gold in what was thrown as waste and dreaming that the trash might dream of them. The sun breaks over the rooftops now burnishing the mountains of refuse while the pickers tie their knots and move on carrying the ghosts of other people's days.	3	The streetlamps hum a low and dying tune As shadows stretch across the wet asphalt Where figures move with quiet, rhythmic grace And murmurs rise like steam from cooling tea A child's blue shoe lies crumpled in the gutter They pick it up and hold it to their ear Hearing the echo of a running laugh That vanished when the family moved away Here is a diary with pages torn The ink still fresh with promises unkept They trace the words with fingers rough and stained And wonder who wrote love then threw it out A wedding ring sits heavy on a glove The gold worn thin by worry or by time They do not sell it for a coin today But dream of rings that fit on different hands The cart wheels creak a song of found things Of broken clocks that stopped at midnight once Of letters sealed but never sent to mail Each object holds a ghost within its frame They sort the past into neat piles of hope Mending the fabric of a stranger's life While morning breaks to wash the world in gray And dreams remain inside the discarded trash	6	The streetlights hum a low and dying tune As boots crunch softly on the wet asphalt They move in silence, then a sudden murmur Like wind through dry leaves in a forgotten yard A child's shoe, one sole worn thin by running Held up to gray dawn with a gentle tilt It speaks of scraped knees and a laughter that echoed Before the door slammed shut on a hurried night Here lies a letter, crumpled tight with anger The ink still sharp against the yellowed page They trace the words without reading them fully Guessing at the heartbreak hidden in the folds A wedding ring, tarnished by rain and time Sits heavy in a palm roughened by labor They imagine the vow made beneath bright lights Now lost among soda cans and broken glass Each object carries ghosts of who we were A story told in rust and faded plastic They weave these fragments into quiet dreams Of lives discarded but never truly gone The sun begins to bleed across the sky Washing over piles of what was left behind And for a moment, everything feels whole again Before the world moves on and leaves them there	5	The streetlights hum a low and fading tune As shadows stretch across the broken glass Where hands move slow to lift the heavy moon Of yesterday that failed to come to pass A child's shoe holds the ghost of running feet A ticket stub whispers of a train that left too soon The coffee cup still warm with bitter heat Remembers laughter shared beneath the noon They sort the silence, piece by dusty piece Murmuring names they never knew or saw In every crack, a story finds release From what the world decided was no flaw This torn letter speaks of love unspoken That plastic toy recalls a birthday scream The fabric frayed, the promise quietly broken Still weaving threads within a waking dream They gather fragments of a life let go And build a castle from the things cast out While morning breaks to watch the winds blow Turning the lost into a quiet doubt No judgment here, only the gentle shift Of value found where others saw decay A hidden map inside the drifting drift To guide the heart back to its own array	6	The streetlamps hum a fading song As shadows stretch across the cold gray stone Where hands, worn rough by years of dust Unfold the secrets of the night before A crumpled letter, ink still wet with rain Holds words too heavy for a gentle heart The picker pauses, tracing every line And sees a love that slipped through trembling fingers Beneath the rusted hinge of broken chairs They find the echo of a laughter shared A child's toy, painted bright in faded hues Whispers of play now lost to time and silence Soft murmurs rise like mist against the dawn Weaving threads from what was cast aside Each fragment tells a story left behind Of lives that shifted, fractured, or simply moved on In this quiet dance of sorting and reclaiming The discarded becomes something more than waste A mirror reflecting all we choose to leave While morning breaks to heal the weight of yesterday	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 known the dark of it, the long nights when the wind blew cold through every chink in the door, and we had to huddle together to keep from freezing. We have known the sting of salt water in our eyes and mouths, and we have known the bitterness of not knowing which way was up. But we did not let go. When you slipped I caught you, and when I faltered you held me up. We learned that love is not a picture hung on a wall, but the work of keeping a house standing in a storm. Now the wind is dying down. The sky is clearing over the hill, and we can see the road. It is not a smooth road, and we shall have our stumbling blocks, but it is a road, and it leads forward, and it leads home.	3	The wind howled loud against the window pane And shook the glass where we sat shivering, Counting the cost of every drop of rain That fell on roofs too thin to shelter us. We had our quarrels then, and sharp despair, And walked alone a while in separate mists, But found the way back by a single hair Of thread that held when all the rest were twisted. Now look how clear the morning air has grown, How safe the path we walk upon today; We planted seeds beneath a bitter stone And watched them push the heavy dirt away. No storm can shake this ground we stand upon, For we have built it with our own two hands, Our love is not the fragile thing we were When first we tried to hold these shifting sands. It is the rock, the river and the tree, It is the light that cuts the foggy night, A quiet certainty that waits for me And holds me fast within its steady sight. So let us go where fields are green and wide, With nothing left to fear and all to gain, Two people walking with their arms inside Each other's arms along the sunlit plain.	7	The road was rough and full of stone And we were often left alone With shadows stretching long and deep While all the world was fast asleep. We held on tight when winds blew cold And stories of our love grew old Yet in the dark we found a spark A steady light against the dark. We learned to speak in quiet tones When anger rose and fear had grown To listen past the hurtful word Until the silence could be heard. Now morning breaks upon the hill The air is calm, the path is still No longer lost in storm or rain We walk together through the plain. Our hands are joined, our hearts are clear The future waits for us right here Not free from every single test But stronger than the very best.	7	The wind howled through the cracks we tried to seal And rain found every place our hands let go But in the shaking dark, we learned to feel The steady rhythm of a shared heartbeat below You held my face when shadows stretched too long And whispered words that anchored me to ground We sang a quiet song against the wrong Until the silence lost its heavy sound Now morning breaks with light that feels less gray As we walk forward on a path made clear Leaving the stormy nights and storms away To build a home where only peace can steer No map could show the way we found today Through tangled roots and rivers deep and wide But love remains the compass for our stay As side by side, we step into the tide	7	The road was narrow then, paved with broken glass And every step we took felt like a gamble against the storm You held my hand so tight it left a mark upon my skin A silent promise that you would not let go when the wind grew cold We learned to speak in whispers when the world began to shake To find a rhythm in the chaos, a steady beat beneath the noise Our love was not a shield that kept the danger at the door But a quiet fire that burned inside while everything else turned gray Now the sky is opening up, revealing colors we had forgotten The fog that once obscured our path has lifted from the ground We walk with lighter steps toward a horizon soft and clear Where safety waits like an old friend who knows our names by heart No longer defined by what we lost or fought to survive We stand as architects of something built to last the test of time Two voices merging into one, a song of peace and deep repair Moving forward into morning, leaving shadows in the rear	6	The storm has worn a path through every wall we built And left the floorboards trembling under heavy feet We speak in whispers now, not to hide from fear But to honor what remains when silence breaks Your hand finds mine within the shifting dark A steady anchor in the rising tide of doubt We do not promise that the sky will always clear Only that we will walk until the light returns Every scar upon our skin tells where we stood Against the wind that tried to tear us apart Yet here we stand, two roots intertwined and deep Refusing to let go of what we have become The road ahead is long but paved with quiet hope No longer lost within the chaos of the past We move as one toward a horizon soft and gold Where safety waits for those who choose to stay	6	The storm has broken against the shore we built where silence once held weight too heavy to bear we trace the cracks that time tried to seal and find them filled with gold, not fear or air You speak of nights when shadows stretched too wide when doubt whispered lies beneath the floorboards creaking yet in your eyes, a steady flame survives refusing every wind that sought to break us free We walk now through the mist that used to blind each step a promise made to heal the past no longer running from the ghosts we left behind but building bridges where the rivers used to crash The path ahead is quiet, soft and clear a space where safety blooms without the fight two hearts aligned against the shifting year turning the darkness into morning light	6
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 see you wheeling through the black, No girdles of the earth to hold you fast, No laws but your own light to track, No masks to put on for the night or day. You have no faces that you must assume, No rules to keep you from your wild course; You burst in splendor from a silent womb, And keep your uncontrolled and free course. O I would be like you! Unmasked by any name, Unbound by any rule or frame, I would burn my heart out in a flame. I would be myself, And nothing else, In all the world's self-constituted hell, I would be myself.	5	I watch them wheel above the town In naked fire and silver gown, No laws to hold their orbits tight, No masks to hide their burning light. They do not ask for leave to shine, Or bow before a rule or line, But burst in wild, unbridled glee, Unchained and free as free can be. O that I too could cast away The heavy cloak of night and day, The rules that bind my tongue and feet, And make my common life complete! To run along the Milky Way And burn without a fear of day, Unmasked, unbound, no care to keep, But plunge into the dark and leap.	6	I watch you spin in silver arcs above, Unmasked by day, unbound by human law, No heavy cloak of custom drags your love, No judge to sentence what you are or saw. You burn exactly as you choose to burn, A wild and untamed fire without a fence, While I must wait for lessons to be learned And wear the quiet armor of defense. Oh, how I ache to shed this skin of gray, To strip the rules that stitch my mouth so tight, And let my own true colors have their day In naked, reckless, unafraid delight. To be a star is not to ask permission, But simply be, and glow, and break the chain, To live in pure and absolute commission, Without a single shadow or a stain.	7	They dance in silver, wild and unconfined No borders drawn across their burning skin No laws of gravity can hold them down Or tell them where to end or where begin I watch them spin in naked, brilliant fire Unmasked by day, unshackled by the night While I wear heavy clothes of quiet desire And walk beneath a ceiling made of light Oh how I ache to shed this human shell To burn without a name or face to show To let my heart explode and ring its bell With nothing left for any rules to know Let me be dust that drifts through endless space A spark that answers only to the dark Without a single mask upon my face Or chains to leave a permanent, cold mark	6	They spin in silver, wild and unconfined No laws to hold their light or trace their path A billion years of dancing, free from mind Unburdened by the heavy weight of wrath I watch them burn without a single mask No rules to carve the edges of their glow While I am bound by every quiet task And forced to wear the face that others know Oh, how I ache to shed this skin of stone To drift where gravity has lost its claim To let my spirit sing a song unknown And never speak a word within the same Let me dissolve into the velvet deep Where silence holds no judgment, only space Awake from all the promises I keep And find the joy they wear upon their face	6	They dance in silent halls of endless night With no command to bow or hold their breath A billion sparks that burn without a fight And never fear the cold that waits beneath I watch them spin in wild, unchained delight No walls to keep the ancient light at bay While I am bound by rules I did not write And wear a mask that fades into the gray Oh how I ache to shed this heavy skin To float untethered through the velvet deep Where gravity cannot pull us down again And promises are made for souls to keep Let me be dust that drifts on solar winds Unmasked and free from every human chain Where every star is both the start and end Of all the joy we were meant to sustain	6	They dance without a script to hold them tight No gravity of silence keeps them still A billion sparks that burn with pure delight Unwritten laws beneath the cosmic hill I wear a mask of quiet, worn and thin While constellations shift in wild design The weight of every rule I carry deep within As shadows stretch where light should freely shine Oh, how I crave the wind that never asks for names To drift through voids where no one dares to judge To let the chaos sing its ancient flames And trade my fragile ground for endless surge If I could shed the skin of what is known To scatter like the dust of distant skies Where freedom blooms in seeds we've never sown And truth is found in stars that never lie	6
67	train	[A] Talisman by Marianne Moore	Marianne Moore	"A poem about a shepherd discovering a mysterious seagull-shaped talisman beneath the wreckage of a grounded, broken ship."	Under a splintered mast, torn from ship and cast near her hull, a stumbling shepherd found embedded in the ground, a sea-gull of lapis lazuli, a scarab of the sea, with wings spread— curling its coral feet, parting its beak to greet men long dead.	The tide had left the hull to rot and rust, A skeletal whale upon the shifting sand, Where gulls once screamed above the broken mast, Now silence held the wreckage in its hand. I walked among the splintered ribs of wood, My flock asleep within the distant dune, When something caught the light where shadows stood, Beneath a beam that fell like early moon. It was not bone, nor driftwood, nor old rope, But metal cold as winter's deepest breath, Carved into the shape of hope or scope, A seagull frozen in a silent death. Its wings were spread as if to catch the wind, Yet etched with symbols I could not decipher, A talisman from lands beyond the mind, That seemed to hum with some forgotten cipher. I lifted it and felt a sudden chill, As if the ocean whispered through the stone, The ship was dead, but this was made to will, A guardian for the lost who walk alone. No captain's coin, no sailor's lucky charm, Just bird-shaped magic found in ruin's keep, I tucked it close against my woolen arm, And watched the sea while all the world fell asleep.	The wind blew hard on the shingle beach, The sheep lay huddled in a corner of the fold, When I saw the wreckage sticking out of the sand, A black tooth broken off from a dark whale. I went to see if there were sheep or goats That had strayed into the ship's ribs; I found no sheep but a dead gull, And under it a thing of gold. It was a gull, but not a dead gull; It was made of gold and enamel, With wings spread wide as if to fly, But fixed for ever on its back. It had a blue stone for an eye, And a little silver chain attached; It was a talisman, I suppose, For some one who liked sea-birds. I picked it up and looked at it, And it seemed to look at me; And I thought of all the seagulls that Have been killed and eaten by men. And I thought of all the seamen that Have been drowned in the sea; And I thought of all the ships that Have been wrecked on the shore. And I thought of all the things that Men have lost in the sea; And I thought of all the things that Men have found in the sea. And I put it in my pocket, And I went home with the sheep; And I never told anybody What I had found in the wreck.	2	The ship lay broken on the shingle, A ribcage picked by wind and tide, Where gulls had screamed their wild complaint And left the timbers to abide. The shepherd sought a stray lamb there, Beneath the shadow of the mast, When something glinted in the weeds, Not glass nor stone, but silver cast. He picked it up, a seagull shape, With wings outspread as if to fly, Its eyes were chips of sapphire blue, Beneath the vast and weeping sky. No hook or ring was set to hold it, Yet heavy as a bar of lead, It felt alive within his hand, As though it waited to be led. The broken ship groaned in the evening, But silence fell around the bird, As if the talisman alone Had kept the worst of words unheard. He tucked it in his sheepskin vest, Against the beating of his heart, To guard against the coming storm, Or else to keep him from departing.	6	The tide had left the galleon high and dry, A skeleton of ribs against the gray, Where salt and rust and silence met to lie Beneath the heavy blanket of the day. My flock had wandered off to seek the green, So I climbed up the tilted, rotting deck, To see what secrets lay within the scene Of broken wood and splintered timber wreck. There, wedged beneath a beam of water-swollen pine, Half-buried in the sand and matted weed, It caught the dull reflection of the brine, And seemed to answer some unspoken need. No bone or shell, but metal cold and bright, Shaped like a seagull with its wings spread wide, As if it sought to take a sudden flight From where the shattered hull and ocean died. I brushed away the grime of years and rain, To find no maker's mark upon the wing, Just smooth curves that suggested joy and pain, Like birds that sing when storms are on the wing. It felt alive within my calloused hand, Though cast from sea and time and deep despair, A talisman for one who rules the land, Yet found this token hanging in the air. Perhaps it fell from skies above the mast, Or rose from depths to watch the vessel break, A guardian of the storm that came too fast, Now resting here for my own spirit's sake. I tucked it close against my woolen vest, And turned my face toward the grazing sheep, Leaving the ship to finish its long rest, With mystery now mine alone to keep.	6	The tide had pulled the great ship down To rest upon the shingle gray, Where splintered ribs of oak and pine Were scattered in the breaking day. I walked the beach with staff in hand, My flock asleep behind the dune, When something caught the morning light Beneath a beam of rotting moon. It was not bone, nor driftwood brown, Nor shell that washed from ocean deep, But metal cold and shaped like wings That promised secrets for the keep. A seagull carved with eyes of glass, Its beak held fast to silver dust, Found in the wreckage's heavy heart Where rust and salt had turned to crust. No bird could fly so still as this, No feather made of steel so bright, Yet when I touched its frozen form, The wind seemed hushed within my sight. The broken hull groaned low below, As if it knew what I had found, And in the silence of the wreck, A silent song began to sound. I tucked the talisman away Against my woolen shepherd's vest, To guide the lost and mark the path Where sea and sky are put to test.	6	The tide had pulled the timber back To leave a skeleton of rust and bone, Where salt-stung grasses meet the track Of waves that once had claimed it as their own. I walked among the splintered ribs, A shepherd seeking stray and lost, When something caught the light that slips Between the clouds and ocean's ghost. Beneath a beam of rotting wood, It gleamed with silver, sharp and cold, A shape where wings in silence stood, A story waiting to be told. No feather touched the wind or air, Yet carved from stone or ancient gold, The seagull lay beyond compare, With eyes that held a tale untold. Its beak was pointed toward the deep, As if to guide the wandering soul, While all the world around me slept, And made the broken ship feel whole. I lifted up the talisman, Too heavy for a human hand, And felt the weight of every man Who sought the sea and could not stand. The gulls above began to cry, But silent fell this bird of stone, A promise kept beneath the sky, For one who walks the shore alone.	6	The tide has pulled the timber back To leave the rusted spine exposed Where silence breaks the morning's crack And salt remains on broken bones A shepherd walks the jagged shore With staff of oak and woolen cloak He sees a gleam beneath the wood That catches light like ocean smoke No fish, no shell, no driftwood grain But silver shaped with wings unfurled A bird that never knew the rain Or sang within this empty world He lifts the weight from sand and stone A talisman of ancient craft It hums a low and hollow tone As if it remembers every laugh The ship is dead, the sails are torn Yet in his hand, the seagull flies A secret kept since storms were born Beneath the gray and endless skies	6	The tide has pulled the timber back to sand Where once a hull of iron met the sky A shepherd walks where silence holds its hand Beneath the rust that time cannot deny His boots crunch soft against the jagged bone Of ribs that held the ocean in their grasp Until the storm claimed what was never known And left the wreckage for the wind to map He sees a glint beneath the splintered wood No gold or coin, but something strange and deep A silver shape where broken currents stood Awake within the shadows of the sleep It bears the wings of gulls that cry above Yet carved from stone that hums with ancient breath A talisman of salt and quiet love Defying all the weight of grief and death The shepherd lifts the bird to catch the light As seagulls circle high above the shore No sound remains to mark the fading night Only the whisper of a distant roar	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 and watched the red leaves tumble down, she cried because they left the tree and could not get back up again. She thought it was a wicked thing that summer should be forced to die, and she put her small hands in her lap to hold the tears from running dry. She did not know that she herself was just a green leaf on a tree, that winter would come round to her as well as to the bough and bee. She did not know that she must drop and cease to be what she had been, but only mourned the pretty leaves that fell upon the grassy green.	5	The little girl sits on the stone and watches how they fall, the maple and the birch alone descend against the wall. She cries because they used to be so green and high and bright, and now they lie so still and free to sleep within the night. Poor leaves, she says, you were so strong, you cannot fly again; how sad that you belong so long to earth, to rain, to pain. She does not know her own small hand will one day turn as brown, nor that she too must leave this land and never come back down. She only thinks of them, the leaves, who lost their hold on air, and weeps for all the summer eaves that left them standing there.	6	She knelt upon the damp and cooling grass To watch the maple drifts come tumbling down, And wept to see the crimson beauty pass From high green boughs to earth without a crown. Oh, how they fall so suddenly and deep, With no more breath to hold them in the air, A promise that the trees were forced to keep To strip themselves of all their glory there. She cried because the summer could not stay, Because the gold must turn to brown and rot, Unknowing that she too must fade away, That she will one day be the thing forgot. The wind blows through her hair as through the wood, A whisper of the cold that waits for all, But she believes only the leaves are good Enough to grieve, and none beside them fall.	7	She watches the maple let go its grip And drifts down to the mossy ground A crimson coin spent on the wind Where silence is the only sound Why do they fall so tired and slow? She asks the cold and empty air As if the tree could answer back Or pull them from the frosty lair She traces veins that turn to brown Like maps of places she will never see And feels a hollow in her chest That matches every falling tree It is not just the autumn chill That makes her shiver in her coat But something deep inside her bones That knows the final, quiet note She does not know she counts her days With every leaf that hits the floor Mourning a life she has not lost Before the winter closes door	6	She watches them drift from the high and brittle bough A slow descent of gold to the cold, damp ground Each one a whisper that she cannot quite hear As the wind steals the color from the quiet air Why do they let go so easily she asks Clutching her small hands against the shivering chill Not knowing that the branch is just a promise And the falling is the only truth we hold She mourns the summer that has slipped away The green that turned to rust beneath her feet Unaware that her own breath is borrowed time That she too will one day join the silent heap The roots drink deep while she counts every loss Believing it is only trees that die But in the hollow space where leaves once clung She sees a shadow waiting for her name	6	The oak lets go of gold too soon And she catches every falling bone Of branches stripped by winter's breath A silent pact with quiet death She weeps for leaves that turn to dust Not knowing why her chest feels rusted Each crimson drift a fading spark That mirrors time inside the dark Why does the earth demand the green? Why must the vibrant be unseen? She holds a leaf against her skin And wonders where the end begins The wind blows cold against her cheek A truth too heavy for to speak That one day she will join the ground Where all the broken colors drown	6	She watches autumn paint the ground in gold A quiet weight that settles on her chest As branches bare their bones to winter's cold And leaves surrender all they once possessed Her fingers trace the veins of dried-up green Where life once pulsed beneath a summer sky The silence speaks of endings she cannot see Beneath the weight of time and passing days Each falling whisper breaks a fragile thread That binds her heart to moments yet to come A sorrow deep within the shifting air For storms that wait beyond the horizon line She cries for colors lost to frost and night Unknowing that the wind will one day call To steal the breath from lungs so soft and warm And turn her spirit into dust and gray The season turns, a cycle vast and old While she stands still amidst the drifting snow Believing grief belongs to trees alone Not realizing it is hers to hold	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 have known the dark of it the long nights when the wind blew in from all the wrong directions, and I have known the cold of it, when there was no one to hold me but the shadows. But now you are here, and you are like a great house in which I can live, or like a great field in which I can be happy. And I am going to dedicate myself to this new love and happiness. I am going to dedicate myself to you.	5	The winter of my heart is done, The gray and bitter days are gone. I cast the heavy cloak away That wrapped me in a cold dismay. Now comes the sun to warm my face, And bring me to this happy place, Where you stand guard with steady hand, Across this new and lovely land. No ghost of grief shall cross your line, Or make these tender hours shine With any shade of former pain, For I am sheltered from the rain. You are the wall, the roof, the tree, That keeps the wild winds off of me, And as I lay my sorrows down, I wear your love like finest gown. So let the past be lost and dead, With all its tears and words unsaid. Here in the circle of your arms, I find new life, I find new charms. I give myself to joy today, To chase the gloomy night away, Protected by your faithful sight, I walk into the golden light.	7	The winter in my chest has finally thawed beneath the warmth of your protecting hand, and all the heavy stones I once have bowed now roll away from out this quiet land. I left the shadows where the sorrow grew to stand within the sunlight you provide, a sky so vast and clear and bright and new with nothing left for grief or fear inside. No longer will I walk the path alone or guard my heart against the coming rain, for you have made this broken place your own and healed the deep and ancient, hidden pain. So here I give myself to love's embrace and let the happiness I found take hold, safe in the shelter of your steady face, a story of joy that never can grow old.	7	The winter of my heart has finally thawed Beneath the gentle weight of your embrace No longer do I fear the shadows drawn Across the quiet corners of this place For you have built a wall against the rain That once would wash away my fragile hope And turn my sorrow into sweet refrain Where now our laughter and our joy can cope I lay my burdens down at feet so steady To walk beside you through the coming light My spirit, once so weary and so ready To fade within the endless depth of night Now safe within the circle of your arms I find a peace I never thought to keep A shelter from the world's chaotic charms Where love awakes from out its ancient sleep So let the past dissolve like morning mist By dawn's first kiss upon the waking sky In you I am complete, in you I exist With nothing left for tears or grief to dry	7	The winter in my chest has finally thawed As shadows retreat before your steady light No longer do I walk the path unawed By ghosts that haunted every quiet night You stand between the storm and trembling bone A shield against the winds that used to break Where once I walked alone, I now feel known And find a strength within the hands you take Let sorrow fade like mist beneath the sun For I have found a harbor safe and deep My heart is yours, the battle truly won With promises of joy you vowed to keep I lay down armor forged from years of pain To let the warmth of us begin to grow In this new dawn, I breathe without the strain Of carrying the weight of yesterday's snow	7	The shadows of my yesterdays have finally lost their grip As winter melts beneath the warmth of your open hand I lay down every heavy stone I carried through the night And let the silence break with songs I never planned to sing You stand between the storm and me, a wall against the rain Where once I wandered broken, now I find a steady ground No longer do I fear the dark or whisper old regrets For in your gaze, a future blooms where hope has taken root I offer up this heart that beat so fast with quiet dread To hold within the safety of a love that asks for nothing but truth The sorrow fades like morning mist before the rising sun And I am whole again, wrapped tight in arms that know my name	7	The shadows of my yesterdays have finally lost their hold As warmth replaces silence in the stories I once told No longer bound by grief that whispered lies within the air I find a gentle hand to guide me through the weight of despair Your arms become the fortress where the storm can never break A promise written softly for the heart that dared to ache With every breath you offer, old wounds begin to fade Replaced by golden moments that no memory can invade I lay my broken pieces down upon this sacred ground Where love has built a sanctuary from the fear that used to drown Here is where I choose to bloom, beneath your steady light Turning midnight into morning with a courage born of night Let go of what was heavy, let the past dissolve away For in your quiet presence, I am safe and free to stay This journey starts anew today, with hope as our design Dedicated to the dawn we share, where joy and grace align	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 ox ploughs on, and the ox is right. The ship sails on, and the ship is right. I am in the corner of the eye, and I am not there. The ploughshare turns up the earth, and does not turn me up. The sail fills with wind, and does not fill me. The people go about their business: they buy bread, they pay rent, they make love. I fade into the background, like a stain on the wall which nobody sees because nobody looks at the wall. I am like the weather in a country where it always rains. I am like the weather in a country where it never rains. The ox ploughs on. The ship sails on. The people go about their business.	2	The great ship cuts the water, the ploughman turns the earth, and no one sees the man sitting on the curb. His throat is full of stones, his hands are full of glass, but the wind blows through the sails and passes through him as if he were only air. He watches them go by, their eyes fixed on the goal, on furrows deep and straight, on harbors safe and whole. They do not hear him cry, they do not see him bleed, for suffering unremarked is nothing but a weed that grows behind the barn, or something in the street that people step around without looking at their feet. And so he fades away, a shadow on the wall, while others work and sail and answer nature's call.	5	The crack in the wall widens by a hair while the baker kneads his dough with rhythmic hands and no one sees the dust settling on the shelf where a small grief has quietly gathered weight. Outside the ploughman turns the heavy earth his back bent to the sun, his mind on rain the ship cuts through the grey and swelling water its captain checking charts for wind and tide. They do not hear the floorboard creaking out nor see the shadow lengthen in the room as suffering grows thin and transparent until it is just part of the air they breathe. The cart rolls on, the oar dips in the sea the daily round continues without pause and I am fading into background noise a minor detail in the busy day.	3	The crack in the wall widens by a hair While the baker kneads his dough with rhythmic hands And no one sees the shadow lengthen there Or hears the quiet shifting of the sands A ship cuts through the gray and heavy tide With sails full of a wind that does not care For the small voice that struggles deep inside Or for the silence hanging in the air The ploughman turns the earth in furrows deep Ignoring how the ground beneath him shakes He has a harvest that he means to reap And no time left for broken, fading stakes The world moves on with wheels that never stop To ask why someone's breath has grown so thin It rolls right over every sudden drop And lets the unnoticed suffering begin To fade like mist before the morning sun Beneath the weight of ordinary days Until the struggle is completely done And swallowed up by all the common ways	7	The crack in the wall widens slowly while the farmer turns his heavy plough through soil that knows nothing of the ache that hums beneath the floorboards. A ship cuts through the gray horizon its sails full of wind and purpose ignoring the silence growing deep within the hull where a single heart has stopped beating its rhythm. Coffee steams on tables in the morning light children laugh at games of tag the world moves forward with a steady, careless stride carrying on as if the shadow never fell. It is not loud enough to stop the wheels not sharp enough to break the routine just a quiet erosion fading into the dust as everyone else continues to sail and sow and live.	5	The crack in the wall widens by a hair While the baker kneads his dough with steady hands And the river carves its path through stone Ignoring the silence that has settled deep A shadow falls across the floorboards But the clock keeps ticking, loud and bright No one stops to count the missing breaths As the ships set sail for distant shores The plough turns earth in fields of gold Unaware of the weight beneath the soil The wind blows cold against the windowpane Yet life moves on, unbroken and entire We fade into the wallpaper's design A pattern lost within the daily hum While others walk the streets we used to know Carrying nothing but their simple days	6	The heavy weight that cracks the bone Is swallowed by the morning air As farmers till the endless soil With hands that know no fear or care The ship cuts through the silver waves While silence holds the broken heart No storm can drown the quiet grief That leaves a mark but never starts They walk the path of ordinary days Unaware of shadows deep and cold The world moves on without a sound As stories written in the old And slowly, pain begins to fade Into the hum of daily life A ghost within the bustling street Cut loose from hope and stripped of strife	6
93	ultra_held_out	Balloons by Sylvia Plath	Sylvia Plath	"A poem about finding fleeting beauty in ordinary things, only to be pulled back into a harsh reality that shatters innocence and childhood dreams."	Since Christmas they have lived with us, Guileless and clear, Oval soul-animals, Taking up half the space, Moving and rubbing on the silk Invisible air drifts, Giving a shriek and pop When attacked, then scooting to rest, barely trembling. Yellow cathead, blue fish———— Such queer moons we live with Instead of dead furniture! Straw mats, white walls And these traveling Globes of thin air, red, green, Delighting The heart like wishes or free Peacocks blessing Old ground with a feather Beaten in starry metals. Your small Brother is making His balloon squeak like a cat. Seeming to see A funny pink world he might eat on the other side of it, He bites, Then sits Back, fat jug Contemplating a world clear as water. A red Shred in his little fist. 5 February 1963	The dust motes danced in afternoon light Like tiny stars trapped in a jar of air I held my breath to catch their flight And found a universe beyond compare A dandelion clock upon the lawn Held secrets of the wind I could not know The world was soft before the dawn With colors only children seem to grow But then the door slammed hard and deep A voice that cut the silence like a knife Woke me from the quiet, golden sleep To show the jagged edges of real life The stars turned back to floating dust The magic faded with the setting sun The trust we placed in dreams was crushed By things we knew were never meant to be done Now innocence is just a broken thing Left on the floor where shadows start to creep While childhood songs no longer sing And promises are buried in our sleep	A blue bottle-cap on the sidewalk is a sapphire shield for a king, and the dandelion pushing through the concrete is a sunburst. I crouch to look at it closely, my face near the ground, seeing in the serrated leaves a fairy kingdom of gold and green, where I was never too old to believe in fairies. Then a boot comes down, not a fairy godmother's wand, but a heavy black boot with steel toe, crushing the yellow head flat against the mud. And the boot goes on walking, and I go on walking, and I am not a fairy king, and the only thing royal about me is the dirt on my knees, and I am not ten years old any more.	2	The light caught dust motes dancing in the hall Like tiny stars that only I could see, And for a moment all was bright and small, A world of gold and pure simplicity. I thought the dandelion clock would keep Its promise to blow wishes on the air, That monsters slept beneath the bed while we Were safe from care and free from any fear. But then the telephone began to ring, A harsh and shrill intrusion in the room, And something inside me ceased to sing, And childhood faded like a sudden gloom. The light went out, the stars were just some dust, The monster woke, the innocent belief Was crushed beneath a cold and brutal gust, Leaving me with nothing but my grief.	6	The dandelion clock in the cracked sidewalk blew a thousand wishes on the breeze, and for a moment the sun was gold enough to turn the grey pavement into a palace floor. I held my breath and saw the dragonfly's wings as stained glass windows of a church I built alone, where time stood still and nothing ever broke. Then the truck backfired like a gunshot shattering the silence and the spell, the sky turned the color of bruised iron, and the pavement remained just cold, hard stone. My knees are scraped from falling out of bed again, the castle is dust, the dragon is dead, and the wind only smells of exhaust and rain.	2	The dust motes dancing in the kitchen light Looked like tiny stars caught in a jar, And for a moment, time stood still and bright, As if the world was made of glass and star. I traced the cracks upon the window pane And saw a map to lands I'd never known, Where golden fields would grow inside the rain, And every broken thing could be mended stone. But then the phone rang sharp against the wall, A jagged sound that tore the silence wide, And shadows lengthened, swallowing it all, With nowhere left for wonder to abide. The dream dissolved into the gray of day, Revealing bills and debts and cold hard floors, The innocence was stripped and cast away, Behind the locked and bolted bedroom doors. Now magic hides behind a heavy sigh, The stars are just reflections on the glass, We watch the ordinary moments die, And let the harsh reality come to pass.	6	The dandelion pushes through the crack in stone A tiny sun that refuses to be alone Its yellow petals catch the morning light And for a moment, everything feels right We chase the wind with hands held wide and open Believing magic is just waiting to be spoken That clouds are ships sailing to distant shores Where nothing ever breaks or ever rores But then the rain begins to fall like nails Dissolving hope beneath the garden rails The sky turns gray, a heavy, crushing weight Erasing every dream we dared to create The toy soldier rusts within the muddy deep While promises we made are left to sleep No golden hour can hold against the night As shadows stretch to steal away the light We wake to find the world is cold and hard With no soft place where broken hearts can guard The innocence we wore has turned to dust Trampled by the gears of time and trust What was once a wonder now feels like a lie Beneath the vast and unblinking empty sky	6	The dust motes dance in golden light A secret world of quiet grace Where time forgets to rush or fight And every shadow finds its place We chased the wind through fields of green Believing magic lived in stone That nothing broken could be seen In gardens we had never known But thunder cracks the fragile sky As rain washes colors from the ground The gentle lies begin to die With every heavy, falling sound The door swings wide to cold and gray No fairy tale remains to hold The innocence fades fast away Leaving only stories turned to gold Then rusted iron starts to scream Replacing whispers with a roar Shattering the waking dream Behind a locked and silent door	7	The dust motes dance in golden light A quiet promise held within the air Where shadows stretch and time slows down To weave a tapestry of soft repair I reach to catch the fleeting grace Of morning dew upon a rusted gate Believing magic hides beneath the weight Of simple things we often overlook with haste But silence breaks with sudden, jagged sound As winter wind tears through the fragile thread The dream dissolves before the breaking dawn Leaving only cold where warmth once led No fairy tales remain to shield the heart From storms that rise without a warning sign The innocence fades like smoke from fire Revealing cracks too deep for hope to climb What was once bright now turns to gray A lesson carved in stone and endless night The ordinary holds no gentle truth Just echoes lost in fading, fractured light	7
96	ultra_held_out	Song of the Open Road by Walt Whitman	Walt Whitman	A poem about a speaker embarking on an open road journey, freely choosing his own destiny and carrying life's burdens with him as they arise.	Afoot and light-hearted I take to the open road, Healthy, free, the world before me, The long brown path before me leading wherever I choose. Henceforth I ask not good-fortune, I myself am good-fortune, Henceforth I whimper no more, postpone no more, need nothing, Done with indoor complaints, libraries, querulous criticisms, Strong and content I travel the open road. The earth, that is sufficient, I do not want the constellations any nearer, I know they are very well where they are, I know they suffice for those who belong to them. (Still here I carry my old delicious burdens, I carry them, men and women, I carry them with me wherever I go, I swear it is impossible for me to get rid of them, I am fill’d with them, and I will fill them in return.)	The asphalt stretches out a gray and endless tongue I step away from walls that held me too long No map is folded in my pocket now Just the wind that whispers where to bow I do not know the name of any town I'll find Only the rhythm beating in my mind To choose the path, to turn when shadows grow And let the future bloom or fade or flow If sorrow comes it rides beside me on the seat A heavy coat I wear when rain and sleet Are falling hard upon the dusty glass I carry every weight as hours pass For burdens are the anchors of the soul That keep the spirit whole when cracks appear I take them up with hands both open wide And walk until the turning point inside The horizon calls a promise unconfined Leaving the old and broken things behind Not running from the pain that makes us real But driving forward with the things we feel	The gate swings wide and I step out into the white dust of the open road. No maps are in my pocket, no fixed destination in my head, only this straight and narrowing ribbon of asphalt leading to where it will. I am free to choose the right fork or the left, or even to turn back; but I go forward because that is what one does when one is free. And as I go I carry my burdens: the weight of an old regret, a sack of disappointments, and a bundle of hopes too large for any bag but my own heart. They sit on my shoulders like a pack-saddle and I do not throw them off; it would be wrong to leave them behind. They are part of me, they are part of my life, and if I am to have a life I must have my burdens with me. So I walk along with my burdens and with my freedom, on the open road.	6	The dust rises up to meet my boots And the horizon pulls away like a ribbon I do not ask where it leads For I am the one who ties the knot. No map is spread upon my knee No compass needle seeks a north I follow the curve of the wind And the sudden turn of the road. Should a heavy stone roll into my path I will lift it and carry it on my shoulder If a storm cloud gathers black above I will walk beneath it with my head high. These are the burdens life offers me Not as chains to bind my feet But as stones to build my cairn Or weights to anchor me in the gale. So I go forward, alone and free Choosing each step as I take it Carrying all that comes to pass As the open road rolls out before me.	6	The asphalt stretches out a gray tongue licking the horizon clean of yesterday I turn my back on the house of locks and keys and step into the wind that knows no master. No map is folded in my pocket now no schedule written in ink or blood only the pulse of tires against the stone and the freedom to be lost until I am found. If sorrow rises like dust from the dry ditch I will not brush it from my shoulder but carry it as part of the load a heavy, necessary stone for balance. If joy blooms sudden as a roadside flower I will stop to smell it then move on for destiny is not a place to reach but the walking itself, the burden and the breath. Let the hills roll up and the valleys fall away I am the driver and the road and the rain carrying what comes and leaving what goes free to choose the next mile, free to bear the weight.	3	The asphalt stretches out like a ribbon unspooled From the edge of a map I refused to read I leave the compass spinning in the dust And choose the direction only my feet can feel There is no script written for this mile No destiny waiting at the next gas station sign Just the hum of tires and the wind's low song As I step forward into the unknown line If sorrow comes, it will ride shotgun A heavy coat I put on when the air turns cold If joy arrives, it will sit beside me A bright stone warm against the winter mold I do not pack these things before I go Nor do I cast them off to lighten the load They rise with the sun and fall with the rain Part of the journey, part of the road So let the horizon pull me ever closer Let the burdens weigh me down or lift me high For every step I take is freely chosen Beneath the vast and unjudging sky	6	The engine hums a quiet song Against the gray of morning light I leave the keys to yesterday And step into the endless white No map is drawn, no path is set By hands that sought to guide my feet I choose the turn, I choose the wind Where chaos and the calm will meet Should sorrow rise like sudden rain I'll let it soak the dusty seat And carry every heavy stone Within the rhythm of my beat For destiny is not a gift That waits upon a distant shore But something built from every mile And all the things we can't ignore So onward through the shifting dust With burdens held but never chained The open road becomes my home As freedom in the wheel remains	6	The asphalt stretches out like a promise unbroken Where the horizon bends to meet the sky I step forward without asking for permission To carve a path that only I can see No map dictates where the shadows fall No voice commands the rhythm of my stride Just the wind that whispers through the open window And the quiet hum of wheels against the stone When sorrow rises like a sudden storm I do not turn back or seek a sheltered door Instead I carry it within my chest A weight that shapes the strength of who I am Every tear becomes part of the journey Every joy a light upon the dashboard glass I choose the turns, I welcome every detour With hands held steady on the steering wheel There is no end to this endless highway Only the now and the road ahead Carrying all I have ever been Into the vast and waiting unknown	6	The engine hums a quiet promise to the dawn As tires meet the asphalt, worn and gray No map remains to guide the wandering soul Just open skies where shadows start to fade I carry what I cannot leave behind The weight of yesterday in every breath A heavy cloak of memories that cling To hearts that beat beneath a fractured chest Yet here I stand with hands upon the wheel Choosing paths that twist through fields of gold Each mile a choice, each turn a silent vow To walk the line between the lost and whole Let storms arrive and wash the dust away Or let the sun ignite the endless blue I bear the scars without a plea for rest And find my strength within the things I knew The road stretches forward, wild and free Unwritten chapters waiting in the wind I hold the burden tight against my skin And trust the journey only I can begin	6
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 spring of 2020 when the streets were still, A nurse in New York with a face-masked smile, Stood for eight hours a day on a ward floor ill, And worked till she smiled at a patient a while. A grocer in Iowa who loaded the trucks, With milk and with bread and with sugar and salt, Gave rides to old people and neighbors and bucks, And said we are all in this terrible fault. A teacher in California who taught from her home, By telephone lines and by computer screens, Made sure that no children were left there to roam, And gave them good lessons and good clean dreams. One fought in the hospitals, one in the store, One taught in the living room sitting on the floor, They didn't know each other, they lived far apart, But they all had the same great American heart.	7	In a white coat stained with sweat and fear, A doctor stood her ground while others fled, She held the hand of strangers dying near, And prayed that all the living might be led. Across the state a farmer drove his truck, With boxes full of food for those in need, He left his crops to fill the hungry truck, And planted hope as well as every seed. A teacher turned her kitchen to a school, To teach the children locked inside their homes, She broke the rules of distance to be cool, And sent her love by electronic tones. Three different paths, one purpose strong and true, To bind the torn and separate together, They did what they were told to do, And pulled us through the foggy, rainy weather.	7	In a small town where the silence grew deep, A nurse in blue watched her neighbors sleep, With mask and gown and a gentle hand, She built a bridge across the land. She checked on elders alone in their homes, And drove through storms to bring them crumbs of hope, Saying we are one, though miles apart, With healing love as her beating heart. Across the state in a city of steel, A teacher worked with a tireless zeal, He turned his kitchen to a classroom bright, Sending out lessons by day and night. He fed the hungry with bags of bread, While keeping the spirits of children fed, He taught them kindness when fear was high, Underneath the same vast sky. Then came a man from a factory floor, Who opened his doors to the needy poor, He made thousands of masks by machine, To protect the weak and keep them clean. He sent them free to every street, From north to south, from east to west, Proving that when we stand as one, The hardest battles can be won. Three different paths but a single goal, To make the broken spirit whole, They showed us all in those dark days, That love is how we find our way. Through virus spread and social strife, They mended up the frayed-out life, And proved that Americans, side by side, Have nothing left for hate inside.	7	In quiet halls where silence used to reign, A nurse in scrubs stood guard against the pain, With mask pulled tight and eyes that held a light, She fought the dark throughout the longest night. Her hands were tired but her spirit strong, To heal the sick and right the broken wrong, She whispered hope to those who feared the end, And treated every stranger as a friend. Across the street where empty shelves once stood, A teacher typed with understanding good, She logged on late to reach each lonely child, Through static screens, she made the world seem mild. She taught them math and stories of the brave, That even in the storm, they'd find a wave, Of kindness rising from the schoolyard gate, To help them navigate their fear and fate. Then came the man who drove his truck at dawn, To bring fresh food before the break of dawn, He left it at the door with gentle care, For neighbors struggling with the weight of air. He dropped off masks and bread and warm supplies, Beneath the gray and uncertain skies, Three different paths, one goal to mend the tear, To show that love is stronger than our fear. They did not seek a medal or a name, Just sought to ease the burden and the shame, Of isolation's cold and heavy chain, Until the sun would rise and shine again. Together bound by service and by grace, They found the country in each other's face, And proved that when we stand as one united, No virus can divide us or unite.	7	In a world held tight by silence and fear, Three quiet hands reached out to draw near. A nurse in New York with eyes worn thin, Who stitched together hope beneath the skin, Delivering comfort when no one could stay, Turning the night into a brighter day. Across the plains where the wind blows cold, A teacher stood brave against the growing mold, With screens as windows and hearts wide open, Ensuring no child was left unspoken, Building bridges of learning through static and gray, Keeping the future from fading away. And deep in the South where the rivers run slow, A volunteer drove where the shadows would grow, Carrying masks and meals to those on their own, Planting seeds of kindness that would soon be sown, Proving that service needs no grand design, Just love for a neighbor, both yours and mine. Together they wove a thread strong and true, Binding the red, white, and blue anew, Not with a flag or a loud command, But with gentle acts across every land, Showing that heroes wear ordinary faces, Healing the fractures in our shared spaces.	7	A nurse in red scrubs stands guard at the door Where silence echoes and fear takes hold She wipes a brow with a gentle hand And whispers hope when the world feels cold A teacher lights up a screen so small To guide young minds through the dark and gray With patience woven into every word She keeps the future from fading away A volunteer packs boxes with bread and care Driving through rain to deliver grace From coast to coast, a quiet thread Weaves strangers close in this shared space Three different paths, one beating heart United by love in the time of strife They show us that even in broken days Community is the strongest life	7	A nurse who holds the hand of strangers in the quiet night While masks hide tears but cannot stop the light they bring to every room She stitches hope into the fabric of a fractured, trembling home And whispers words that heal the fear before the morning sun can rise A teacher turning empty desks into bridges built of digital sound Where voices find each other through the static and the heavy air He weaves a tapestry of learning from the silence of the street Proving that no distance can erase the bond of shared belonging here A volunteer who packs the boxes with the bread and medicine we need Connecting neighbors long apart with kindness forged in simple acts They carry weight upon their shoulders so the weary might stand tall Three threads that bind the broken pieces into something strong again	7
130	ultra_held_out	Table Talk by Wallace Stevens	Wallace Stevens	"A poem about contemplating how life's events and preferences are random and ultimately inconsequential, with death being the only certainty."	Granted, we die for good. Life, then, is largely a thing Of happens to like, not should. And that, too, granted, why Do I happen to like red bush, Grey grass and green-gray sky? What else remains? But red, Gray, green, why those of all? That is not what I said: Not those of all. But those. One likes what one happens to like. One likes the way red grows. It cannot matter at all. Happens to like is one Of the ways things happen to fall.	We choose our colors with a trembling hand And argue over shades of blue and red As if the canvas matters to the sand Or how the quiet river fills the bed The taste of coffee, bitter or too sweet The path we walk that leads us nowhere near Are just the echoes of a random beat That fades into the silence of the year No grand design explains why this or that Why one is loved and one is left behind A coin flips high within a cosmic hat And lands on nothing that the mind can find So let us build our castles in the air And claim they stand against the coming tide For death is waiting everywhere With nowhere left for us to run or hide It does not care for what we held so dear The plans we made, the loves we thought were true It simply comes to make the atmosphere Of all our certainty turn into dew In the end the noise becomes a hum The choices blur into a single gray The light goes out before it even comes To take the random dust of life away	We fuss about the color of the tie, Or whether beer or wine is better suited, And build our little houses of reply On grounds which are not even situated. A fly hits on a window pane and dies, A king sets out a battle in the field; The same white dust will cover either eyes, The same white dust will make them both yield. What does it matter if we liked the play? What does it matter if we hated rain? It makes no difference to the blackest day How we have spent our money or our pain. All that we chose was random as a die That's cast before the game is understood; The only certainty is that we die, And then there is no good, and then no bad.	6	We pick our colors from a box of crayons that someone else threw into the sea, and argue over which shade is best, not knowing that the ocean washes them all away. The house we build, the lover we choose, the specific brand of tea we drink in the morning, are just flukes of weather and geography, chance collisions of atoms in the dark. It matters so much to us, this small thing or that, this hill to die on, this mountain to climb, but the wind does not care which way it blows, nor does the earth remember where we stood. All our serious faces and our carefully drawn maps lead only to the same blank space at the end. There is no grand design behind the dice, no hidden meaning in the roll. Only the silence waits for us all, patient and absolute, and when it comes, it will not distinguish between the saint and the sinner, the rich and the poor, or those who liked blue and those who liked green.	6	We choose our colors, pick our sides, And argue fiercely over tides That rise and fall without a care, On empty air and vacant stairs. The taste of coffee, love's first sting, The song we hum, the bird we sing, Are accidents of time and place, A roll of dice in empty space. We build our towers, tall and grand, With mortar made of shifting sand, Convinced our path was meant to be, A grand design for you and me. But chance is blind and deaf to prayer, It scatters seeds with reckless care, And nothing matters in the end, No friend, no foe, no lover's friend. The only truth that holds its ground, Is where all noise and hope are drowned. The final silence, cold and deep, The one sure promise we must keep. All preferences turn to dust, In death alone is iron trust, Where random lives and choices cease, And all things settle into peace.	7	We choose our colors on a whim And argue over shades of gray While chance spins wheels we cannot see To guide the steps we take today The love we crave, the hate we hold Are accidents of time and place A random spark in empty dark That leaves no permanent trace We build our towers stone by stone Believing they will stand the test But gravity waits with silent hands To bring us all to final rest No grand design directs the dust No purpose hides within the noise Just fleeting moments, lost and found Before the silence breaks the poise The only truth that stands alone Beyond the chaos and the fear Is that the curtain must descend And end the show that brought us here	7	We argue over colors that no one sees And build our castles on the shifting sand A sudden laugh, a tear we cannot keep Just static noise within a quiet land The choices made were never ours to choose But threads pulled tight by hands we'll never meet A random turn, a coin tossed in the breeze That lands on heads or tails beneath our feet No grand design explains the why or how Why this was loved and that was left behind The clock ticks on without a single vow To leave a mark for time to ever find In the end, the silence is the only truth That waits for every heartbeat, every breath The final curtain falls on youth and ruth As life dissolves into the arms of death	6	The coin spins in the air with no design To land on heads or tails of fate We choose our paths as if by grand divine But chance is all that dictates every state A taste for rain or sun, a love for blue Is built on accidents of time and place No cosmic script was written just for you Or carved upon the hollow of this space We build our walls to keep the chaos out And claim our victories as earned and true Yet silence waits beneath the quiet doubt That nothing we have held will ever stay The clock ticks down without a single plea For meaning found in what we hold so dear The only truth remains for all to see Is that the end is waiting, cold and near	6	The wind chooses which seed will take root While the river carves a path it never meant to keep We argue over colors that fade before the light returns And build walls against tides that do not ask for permission Every joy we cling to is borrowed time A fleeting spark in a vast and silent dark Our loves, our fears, the stories we tell ourselves Are whispers lost before they reach the edge of night No grand design guides the falling leaf No purpose waits beneath the crumbling stone The chaos spins without a hand to steer the wheel Leaving only dust where dreams once stood so tall In the end, the quiet remains unchanged As breath dissolves into the empty air The final truth is written in the cold That nothing lasts except the coming end	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 crouched in the clover, The moles were blind to the light of day, The swallows dipped and the larks sung over, Till the warhorses came and swept away. With hoofs like hammers they thundered on, They trampled the molehill, they trod the nest; The poor little rabbits were frightened and gone, And the lark fell wounded on her breast. The swallows fled to a smoke-black sky, The rabbits' burrows were smashed and torn; The warhorses galloped, and by and by, There was not a creature left unshorn. No normal thing was left behind, No molehill whole, no rabbit hole; The warhorses passed, and the field was blind, And the lark's sweet song had lost its soul.	6	The little rabbits tremble in their burrows deep, And hide their faces from the thundering sleep, When warhorses come trampling through the green, The fairest pastures that they ever seen. The moles awake to feel the heavy shock, As iron-shod feet beat against the rock, Their tunnels ruined by the hooves of war, They have no place to dig and find a floor. The swallows swooping low for insects sweet, Are frightened off by hoarse and whistling feet, Their nests knocked down by riders passing by, Beneath the black and smoke-filled angry sky. The larks who sang so joyfully above, Are silenced now by hate and lack of love, They cannot sing while cannon balls are thrown, And every flower head is cut and strown. The horses progress with a horrid air, Leaving nothing normal anywhere, No rabbit safe, no mole, no swallow's flight, No lark to greet the morning or the night.	6	The little rabbit freezes in the clover, Ears twitching at a sound that is not wind, Before the thunder of hooves begins to cover The quiet burrow where the young are pinned. The mole, who knows the safety of the dark, Feels earth upheave and turn to choking dust, As heavy warhorses tear through his deep ark, And leave the tunnel crumbling into rust. High above, the swallow's flight is broken, By iron men on backs of sweating gray, Who trample fields where morning songs were spoken, And chase the lark from singing all the day. The lark falls silent as the hoofbeats roll, No longer rising with the sun's first light, For every creature loses half its soul When night arrives before the end of fight. Nothing is normal in this churned-up place, Where rabbits flee and moles can find no home, Where swallows circle with a frantic pace, And larks have nowhere left to build or roam. The warhorses progress across the plain, Leaving a scar where life was once so sweet, And nothing grows again to ease the pain, Of small things crushed beneath the soldier's feet.	6	The burrow shakes beneath the heavy tread As rabbits freeze in tunnels deep and dark, Their ears twitching at sounds they cannot name, Before the thunder breaks their quiet mark. The mole forgets the softness of the loam, His world turned to a churn of mud and gore, Where roots are torn and ancient stones are broken, And silence dies behind the closing door. High overhead the swallow loses flight, Her nest swept clean by hooves that crush the grass, While larks who sang of morning's golden light Are silenced now as iron shadows pass. No normal thing remains upon the plain, Just shattered earth where life once dared to be, The warhorse leaves a trail of wind and rain, That drowns the song of every creature free.	6	The burrow shakes as heavy hooves draw near, Where rabbits once hid in the safety of fear. The mole retreats deep into earth's quiet clay, As thunderous boots crush the roots of their day. Above, the swallow dives low through the smoke, Her wings tangled tight by the iron and choke. The lark that sang songs of the morning so bright, Is silenced forever beneath the night's fright. A storm of red dust where the green grass had grown, Now chokes every breath that a small life has known. The warhorse charges with fire in its eye, Leaving no shelter for bird or for fly. No field remains soft, no stream runs clear now, Just mud and the weight of a terrible plow. The creatures are scattered, the normal is gone, Replaced by the silence that follows the dawn.	6	The rabbit freezes in the clover, Its heart a drum against the stone, As thunder rolls not from the sky above, But boots that crush the grass and bone. The mole retreats into the dark, Where roots once held a quiet peace, Now iron hooves tear through the earth, And silence breaks to jagged cease. A swallow dives too low to flee, Caught in the wake of steel and fire, The lark forgets its morning song, Replaced by screams of deep desire. The warhorses march with heavy tread, Their breath a fog of smoke and dread, They trample life beneath their weight, Until no gentle thing is left unsaid. The field is scarred, the air grows thick, With ash that chokes the fragile wing, No burrow safe, no nest remains, Just broken ground where nothing springs.	6	The burrow shakes beneath the heavy tread As hooves of iron crush the quiet earth Where rabbits once found shelter in the shade Now torn apart by thunder and by birth Of chaos that consumes the gentle ground A mole retreats into the deepest dark Only to find the soil turning gray The scent of smoke replaces ancient rain And silence fades beneath a rising fray No home remains for those who seek the deep Above, the swallow dives through choking haze Its song replaced by screams of steel and fear The lark forgets its morning melody As fire paints the sky with crimson tears The wind carries the weight of broken dreams Each step forward erases what was known A field of green now stained with rusted red The creatures flee from shadows cast by war With nowhere left for life to softly spread The world they knew is lost to endless night	7
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	The bricklayer builds a wall to keep the world out, brick by brick, course by course, until he has built himself a room with no door. The fisherman casts a net to get the world in, netting the waves and the fishes and the wind, until he has filled himself a boat with holes. One wears armor of oak, the other of water; one is the nail that holds the roof together, the other is the rain that loosens it. One sits at the head of the table and cuts the meat, the other sits at the foot of the table and eats the bones. One writes history in stone, and the other writes it on water. One digs a well to find the water, the other digs a well to find the earth. One is the clock, ticking away the time, the other is the watchword, waiting for the time. One is the knife, cutting away the fat, the other is the lard, frying up the fat. One is the judge, sitting on a high bench, the other is the jury, sitting on a low bench. One is the doctor, killing the disease, the other is the disease, killing the doctor. One is the poet, writing about the war, the other is the soldier, fighting in the war. One is the priest, praying for the war, the other is the war, praying for the priest. One is the father, naming the child, the other is the child, naming the father. One is the mother, feeding the child, the other is the child, feeding the mother. One is the husband, sleeping with the wife, the other is the wife, sleeping with the husband. One is the wife, sleeping with the husband, the other is the husband, sleeping with the wife. One is the lover, loving the mistress, the other is the mistress, loving the lover. One is the mistress, loving the lover, the other is the lover, loving the mistress. One is the master, owning the slave, the other is the slave, owning the master. One is the slave, owning the master, the other is the master, owning the slave. One is the white man, owning the black man, the other is the black man, owning the white man. One is the black man, owning the white man, the other is the white man, owning the black…	3	Some are born with the spade in their fist to dig the foundations of a house that will never fall, measuring the earth in inches and pounds, while others are born with the compass in their eye to wander the roofless hills where the wind has no name. One builds the wall to keep the winter out, mortar thick with the dust of ancestors, counting every brick for its squareness and weight, the other paints the window to let the winter in, a watercolor blur of snow and light, counting the hours until the ice melts. The first says, this is the way it must be, and lays a heavy stone upon the heavy stone, until the sky is a small rectangle of blue, but the second says, this is the way it might be, and pulls down a corner of the wall to make a door, letting the fox and the frost and the stranger in. There are those who wear the clock on their wrist and chop the day into slices of bread and work, and there are those who wear the moon on their forehead and boil the night into a tea of dreams and ghosts. One reads the map and finds the shortest route through the forest of logic and straight lines, the other gets lost in the forest of metaphors and finds a shorter route through the heart of a tree. They meet at the crossroads sometimes, one with a ledger full of debts and credits, the other with a pocket full of feathers and stones, and they look at each other with a kind of pity, or perhaps a kind of hunger, for one cannot live without the wall and the other cannot live without the door.	5	Some wear armor of polished obsidian While others stitch their wounds with spider silk, One builds a fortress on the edge of a cliff To watch the tide erase the other's footprints. The architect draws lines in dust that vanish Before the wind can finish its sentence, The gardener waits for roots to crack the stone And drink the silence where no sound enters. One counts the seconds until the bell rings, Measuring life by the weight of gold coins, The other measures it by the length of shadows Cast when the sun is low and the air is thin. They speak different languages of hunger, One eats the fire to keep the cold away, The other swallows the smoke to taste the ash, Both full, both starving in their separate ways. A mirror held up shows a fractured face, Where one side smiles at the breaking glass And the other weeps for the shards on the floor, Yet both hands reach out to hold the same light. The river cuts through the canyon deep and slow, Ignoring the banks that try to hold it back, Carrying the silt of the mountain and the sea, Muddying the clear distinctions of left and right. In the end the wall is just a line drawn in sand, Washed clean by the rain that falls on everyone, Leaving the archetypes to dissolve into water, And the people to walk barefoot on the wet earth.	6	The architect builds walls of glass to catch the light, While the gardener digs through mud to find the root, One measures distance with a ruler's rigid bite, The other counts the seasons in a silent shoot. A general maps the field where shadows learn to fight, Dividing friend from foe with lines drawn sharp and deep, But the river knows no border in its wandering flight, It carries both the stone and silt within its sleep. We wear the mask of iron to protect the fragile heart, Or shed it like a snake to let the wildness breathe, Two engines driving forward, tearing worlds apart, Yet bound by gravity that pulls the dust beneath. The clockwork mind ticks on, demanding order, price, While chaos dances naked in the corner of the room, One seeks to freeze the moment, paying any cost twice, The other blooms and withers in the heavy perfume. Perhaps the bridge is built not out of wood or steel, But in the space between the question and the plea, Where opposing currents meet and slowly cease to feel The need to be the ocean or the single tree.	6	The architect builds walls to hold the rain While the gardener lets the flood reclaim the stone One counts the bricks in rigid, heavy lines The other watches moss where silence grows A captain charts the stars with iron eyes To steer the ship through storms of calculated fear The sailor reads the wind by taste and touch And trusts the salt that stings a open wound We wear the mask of logic, cold and sharp Cutting the world into neat, defined pieces Yet deep within the chest, a wilder pulse Beats out a rhythm no equation knows The mason seeks the foundation in the dark Believing strength is found in what remains The dancer spins on nothing but the air Convincing gravity to let them go Two rivers run beneath the same wide sky One carved from bedrock, slow and unyielding The other rushing over smoothest glass Reflecting clouds it cannot keep or hold We argue over maps drawn in the dust Ignoring how the ground shifts underfoot The fortress stands against the rising tide Until the water finds the crack inside No single hand can hold the whole design Where shadow meets the light in tangled threads We are the fracture and the bridge between The broken glass and all the things it breaks	6	The mason lays the stone with measured breath While the river carves a path through ancient bone One builds a wall to hold the winter back The other seeks the crack where light is drawn A king commands the silence of the throne Yet shadows dance beneath the gilded crown The jester speaks the truth in fractured rhyme To break the heavy weight of endless night Some plant their feet in soil that will not shift Roots drinking deep from secrets kept below Others are the wind that knows no name Drifting across the border of the known The architect draws lines in perfect straight Refusing chaos to take its rightful place The weaver pulls the thread until it snaps Creating patterns only ghosts can trace We stand divided by the hands we choose To hold the hammer or the open palm Two currents flowing toward a single sea That swallows both the storm and quiet calm	6	The architect builds walls of glass to catch the light While the wanderer seeks cracks where roots refuse to grow One counts the hours in a ledger made of stone Another drinks the rain before it touches soil Silence is a fortress for those who fear the sound But echoes are the only map for those who lost their way We carve our names into the shifting sand and sea Ignoring how the tide rewrites the lines we drew Fire warms the hands that hold the blade against the dark Yet ash remains when every shadow turns to dust Two paths diverge beneath a sky that knows no color Where logic ends and chaos starts to weave its thread Some speak in riddles meant to guard the sacred door While others shout until the fragile silence breaks A thousand masks adorn the face of something ancient Dividing what was whole before the first breath left the chest No bridge can span the distance between fear and hope Only the weight of steps taken in opposite directions Leaving behind the ghost of what could never be In spaces carved by hands that learned to let go	6
146	ultra_held_out	The Witch’s Life by Anne Sexton	Anne Sexton	A poem about a speaker aging into the very "witch" she once misunderstood as a child, coming to embrace a hermit's life of overwhelming memories while choosing to carry on despite life's dreamlike uncertainties.	When I was a child there was an old woman in our neighborhood whom we called The Witch. All day she peered from her second story window from behind the wrinkled curtains and sometimes she would open the window and yell: Get out of my life! She had hair like kelp and a voice like a boulder. I think of her sometimes now and wonder if I am becoming her. My shoes turn up like a jester's. Clumps of my hair, as I write this, curl up individually like toes. I am shoveling the children out, scoop after scoop. Only my books anoint me, and a few friends, those who reach into my veins. Maybe I am becoming a hermit, opening the door for only a few special animals? Maybe my skull is too crowded and it has no opening through which to feed it soup? Maybe I have plugged up my sockets to keep the gods in? Maybe, although my heart is a kitten of butter, I am blowing it up like a zeppelin. Yes. It is the witch's life, climbing the primordial climb, a dream within a dream, then sitting here holding a basket of fire.	I used to fear the woman in the woods with eyes like cracked obsidian and hands that smelled of rain, thinking her solitude was a cage she built for herself. Now the mirror shows those same deep lines and I understand the silence was not empty, but heavy with every ghost I ever knew. The house is full of whispers now, a library of moments I cannot burn or bury, and the world outside has blurred into a watercolor haze. They call it madness when the past walks through the door, but I have learned to brew tea for them instead. The path is foggy, the future a dream I wake from daily, yet I sweep the porch and tend the garden roots, choosing to stay in this quiet magic where the only spell left is the courage to endure.	When I was a child I saw the woman with the hooked nose and the warty chin sitting alone in her cottage at the edge of town, and I thought she must be very wicked to be so alone. I thought it was a punishment for being wicked, or that she was wicked because she was punished; I did not know then that there are women who choose to be alone because they have too many things to remember. Now my nose is hooked and my chin is wrinkled and I sit in my cottage at the edge of town and I think I see myself as a child coming up the path with my mother to throw stones at me, but I do not throw stones. I have too many things to remember. I have the stone-throwing child and the mother who told me to throw them, and the man I loved who died, and the two men I did not love who died, and the one I loved who did not die but left, and all these things are in my head at once like birds in a cage and the cage is full and the birds are singing and screaming and I am the witch. I am the witch and I am the hermit and I have too many things to remember and I do not want to forget any of them because if I forget any of them I shall not be me. And I am old and I am ugly and I am very happy. And I have too many things to remember and I do not know what I am doing here and I do not know what I am doing there and I do not know where I am going and I do not know where I have been and I do not know what I am doing now and I do not know what I am doing then and I do not know what I am doing ever. But I go on.	2	I used to think the woman in the woods was made of sticks and spite, a jagged thing that ate the sun and kept the daylight tight. I threw my stones from far away and called her names I'd heard, not knowing she was just a girl who said no more than word. Now I am that old woman, my hair a tangled vine, my skin a map of every road that I have walked or mine. The house is full of memories that press against the glass, so many ghosts I cannot count that watch the shadows pass. They are overwhelming, yes, they crowd me in my chair, but I have learned to live with them and comb their matted hair. The world outside is dreamlike still, uncertain as a breath, a spinning top of maybes now that dances close to death. But I will carry on, you see, this hermit of the mind, leaving the childish fear behind to leave it all behind. I am the witch I feared so much, and I am glad at last, to hold this life of heavy love and let the present pass.	3	I used to cross the street when you came by with your crooked hat and eyes like cracked glass, thinking you were made of shadows and bad luck, a warning written in the dirt. Now the mirror shows me the same bent spine, the same hands that tremble with the weight of years, and I understand the magic was not a curse but a survival of the quiet things. I have built my house on the edge of the wood where the path forgets itself, surrounded by rooms full of voices I cannot silence, memories that crowd the corners like moths to a lamp. They are overwhelming, these ghosts of who I loved and lost, filling the air until I can barely breathe, yet I do not open the door to let them out. I keep them close as the only proof I was here. The world outside is a dream I am no longer sure I want to wake from, shifting and strange, where logic melts like wax. But I will walk the garden anyway, pulling weeds with fingers stiff as twigs, tending the small, stubborn green things that grow despite the frost. I am the witch I feared, the hermit I avoided, carrying the heavy sack of my past into the uncertain morning, choosing to live inside the mystery rather than be solved by it.	2	I used to fear the woman in the woods With hair like tangled briars and eyes of smoke, Who whispered secrets to the hollow trees And made the daylight tremble when she spoke. I ran from shadows cast by crooked sticks, Convinced her magic was a cruel design, Unaware that time would twist my own limbs Until I mirrored every jagged line. Now silver crowns the tangle on my brow, The cottage door is barred against the rain, A hermit keeper of the heavy now, Where memories fall like ash upon the pane. They crowd the room with voices long gone cold, Of lovers lost and paths I did not take, A library of stories too old, That ache within the silence for my sake. The world outside feels thin as morning mist, A dream where logic bends and breaks apart, No solid ground beneath the shifting mist, Just phantom footsteps beating at my heart. Yet here I sit and brew the bitter tea, Not fearing what the dark may bring tonight, But finding peace in who I've come to be, This ancient witch who holds the fading light. I choose to walk this foggy, winding way, To carry all the ghosts I cannot shed, To greet the dawn though it might turn to gray, And live the truth inside the words unsaid. So let them call me monster, let them run, I am the storm, the shelter, and the sea, Embracing all the work I have begun, And walking forward through uncertainty.	6	I once ran from the cottage on the hill, believing the shadowed woman there was pure malice, a creature of bone and hunger who hoarded secrets. Now my own hands are gnarled like roots in winter soil, and the mirror shows a face I barely recognize, etched with lines that map every storm I survived. The village whispers now, calling me the hag, the one who lives alone where the fog clings tight, but they do not know the weight I carry inside. My mind is a crowded attic of forgotten names, of laughter lost to time and promises unkept, a library of ghosts that refuses to be silent. I chose this silence, this hermit's quietude, to let the memories wash over me like rain, no longer fighting the tide of what has passed. The world outside feels thin as paper dreams, shifting shapes between what was and what might be, yet I remain here, anchored in the dust. Let them fear the cackle or the crooked gait, for I have learned that magic is simply endurance, the stubborn act of breathing through the ache. I am the story I once tried to flee, and though the path ahead is blurred by mist, I walk it forward, carrying the light within.	3	I once ran from the cottage in the woods, Convinced the shadows held a jagged teeth, A woman weaving curses into roots, Who turned the sunlight into gray and grief. Now silver crowns my brow like winter frost, And silence fills the room where laughter died, The very magic I feared so much is lost, Replaced by quiet things I cannot hide. The memories arrive in tidal waves of gold, Of faces blurred by time and gentle rain, A story that was never fully told, Just echoes dancing through the window pane. They say the dream is fragile, thin as glass, That certainty is just a fleeting lie, But I have learned to let the moments pass, And find the strength within the fading sky. No longer running from the witch inside, I wear her cloak with pride and heavy grace, With nowhere left for frightened hearts to hide, I walk this path at my own steady pace. Let uncertainty dissolve the edges soft, As I embrace the hermit's lonely art, To hold the weight of all I loved aloft, And keep the fire burning in the dark.	6	The mirror holds a face I once feared in the dark A story spun to keep the quiet at bay Where shadows danced and whispered of ancient harm And wild eyes burned with fire meant to burn away I ran from that woman, that ghost of the woods Who gathered roots in silence beneath the moon Now every step I take feels like borrowed blood As seasons turn and fade into a gentle tune The cottage stands where I once swore never to tread With walls lined thick with books of forgotten names Each memory a weight upon my weary head Yet here I find the peace that chaos never claims They call it magic now, this slow unraveling time But it is simply living through the storm's design To hold the past while future dreams begin to climb And trust the path that leads beyond the fading line No longer chasing light or fearing what remains I weave the threads of loss into a tapestry deep Accepting all the sorrow, joy, and quiet pains That whisper promises we were too young to keep So let the world spin on in hues of gray and gold While I embrace the hermit's solitude so vast For in the heart of stories waiting to unfold We find the strength to carry forward through the cast	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 thick with dust and stones, And every step a battle. The road is steep with jagged bones, And I am very small. But in the midst of such a rout, I feel a stirring deep; A root that will not hold it out, But push itself to sleep. It must not sleep! It must awake! Though all the world be rough. I have a little seed to take, And plant it in the tough. I cannot choose the weather's state, Or make the storm go by; But I can choose to open gate, And let the new day fly. So on I go through mud and mire, Through fire and through ice; To kindle in myself a fire, And make the price precise.	6	The wind howls loud against the door And shakes the hinges of the floor, But I will not retreat inside Where quiet fears and shadows hide. I push against the heavy stone That blocks the path to what's unknown, For though the storm may tear me down It cannot shake this stubborn crown. The mud is deep, the road is steep, And promises are hard to keep When every step is fought and won Beneath a cold and angry sun. Yet in the strain, the muscles grow, And deeper roots begin to show, For calm is not a place we find By leaving all the rough behind. We build the strength that storms demand By planting feet on shifting sand, And turning round the bitter fight Into the dawn's unbroken light.	7	The wind howls sharp against the glass And tears at every fragile seam, But deep within the storm's dark mass We build a quiet, steady dream. To grow is not to wait for calm Or let the heavy waters cease, But stand as anchor in the psalm Of chaos that would bring us peace. Each step we take through mud and stone Is fought with hands that shake and bleed, Yet still we claim this ground our own And plant a seed of stronger need. The fire burns to clear the way Of weeds that choke the rising green, We turn the night into the day By forcing light where none has been. So let the thunder roll and break The walls we thought were safe and sound, For it is in the shattering quake That new foundations can be found.	7	The wind howls loud against the door And shakes the hinges of the floor Yet in the dark where shadows creep A quiet promise starts to sleep It is not built on stone or steel But on the will to simply feel The weight of storms that tear and break And choose to move for every sake When chaos spins and reason bends And every path seems lost or ends We plant a seed in cracked earth's core To find a way to reach for more For growth is not a gentle stream That follows where the currents dream But climbing up a jagged cliff With nothing but a trembling gift So let the thunder roll above We walk through fire with steady love Transforming pain into a light That guides us through the endless night	7	The wind howls loud against the door And shakes the frame of what we knew But in the dust and rising roar A seed begins to push its way through We do not run from storm or strife Nor hide beneath a quiet stone We plant our feet in fractured life To build a garden from the bone Each crack reveals a deeper root That holds the weight of heavy rain Where chaos tries to up the fruit We learn to stand within the pain For growth is not a gentle stream But fire that burns the old away It wakes us from a stagnant dream To face the breaking of the day So let the thunder roll above And shake the walls we thought were strong We rise with hope and stubborn love To turn the darkness into song	7	The wind howls loud against the open door And shakes the roots that hold the trembling floor Yet in the shadow of the rising storm A quiet seed begins to softly form It does not beg for calm or gentle rain But learns to bend within the chaotic strain For every crack that breaks the stone above Is where the light can find a way to move We walk through fire just to find our strength And turn the chaos into something length No longer bound by what we used to fear We rise above the noise and draw us near To something new that waits beyond the fight A dawn that turns the darkness into light So let the turmoil roar and tear apart We build a heart that beats with steady art	7	The wind howls loud against the fragile door While shadows stretch across the floor we tread Yet something stirs within the silent core A quiet promise that refuses to be dead We walk through storms that tear at every thread Where chaos tries to drown the light inside But roots dig deep beneath the heavy bed Of doubt and fear where broken things reside To rise is not to flee the rising tide But learn to breathe when breath feels stolen tight To hold a spark amidst the burning pride And find a path through darkness into night No mountain stands too high for weary feet When purpose guides the steps toward the dawn For growth demands the weight of what we meet And turns the struggle into strength, unbroken, drawn	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.	I have loved you with the intensity of a sun that will burn up the world. I have loved you with the intensity of a blind man seeing for the first time. But remember this: my love is not a charity; it is not a pension; it is not an annuity to be paid indefinitely whether you work or no. If you stop loving me, I shall cease to love you. It is as simple and as terrible as that. If you withdraw your heart from mine, I shall withdraw mine from yours. There will be no one-sidedness. There will be no widowhood of spirit. I shall die in love with you, but if you kill your love for me, I shall kill mine for you immediately.	2	Remember how the world dissolved when first our eyes collided, how every breath we drew was stolen from a single, shared divide. You know this fire that burns us both, this white and violent light, that keeps us warm against the cold of ordinary night. But mark me well, my dearest love, and hear this warning true: this heart is not a public house where strangers come and go. If you should turn your face away, if you should cease to care, then straightway I shall turn mine too, and leave you standing there. For what I give is all or none, a lightning in the hand; if you withdraw the thunderbolt, I drop it from my hand. So love me now with all your force, or let me be at rest, for if you stop, I stop as well, putting out the fire in my breast.	6	Remember how the fire burned between us How every glance was a promise kept and broken And remade in the space of a single breath We were two hearts beating as one wild drum Until the silence started to grow loud. Do not think this love is a river that flows forever Regardless of the banks you choose to build It is a mirror held up to your own eyes Reflecting only what you show me there. If you turn away and let the cold wind in If you decide my name is no longer sweet on your tongue Then know that I will turn my face from you And the fire will die as quickly as it lit. I love you with a ferocity that terrifies me But if you stop, I will stop too For I cannot give light to a room you have darkened Nor keep a flame alive when you refuse to breathe upon it.	6	The fire in my chest burns only for your name, A wild and ancient flame that knows no other fuel. I have built a world where you are the sun and moon, And every breath I take is a prayer to your touch. But listen closely to the rhythm of this heart, For it beats in perfect lockstep with your own. If you should turn away and let the light go out, If you choose to walk into a cold and silent night, Then know that my love will not linger in the dark. It is a mirror that reflects only what you give; When you stop loving me, I will cease to love you too, Leaving nothing but an empty shell where passion once lived.	7	The fire in our chest burns bright and deep, A promise that the stars themselves must keep. I hold your heart as if it were my own, In every breath, a seed of love is sown. But know this truth before the night grows cold, That what we share is fierce and uncontrolled. If you should turn away and let it fade, Then all the warmth within me will decay. For I cannot give where there is no return, No endless flame for which the embers yearn. Should you withdraw the light you once bestowed, My love will vanish like a falling load. So stay within this bond we built so high, Or watch the sky above us turn to gray. I love you now with all my soul's decree, But only while you choose to love as me.	7	The fire in my chest burns only for your name A flame that feeds on every breath you take We are the storm and the calm within its eye Where nothing else but us can ever wake But know this truth before the winter comes to steal the light If you should turn your gaze away from me The warmth I hold will vanish in an instant night And silence will replace our melody For love is not a chain that binds against the will It is a mirror reflecting what we choose to see If you withdraw the soul that made me whole, then still I cease to be the man who loved only thee	6	The fire burns so bright within our chest A bond that time could never quite suppress You hold the key to every breath I take Before the dawn, before the world awakes But know this truth beneath the golden light That love demands a mirror in the night If you should turn your gaze away from me The silence grows where once our voices flee No half-heart beats when one has lost its rhythm No quiet storm can make the broken seem So let us dance until the final fade Or watch the embers turn to ash and shade	6
161	ultra_held_out	You Begin by Margaret Atwood	Margaret Atwood	"A poem about a child beginning to learn and discover the world through their hand, their eye, and the words and colours that anchor them to life's beginnings and endings."	You begin this way: this is your hand, this is your eye, that is a fish, blue and flat on the paper, almost the shape of an eye. This is your mouth, this is an O or a moon, whichever you like. This is yellow. Outside the window is the rain, green because it is summer, and beyond that the trees and then the world, which is round and has only the colors of these nine crayons. This is the world, which is fuller and more difficult to learn than I have said. You are right to smudge it that way with the red and then the orange: the world burns. Once you have learned these words you will learn that there are more words than you can ever learn. The word hand floats above your hand like a small cloud over a lake. The word hand anchors your hand to this table, your hand is a warm stone I hold between two words. This is your hand, these are my hands, this is the world, which is round but not flat and has more colors than we can see. It begins, it has an end, this is what you will come back to, this is your hand.	The small hand reaches out to grasp the air And finds the roughness of a wooden chair A texture mapped against the skin so new Where touch becomes the first way to be true Then eyes awake to catch the morning light That splits the gray and paints the world in white They watch the dust that dances in the beam And learn that life is made of what we see But words arrive like seeds upon the breeze To name the rustling leaves and swaying trees They anchor down the moments as they pass Between the birth cry and the final gasp And colours bloom to mark the start and end The red of blood, the green where roots descend A spectrum woven through the tiny frame That holds the wonder of this fleeting game	First the hand, a fist uncurling To touch the roughness of a tree, The smoothness of a stone, the fur Of a cat that purrs at me. Then the eye, a wide opening To see the green upon the grass, The blue above, the yellow sun, The shadows where the cats all pass. And then the words, small birds that fly From father's lips and mother's lips, That anchor me to life's beginnings And life's sad endings' dips. And then the colours, red and green, And yellow, and a violet too, That anchor me to life's beginnings And life's sad endings' too.	6	The hand reaches out to touch the rough And smooth, the cold and warm, To know the world is not a dream But something solid in the form Of fingers closing round a ball, Or tracing up the wall. The eye opens wide to take it in, The blue above, the green below, The way the light begins and ends In patterns that the children know, A circle here, a square there, The shapes of everywhere. Then words come floating like the birds, To name the things the hand has found, The cat, the dog, the sun, the stars, That hang so high above the ground, And colors bright as morning dew To make the new world old and true. Red is the apple, red is blood, Blue is the sky, blue is the sea, They anchor us to life's beginning And what we all must soon be, From first soft cry to final sleep, These are the promises we keep.	6	A small hand reaches out to touch the rough bark And feels the secret life of trees, the cold and heat The eye opens wide to catch the falling light That paints the morning gold and shadows deep and sweet First words are soft like petals on the wind They name the dog, the sky, the cup, the bed And anchor me to where I have begun Before the heavy sleep of years ahead Then colours rush in red for anger bright For green the grass, for blue the endless air These hues become the map of all I see From first sharp cry to last quiet prayer My hand will hold the things that come and go My eye will watch the seasons turn and fade But words and colours keep the memory clear Of how the world was made, and unmade	6	The small palm opens to the air and feels the dust of morning there, a texture rough, a touch so new that maps the world in skin and hue. Then up the eye begins its climb to catch the rhythm space and time, it sees the green that climbs the wall and shadows stretching, tall and small. But words arrive like gentle birds to sing the songs of life's first words, they name the blue, they count the red, the stories that the living said. And colours bind the start to end, where light will fade and stars descend, a thread of gold, a stripe of gray to guide the child along the way. So hand and eye and voice combine to make this vast design divine, anchoring every breath we take from waking dawn to final break.	7	A small palm opens to the dust and light Reaching for the rough bark of the old oak tree Where texture speaks before a sound is made And fingers trace the veins of life so deep The eye awakes to catch the shifting hue Of morning gold that bleeds into the gray It watches clouds dissolve and birds take flight A silent witness to the turning day Then words arrive like seeds upon the breeze To name the red, the blue, the softest green They build a bridge from here to there and back From first breath in to final quiet sleep In touch and sight and speech the child takes hold Anchored by the colors of the dawn Between the start that pulses in the skin And end that waits beyond the setting sun	6	The small hand reaches out to touch the air And feels the texture of a quiet sun Where rough and smooth begin to make a pair Before the heavy weight of days has begun The eye opens wide to catch the shifting light A kaleidoscope of shadows, gold, and blue It traces lines that mark the edge of night And finds the world is vast and strangely new Then words arrive like seeds upon the wind To name the things that once were just a blur They build a bridge where lost and found are pinned Between the silence here and stories far away The colours bleed from dawn into the deep A spectrum painting over every fear From first breath taken while the others sleep To final whispers when the years draw near In palm and sight and tongue the journey starts An anchor cast in time's relentless flow Connecting beating hearts to ancient arts From where we start to where we softly go	7	The small palm opens to the dust and light A quiet map where shadows start to grow It touches stone that holds a memory deep And feels the pulse of time in roots below The eye awakes to catch the shifting hue Of morning breaking through the heavy gray It learns the shape of loss before it fades And finds the color in the fading day Then words arrive to bridge the silent space Between the breath that starts and breath that ends They paint the world with stories yet untold Where joy and sorrow walk as old friends No longer lost within the unknown dark The child stands firm on ground both soft and true Bound by the hand, the sight, the spoken name That guides the soul from birth to final view	6
163	ultra_held_out	The Beauty of Union by George the Poet	George the Poet	A poem about two people merging their lives into a strong and beautiful union, making decisions together and finding love without worry.	There’s an indescribable beauty in union In two beings forming one new being Entering each other’s world Surrendering each other’s selves Accepting the invitation to be everything to someone else There’s an unparallelled bravery in union In telling the one you love: “The only way that we can truly win Is if I think of you in everything I do And honour every decision you faithfully include me in.” Love gives union true meaning It illuminates the path It wants us to compromise, communicate and laugh It wants us to elevate, appreciate without pride Love is oblivious to the outside Even with an audience of millions Even when that love bears immortal significance All of this is met with cordial indifference By the two people at the heart of it Two individuals when they started it Becoming two halves of one partnership Such is the beauty of union Such is the beauty of union	Two separate streams begin to weave A single path where shadows leave No longer standing side by side But walking with a shared stride We choose the road with one clear voice And find in union, purest choice To build a home on solid ground Where trust and quiet peace are found The heavy weight of doubt is gone Replaced by light that greets the dawn With every step we take as one Our love remains forever won No fear can touch this gentle space We move together through time and place A strong and beautiful design Where your heart beats perfectly with mine	Two rivers flowing from a different height Meet in the valley of a summer noon, And losing all their separate being quite, They form one river, strong and beautiful and boon. We lay our heads together on the pillow, And make our decisions side by side; No stormy weather makes us feel so lowly, For we have love to take us where we guide. Without a worry in the world or care, We build a house of truth upon the sand; With plenty of time and plenty to spare, We hold each other hand in hand.	7	Two rivers flowing from a distant height Meet in the valley with a sudden light, No longer separate streams of different hue, But one deep current, strong and fresh and new. We sit together at the wooden table, Our hands across the plans we have to make able, To build a house where every beam is true, And every window looks out on a view That we have chosen with a single mind, Leaving the past and all its cares behind. No shadow falls upon our shared design, No worry mars the pattern or the line, For when we speak, the words are soft and clear, And doubt has nothing left to do but disappear. In this great merging of our soul and breath, We find a love that knows no fear of death, A union strong as stone and fair as flower, Who share the quiet strength of every hour.	7	Two separate rivers found the same wide sea And lost their boundaries to become one flow No longer asking which way they should be But moving forward with a single glow We stand together at the crossroads now And choose the path that calls us both as home No shadow falls across our open brow For we are never truly far alone The heavy weight of worry lifts away When hands are clasped and hearts are beating true We greet the dawn and welcome in the day With nothing left for either one to do But build a life where love is safe and deep Where every promise made is kept and strong A quiet vigil that we two will keep Together where we both belong	7	Two rivers meeting in the valley floor To become one current, deep and sure No longer separate banks to keep apart But a single heart beating within a shared chest We choose the path with hands held tight Deciding tomorrow before the sun has risen Your voice is mine and mine is yours A harmony built on trust and quiet grace There is no shadow of fear to dim the light Only the warmth of knowing we are whole Love flows freely without the weight of doubt A strong and beautiful union standing tall Together we build a home from simple days Where every choice is made with open eyes And in this merging of our very souls We find a peace that lasts forevermore	7	Two separate rivers meet the sea And lose their names to find a new decree No longer distinct in flow or sound But one deep current where peace is found We choose the path with hands held tight Through morning light and coming night No fear of storms that might arise Just calm within our shared surprise The heavy weight of doubt dissolves As every question finds its resolve Not me alone, not you apart But beating as a single heart So let us build without a trace of worry On solid ground, no need to hurry For love has grown beyond the start A perfect union, whole and art	7	Two rivers meet where the banks grow wide No longer separate, but one steady tide The weight of tomorrow is shared between hands As promises build on the shifting sands We choose the path with a single voice Not bound by fear or the noise of choice A quiet courage in every step we take Finding peace in the choices we make Love flows deep without the shadow of doubt Where worry dissolves and the shadows fall out A tapestry woven from threads of gold Stronger than stories that ever were told Together we stand as a fortress of grace With time moving softly through this sacred space No storm can break what we hold so tight Two hearts beating in the same light	7	The path we walked once separate now bends as one Where every choice is whispered, never left undone Two hands that hold the weight of days ahead With quiet trust replacing all the fear and dread No storm can shake the foundation built so deep As promises we make are ours to keep We find a peace that asks for nothing more Than steady breaths within a shared core The future fades into a golden hue Not lost in shadows, but painted bright and true A love that blooms without the shadow of doubt In every step, the journey turns inside out Together we decide where winds may blow And build a home where only kindness grows No worry lingers in the space between Just endless light within what we have seen	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.	The hawthorn blossomed white as snow Above the grassy slope, And there we sat when winds were low Within a fragrant cope. The sun came slanting through the boughs To touch your hair and face, And all the world was still as now In that sequestered place. I do not know what you did say, Nor what I answered then; But it was late in the day, And among the wild thyme and thorns. It may have been of love or hate, Or some indifferent thing; But whatever it was, it was great, And I will not tell the king. Not if the king himself should ask, Nor if the pope should ring! I keep it in my head as a cask Of wine for a spring. So long as the hawthorn tree bears white, So long as the sun goes down, I shall have that fine delight In my head without a town.	3	The hawthorn stood like a white cloud against the deepening green of evening, and we sat beneath its thorny boughs while the thrushes tucked their heads to sleep. I remember the way the light filtered down, dappled and gold upon your shoulder, and how the air smelled of crushed leaves and warm earth and something wilder still. You leaned close enough that I could feel the warmth of your breath against my cheek, your voice low and rough as bark, telling me things that made the stars pause. But what you said, I cannot say, nor can I tell you now, for it is a secret kept by the tree, by the night, and by me alone. Only the memory remains of that soft darkness, of your hand finding mine in the grass, and the beautiful, terrible weight of words that were never meant for ears but only for the heart that heard them.	2	Beneath the hawthorn's lace of white and green, The afternoon held still as breathing stone, We sat where mossy roots made soft a seat, And watched the light through shifting branches known. He spoke in tones so low the wind could not Steal any single syllable away, But I recall the look within his eyes, The sudden quiet of that summer day. His fingers traced a pattern on my hand, While thrushes sang their hidden, wild refrain, A language formed of glances, sighs, and touch, That never needed to be written down again. The words he whispered are a locked-up key, Buried beneath the flowers at our feet, A secret garden only we could keep, Where earth and sky and silent promises meet. Now years have passed and hawthorns bloom anew, But what he said remains a sacred thing, My own to hold, my own to guard from view, Like birdsong that the morning cannot sing.	6	The hawthorn stood like a white ghost against the green, Its branches weaving secrets in the summer air, Where you and I sat close enough to feel the heat Of breath that mingled with the scent of rain. The world dissolved into a blur of gold and leaf, And time itself seemed held within your hand, You spoke of things the stars could never hear, Your voice a low and trembling command. I caught the words upon the wind and kept them safe, Locked deep behind a silence made of trust, For some truths are too fragile for the light, Too wild to turn to dust or rust. Now years have passed and moss has claimed the stone, But in my mind the blossom still is bright, I guard the promise of what you whispered then, A secret kept from day and from the night.	6	The hawthorn stood like lace against the sky Where silver light filtered through leaves of green And time dissolved beneath that ancient eye Between the moss and roots we had been seen Your hand found mine within the dappled shade A quiet space where whispers dared to breathe No shadow cast, no distant path displayed Just earth and air and all we did not leave You spoke of stars that only we could know Of tides that pulled us closer than the sea But let those words remain a silent flow Locked deep inside this wild mystery I hold the memory of your voice so low Yet keep the meaning safe from prying eyes As seasons turn and winter starts to snow We guard the secret of what passed between our sighs	7	The hawthorn blooms in white and soft decay Where shadows stretch across the mossy ground We sat beneath the branches, far from day And found a silence that no sound could drown He spoke of stars that fell before they rose Of tides that pull the moon without a sound His voice was low, a river through the snows A secret kept within the hollowed ground I hold the words like stones inside my hand Too precious to release into the air They bloom where wild and quiet things expand Beneath the weight of ancient, silent prayer The wind may whisper through the thorny bough But never knows the truth we shared tonight A promise made to time and sacred vow That fades into the gathering of light Let nature keep the rhythm of our breath While I guard what his lips have softly said Between the life that starts and ends with death The mystery remains unspoken, deep and red	6	The hawthorn blooms in silver light Where shadows stretch and time grows still A quiet space between the night And dawn that breaks against the hill Your hand found mine beneath the bark No words could hold what we had known The scent of rain, the cooling dark A secret woven into bone You spoke a truth too soft to keep Lost to the wind before it passed A promise buried deep and steep Within the roots of ancient grass I carry every whispered sound That never reached the open air The weight of silence, profound In gardens where we dared to dare Let others guess at what was said Between the leaves and turning tide The story lives inside my head With nothing left for eyes to hide	6
169	train	The Falling Leaves by Margaret Postgate Cole	Margaret Postgate Cole	"A poem about leaves falling silently from a tree, representing the countless soldiers dropping one by one in war, their bodies blanketing the fields like snowflakes covering the earth in a vast, peaceful, and sorrowful silence."	Today, as I rode by, I saw the brown leaves dropping from their tree In a still afternoon, When no wind whirled them whistling to the sky, But thickly, silently, They fell, like snowflakes wiping out the noon; And wandered slowly thence For thinking of a gallant multitude Which now all withering lay, Slain by no wind of age or pestilence, But in their beauty strewed Like snowflakes falling on the Flemish clay.	A single leaf detaches from the bough And drifts without a sound to touch the ground Another follows, then another now As autumn winds make no triumphant sound They fall like men who stood in ranks so tight Before the silence took them one by one The green of youth gives way to fading light Until the battle's roar is fully done No drumbeat marks their final resting place Just soft descent upon the trampled soil A quiet hush covers the open space Where life has paid its heavy, final toll The field grows white with uniforms of gray Like snowflakes settling on a frozen plain They lie as still as shadows at the day That never breaks again to bring the rain A vast and peaceful sorrow fills the air As nature wraps the fallen in her shroud There is no glory left for us to share Only the silence rising through the cloud	Slowly from the boughs they drop, Silently, one by one; Like soldiers falling in the dark, When day's great race is run. No sound of bugle, no shout of charge, But silent as a leaf; They drop and drop and drop again, From off the tree of life. And now the field is white with them, A vast and snow-white sheet; Like snowflakes covering the earth, Where the poor soldiers meet. So peaceful is the scene to see, With all these dead men lying; As if the earth had put on snow, For all the world's denying. But it is not the snow that lies Upon this bloody ground; It is the bodies of the soldiers That have been killed and found. And all is quiet, very quiet, In this great snow-white sight; All is very quiet indeed, In this sad winter night.	6	A single leaf lets go and falls without a sound, a soldier dropping silently to earth from heights unbound. Another turns in air, another takes the flight, a thousand leaves are falling now in silent, darkening night. They cover all the fields as snowflakes cover ground, a vast and peaceful blanket spread where no more noise is found. No trumpet sounds their leaving, no drum beats out their fall, just countless soldiers lying down to rest behind the wall. The silence is so heavy with sorrow and with grace, the red and gold of autumn leaves lie pale upon each face. They lie as quiet as the snow, they lie as still as death, the trees stand bare above them now holding only breath.	7	A single leaf lets go of the branch And drifts down without a sound, Just as one soldier slips from the line To meet the waiting ground. Another follows, then another still, In a quiet, endless rain, No trumpet calls to mark their fall, No drumming beats the pain. They cover the fields in layers deep, A blanket white and brown, Like snowflakes settling on the earth Where all the noise has drowned. The silence grows so vast and thick It wraps around the dead, A peaceful, sorrowful covering Of every life that fled. No wind disturbs this heavy sleep, No footstep breaks the trance, Just leaves and men and falling snow Within a frozen dance.	6	A single leaf lets go its hold And drifts upon the quiet air, No sound to mark the moment cold, Just empty space where life was there. Then another follows, soft and slow, Like boots that cease their heavy tread, The wind carries them from the bough, To join the living with the dead. They fall in numbers past all count, A silent rain of green and brown, Each one a story cut short, A name that sinks beneath the ground. The field grows white with fallen forms, As snowflakes cloak the winter earth, A blanket made of broken storms, That hides the scars of violent birth. No trumpet sounds, no drums are heard, Only the hush of things undone, Where silence is the only word, Beneath the pale and setting sun. The trees stand bare against the gray, Watching their children touch the soil, In this vast peace, they fade away, From war's great noise to endless toil. So lies the world in stillness deep, With bodies resting side by side, A promise kept while others sleep, Where sorrow has nowhere to hide.	7	The wind does not howl, it only sighs As green turns to rust and gold to gray One by one they let go of the sky To drift down where the shadows play No trumpet sounds, no drumbeat rolls Just the soft brush against the air A thousand hearts that stopped their beats Leaving nothing but empty space there They settle deep on the frozen ground A quilt of red where the grass once grew Silent as snow in a winter town Covering all that the battle knew The field is white with a quiet weight Of lives that fell without a cry Beneath the stars, beyond the gate Where time itself seems slow to die Peace has come in a strange disguise Not born of love but heavy loss A blanket woven from sacrifice That bears the cost of every cross	7	The wind does not howl, only breathes a sigh As autumn claims the boughs of ancient green One by one, they drift without a cry To mark the places where the young have been No thunder breaks the hush of falling grace Just rustling fabric against the heavy air A soldier falls to meet his resting place Leaving behind the weight of grief and care The field grows white with petals, soft and deep Where crimson once ran wild beneath the sun Now silence holds the promise it will keep Until the final battle is undone Like snowflakes settling on a frozen plain They cover all the scars the earth has known A quiet blanket for the lost and slain In peace that no loud trumpet could have shown So let the forest weep in shades of gold For every leaf that lands upon the ground A story of the brave too soon grown old Where life and memory softly intertwine	7	The wind holds breath as branches sway A quiet shift in golden light Where autumn claims what roots once held And shadows stretch across the night No thunder breaks the fragile air No cry to mark the sudden fall Just weightless drifts of fading green That cover all and answer none at all Each leaf a name written in dust A story lost beneath the frost As fields grow thick with silent souls In patterns that the earth has crossed The ground is soft with layers deep A tapestry of sorrow woven tight Where warriors rest without a sound Beneath the veil of endless white It looks like snow upon the plain A gentle hush that steals the pain Of lives extinguished one by one Until the world forgets the rain Here silence speaks in rustling tones Of battles fought and hearts undone The forest weeps in falling grace As winter claims the setting sun	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 have loved you in the morning when the light Was just a suggestion on the blind, And I have loved you in the noonday heat, When all things seemed to languish and decline. I have loved you when you were as wise as God, And I have loved you when you were a child; I have loved you when you were well pleased with life, And I have loved you when you were beguiled. I have loved you for your beauty and your wit, For your sweet temper and your peevishness; I have loved you for the good that you have done, And for the good that you intended less. I have loved you when you were in love with others, And I have loved you when you were in love with me; I have loved you when you were not thinking of me, And I have loved you when you thought of me. I have loved you when you were young and beautiful, And I have loved you when you were old and plain; I have loved you when you were a Christian, And I have loved you when you were a pagan. I have loved you when you were in health, And I have loved you when you were in sickness; I have loved you when you were in prosperity, And I have loved you when you were in adversity. I have loved you when you were in good company, And I have loved you when you were in bad company; I have loved you when you were in good humour, And I have loved you when you were in bad humour. I have loved you in all these ways and many more, But I do not wish to be your lover any more: I wish you a lover who shall love you In all these ways and many more than I.	6	I have loved you in the silence of the morning When the light was just a suggestion on the wall, And I have loved you in the roar of noon When the sun beat down upon our common hall. I loved the shadow that you cast behind you, I loved the way your laughter filled the air, I loved the secret things you never told me, And all the things you freely did declare. I loved you when you were a stranger to me, And I loved you when we knew each other's souls, I loved you when you walked away from me, And left my broken heart in separate holes. I loved the winter and the springtime flowers, I loved the summer nights and autumn rain, Because they brought to mind your face and figure, And made my love for you a constant pain. But now I wish another man should love you As I have loved you through the years gone by; I wish he'd watch you while you slept so soundly, And see the stars reflected in your eye. I wish he'd hold you when the world is cruel, And tell you all the beautiful things I know; I wish he'd love you with a greater ardor Than any love I ever had to show. So let him love you in the morning silence, And let him love you in the heat of day, Let him love every little thing about you In every possible and proper way. For I have loved you till my heart was weary, And I have loved you past the point of reason, Now I give you up to be beloved By some one else in some far future season.	7	I loved you in the quiet of the morning light, When shadows stretched across the floor and silence held us tight. I loved you in the storms that rattled at the glass, Counting every thunderclap as minutes came to pass. I loved you when the summer heat made breathing hard and slow, And I loved you through the winter cold that made the river flow. I loved the way you laughed at jokes that weren't so very funny, I loved the serious lines that crossed your thoughtful, weary bunny. I loved the small and hidden things, the secrets you would keep, The promises we whispered while the world was fast asleep. I loved you with a fire that burned but never turned to ash, A steady, gentle burning that time could not make dash. Though years have gone between us now and paths have led apart, My love remains a constant thing within my waiting heart. But since I cannot be the one to hold your hand again, I wish for you a lover who can ease your deepest pain. May he love you as I did, with all his soul and breath, Through sunny days and stormy nights, until the day of death. May he cherish every moment, may he honor every word, The sweetest song you ever sang, the finest bird you heard. Go find a love that matches this, a devotion deep and true, For no one else could ever love another quite like you.	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, A steady hand to hold yours through the wind and driving rain. I loved the way you laughed at jokes no one else could understand, The gentle rhythm of your steps as we walked across the land. I loved the secrets whispered low beneath the silver moon, The way you hummed a melody when all was done too soon. I loved the scars you carried with such grace and quiet pride, The ocean depths I found within where nothing could hide. Now though my days are spent without your presence near, My heart still beats the same old song that only you could hear. And so I wish for you a love that mirrors what I gave, A devotion fierce and tender, like the tide that seeks the wave. May someone cherish every part of who you truly are, From the brightest shining moments to the distant, fading star. May they love you as I did, with every breath they draw, Without a single hesitation, without a single flaw.	7	I loved you in the quiet of the morning light, When shadows stretched across the floor and silence held its breath, I loved you in the chaos of the stormy night, When thunder shook the walls and fear threatened our depth. I loved the way you laughed at jokes no one else could see, The gentle curve your fingers made when tracing lines of fate, I loved the dreams we built that never came to be, And cherished every moment that we dared to wait. My heart has kept a garden where your memory still grows, A place where seasons change but nothing ever fades away, Though time has taken us to paths where separate rivers flow, I wish for you a love that mirrors all I felt today. May someone find the rhythm of your footsteps on the street, May they hold your hand with care when winter winds begin to blow, May they offer you the warmth that I could only meet, And love you with a fire that will never cease to glow. So let this be my final gift, a wish sent through the air, That you are held as tightly as I once held you close, That you are loved beyond compare, without a single care, By someone who knows the value of the soul you hold so most.	7	I loved the silence you left in the room And the way your laughter broke the heavy air I loved the shadows that danced upon your face When the evening light began to fade away I held your hand through seasons turning cold And traced the lines of worry on your brow Every breath I took was shaped by you A quiet rhythm beating in my chest Now time has carried us to different shores But my devotion remains a constant tide It does not ask for return or recognition Only the truth that once we were whole So may another find the path I walked May they cherish every word you ever spoke May someone hold your heart with gentle care And love you as deeply as I always did	6	I loved you in the quiet of the morning light Before the world had claimed its heavy weight In every whispered promise kept so tight Within the silence that we used to share I loved you when the storms began to break And held your trembling hands against the fear I gave my breath to keep your heart awake Through seasons turning, shifting, cold and clear The way I cherished every broken piece Of dreams we built upon a fragile floor A silent vow, a gentle, endless peace That lingers still behind the closed door Now let another find the path I walked To hold the fire that once burned in my chest May they protect the stories softly talked And offer all the love I could not rest So may their arms be strong where mine grew weak Their voice a comfort when the shadows fall A devotion deep enough to heal each week And answer every call within the soul Though time has drawn a line between our names No shadow dims the truth I chose to give For even now, amidst the fading frames I wish for you the life you deserve to live	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.	We put our arms around each other and feel the pulse of life, but beneath the wrist is a little bone which will be white and clean some day. The mouth that kisses is a mouth that will be silent; the flesh that burns with love is flesh that will be cold. In the heat and sweat and hurry of sexual congress, in the thick and urgent joining of male and female, death is there too, sitting in the corner with his thumb on his lip. He sits there while we laugh, he sits there while we make love, he sits there when we are most alive. He is the thin skin under the apple's skin, he is the worm in the heart of the rose, he is the little death that comes before the big death. And all the while we think we are building something, we are only making him a bigger feast.	2	We paint the walls with bright and happy colors And build our beds of silk and satin sheets, But underneath the plaster and the cover The cold white bone of winter never sleeps. You touch my hand and feel the heat of living, A pulse that thrums against your fingertips, But in that blood a darker tide is driving To drown the light and make the spirit slip. We say we love, we say this fire is endless, We say the spring will come to stay for good, But in the seed the rot is ever present, The worm within the apple understood. The kiss is sweet but tastes of iron saltiness, The bed is warm but holds a grave's chill air, For every moment has its own short haleness, Its own appointed time to be laid bare. We dance upon the edge of an abyss, With laughter loud to keep the silence down, But underneath the music and the bliss, Death wears a crown and sits upon the throne. It waits beneath the skin, beneath the clothing, Beneath the vows we whisper in the night, To take us all when we are done with frothing, And swallow up the day into the night.	6	The rose opens its throat to the sun And drinks the light with a greedy red mouth, But underneath the velvet skin, A slow rot waits in the white pith, A quiet hunger that knows no end. We press our bodies together, Flesh against flesh, a frantic warmth, Trying to burn out the cold dark With the fire of our own making. Our hands map the geography of desire, Tracing rivers that will one day dry up, Kissing lips that will turn to dust, Unaware that the grave is already Sitting on the edge of the bed, Watching the dance of two shadows Merge into one long, still shape. Love builds its castles on the sand Of the ticking clock, Each heartbeat a hammer striking Against the anvil of time. We swear eternity while the river flows, While the water erodes the stone beneath our feet. The seed we plant in the garden Is also the seed of our decay, For life is only the brief, bright interval Between the silence before and the silence after. Nothing escapes the final tide. The lover's sigh, the mother's lullaby, The warrior's cry, the saint's prayer, All are swallowed by the great, open maw. It lies beneath the surface of every joy, A shadow stretching long across the noon, Waiting for the light to fail, To claim us all in its absolute, Inescapable embrace.	6	The skin is warm and pulses with the blood A frantic rhythm beating out a song But underneath the velvet of the touch The quiet rot has waited all along In love, the hands that clasp so tightly now Are tracing maps of bones we cannot see The breath that mingles in the darkened room Is borrowed time before the final fee We make our beds on graves of yesterday And weave our silk from threads that fray and break The seed of life contains the fruit of decay A silent promise that the earth will take No passion burns enough to melt the ice That forms beneath the fever of desire For every spark that dances in the eyes Is just a candle feeding off the fire Until the flame consumes the wick entirely And leaves no ash to mark where we have been The surface breaks, the water turns to dry And death steps forward to begin again	7	The rose blooms red against the morning light Yet in its veins a quiet rot takes hold A shadow stretching long before the night To turn the vibrant petal into mold We touch with hands that tremble and desire Beneath the skin, the pulse beats fast and deep But every spark of passion feeds the fire That waits within the silence while we sleep Love builds its castle on the shifting sand Ignoring how the tide will claim the shore Each whispered vow is written by the hand Of time that moves to lock the heavy door No breath can stop the slow and steady decay No kiss can halt the gathering of dust The sun will fade, the stars will lose their way And all the flesh returns to silent rust What started as a song becomes a dirge As life dissolves beneath the weight of end The ocean swallows up the final surge And nothing left remains but to descend	7	The pulse that drums against the wrist is counting down a silent beat beneath the skin where warmth exists the cold begins to claim its seat In every kiss that tastes of wine a shadow lingers in the breath a quiet promise, sharp and fine that love is but a borrowed depth The fire that burns between two souls cannot outrun the coming night for even as the body grows the dust awaits its final light We build our towers on the sand and weave our dreams from fragile thread but time will pull the loose command and leave us with the things unsaid No touch can shield, no vow can hold the truth that waits beneath the floor where life is just a story told before the silence takes the door And when the heart forgets to race and eyes grow dim to see the sun there is no place for fear or grace only the work that must be done	7	The pulse beneath the skin is not just blood but a quiet countdown ticking in the dark where every heartbeat echoes toward the end a rhythm borrowed from the silent grave We touch with hands that tremble for no reason as if the earth already claims our warmth and lovers whisper promises too soft to hold against the weight of time that waits outside Desire burns like fire against the cold yet ash remains when passion fades away for every kiss carries the scent of decay a shadow stretching long across the light Nothing stays untouched by fading breath the bloom, the vow, the fragile thread we weave until the final silence swallows sound leaving only dust where life once dared to breathe	6
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 think I was a hero in my white sneakers, grabbing the rolled up magazine and swatting. The relief would go right through me, that flat dry sound, the little brown thing no more. But now I sit here thinking of that big kitchen with its linoleum floor, and how we were all just living there in the dark as best we could. They liked the crumbs, they liked the warm pipes, they wanted nothing but to live and breed and die in their turn. It seems murder now, not housekeeping. Those little people with their antennae feeling their way along the baseboards, doing what they could in the world we gave them, and we killing them for it.	2	I remember the sharp click of the shoe against the cold linoleum floor, the way I would hold my breath and wait for the twitching to stop. It was a victory then, a small and clean thing, a sense of order restored to the kitchen where they had scuttled in the dark, long antennae waving like flags of surrender. But now I think of those little lives pressed flat against the tile, how they were only doing what they could, running toward crumbs and water and the safety of cracks in the wall, living their best and only life. I wonder if they felt it coming, if they thought of us as gods or monsters, and I am filled with a strange and heavy pity for the ones I killed without a second thought, those blind, hard-shelled wanderers who asked for nothing but to live.	2	The spray hissed white against the dark And I felt safe, a small god with a can, Relief washing over me like cool water As the black shapes stopped their skittering dance. I was proud of my clean house then, Of the silence that followed the crinkle of foil, Thinking them invaders, filth, disease, Things to be erased without a second thought. But now I see them differently, Tiny survivors in a world too big for them, Scuttling only to eat and mate and hide, Doing nothing more than living as best they could. I wonder if they knew fear when I came, Or just confusion at the sudden fog, Did they have mothers waiting in the cracks? Did they dream of light or just warmth? It feels less like cleaning now and more like murder, A genocide of the desperate and small, We who built castles on concrete floors Killing those who sought only a crumb. They were not evil, just alive, Just trying to make it through the night, And I am sorry for the ease with which I ended them, For the lives I took to feel a little less afraid.	2	The spray hissed sharp against the midnight tile A chemical cloud that made my small lungs burn I watched them twitch and curl into the stillness And felt a surge of victory, a clean relief That finally the house was mine again No skittering shadows in the kitchen dark But now the silence feels too heavy to bear As I remember how they scurried for their lives Not out of malice but out of hunger's need Just seeking crumbs beneath the cabinet edge Trying to keep their families warm and fed In a world built far too large for them to hold What right did I have then with plastic wand To end a life that knew no other way They were not monsters plotting in the walls But creatures doing what all things must do Surviving with the only tools they had Against an enemy who held the power I call it pest control to sleep at night But in the quiet hours the truth breaks through It was a murder of the small and desperate Who simply lived the best they could until My hand came down to stop their beating hearts And leave their broken shells upon the floor	3	The spray hissed soft against the kitchen tile A sudden mist that cleared the shadowed space I watched them curl and cease their frantic run And felt a heavy weight lift from my chest As silence returned to the quiet house But now the years have blurred the sharp relief Into a hollow ache I cannot name For they were not invaders seeking war Just small, dark hearts beating in the dark Trying to find a crumb beneath the sink I see them now as lives I stole too soon Not monsters born of malice or of hate But creatures doing what they knew to do Surviving on the edges of our world With no desire to harm or steal or hurt What right did I possess to end a life That sought only warmth and safety from the cold? To call it pest control feels like a lie When faced with eyes that held no fear of me Only the instinct to go on living We are not gods who judge the worth of breath Nor guardians of a perfect, sterile floor They lived their brief and tangled days below And died because I chose to be afraid Of something small that simply wanted light	5	The click of the slipper echoed through the kitchen floor A sudden silence where the skittering once lived I felt a surge of triumph, a heavy weight lifted away Believing I had saved the house from creeping dread Each crushed shell was a victory won against the dark But now the memory lingers like a stain on the wall Not of dirt, but of something far more fragile I see them not as monsters, but as tiny lives seeking warmth Scuttling through cracks just to survive the cold They did not ask for war, nor did they know my name What right did I have to end a story so brief? To decide that their existence was an error in the light They were simply trying to live, to eat, to breed and breathe Running from shadows with hearts too small to fear And I became the giant who brought the storm down hard Now the quiet feels less like peace and more like guilt For every life extinguished without a second thought We are all just searching for a place to call our own Even those we deem unworthy of the air they share And I wonder if mercy could have been stronger than fear	3	The crack beneath the wall once felt like peace A sudden silence where the scuttling ceased I held the spray that promised clean and bright And watched them fade into a gray design We called it war, a battle for our space Against the shadows creeping through the floor Each life extinguished brought a quiet sigh As if the air itself had learned to breathe again But years have softened edges of the fear Revealing how we broke the fragile thread They sought no conquest, only warmth and light Just hungry hearts beating in the dark Now I see not monsters, but small souls Surviving with a courage I forgot To crush their world was not a victory But theft from those who asked for nothing more The weight remains, a ghost within the room Where every shadow whispers what was lost We stole the right to simply exist here Leaving behind a debt we cannot pay	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 drums in the temples, the body is a bell ringing for any man who will strike it. There is a fever in the thighs, a clamor of the womb, an ancient rioting of cells that want to be joined, that want to be filled. But I am not a house to be entered and occupied. I am the door that slams. I am the key in my own hand. Let him look at me with eyes hungry as a wolf's; let him talk of love and nature and destiny. I can feel the blood drumming, I can feel the bell ringing, but I know the sound of the bell does not oblige me to ring. I can walk away. I can take the whole riotous animal kingdom of my body and walk away. He cannot possess me. He cannot have me. If I do not give myself, he has nothing.	2	The blood runs hot and wild beneath the skin, A drumming pulse that begs for company, But in this heat she keeps her will within, And draws a line across the boundary. She knows the way the eyes of men can burn, How they would take and claim and make her theirs, But she has lessons that she needs to learn To walk away from all their snares and prayers. Let them desire, let them want and chase, They cannot hold what does not wish to stay; She wears the power of averted face, The gift of leaving when it is her day. No man possesses what refuses him, Though biology may sing a loud demand; Her freedom makes the frenzy seem quite dim, As she slips lightly from their grasping hand.	7	The blood runs hot and wild beneath the skin A frantic drum that beats a rhythm for the chase It pulls me toward the heat, the heavy breath within The ancient urge to find a face and hold a place But in this storm of want where biology commands And every nerve screams out to yield and to be taken I stand apart with quiet, steady hands Refusing to be bound or ever shaken Let the frenzy rise, let the hunger take its toll Let the primal instinct beg for ownership and claim I am the captain of my own unbroken soul And I will walk away without a trace of shame No man can hold the fire that burns inside my chest No hand can cage the wind that fills my lungs so free I choose the moment when I put his love to test And turn my back on any who would try to seize me I am not a vessel waiting to be filled Not property to mark or keep or keep in store My power is the space that I have willed To leave the room and shut the heavy door	6	The blood hums a frantic rhythm in the ears A ancient drum beating against the ribs Calling for touch, for heat, for the surrender of skin Yet she stands still amidst the gathering storm Watching the shadows lengthen and the eyes grow dark With hunger that mistakes her for an open door She feels the pull, the gravity of want That heavy tide trying to drag her under To be claimed, to be kept, to be owned But her spine is steel wrapped in softness Her will a fortress built on quiet breath Let them offer gold or promises or hands She knows the cost of being a thing to hold So she turns, a slow and deliberate pivot Leaving the frenzy behind in the dust Walking away from every hungry mouth Unbroken, unbound, entirely her own	3	The blood hums a heavy, ancient tune beneath the skin where fire meets bone, a tide that pulls at the shore of her ribs demanding to be fed, demanding to own. He speaks in a language of heat and hunger, his shadow stretching to cover her name, but she feels the pulse not as a chain but as a drum beating out her own claim. She watches the frenzy rise like a wave that threatens to swallow the sand and the stone, yet her feet are rooted in something deeper than the instinct to yield or to lean toward the unknown. The biology screams for a touch, for a merge, for the sweet, dizzy loss of control within, but her mind is a fortress with iron doors where no man can enter and call it his kin. Let him offer the world on a silver platter, let him promise the stars if she stays in his light, she knows the cost of being possessed by another is the quiet erasure of her own night. So she turns from the altar of need and want, from the fevered gaze that seeks to consume, and walks through the chaos of wanting so much leaving only the echo of her perfume. No hand can hold what refuses to stay, no voice can command the rhythm of her heart, she is the storm and the calm after rain, the one who decides when the wild parts start. To walk away is the ultimate power, to say I am mine before the dawn breaks, a woman unbroken, unbound, and free, choosing herself over every mistake.	6	The pulse beats loud against the ribcage cage A rhythm borrowed from the ancient dark Where fire and instinct blur the edge of age And hunger whispers names within the spark Yet in the heat where shadows start to cling She finds a spine that will not bend or break No ghost of ownership can make her sing Or trade her breath for promises they fake Let longing rise like tides against the shore Let biology demand its heavy toll She knows the door is hers to open wide or lock To hold the self that makes the spirit whole For every man who thinks he owns the night Who seeks to claim the moon within her eyes Will find the silence sharp as sudden light As she steps back beneath the vast, free skies No chain of touch can bind the wandering soul No promise carved in skin can hold her still She walks away with power in her control And leaves the frantic need upon the hill	6	The pulse beneath the skin demands a name A rhythm built to break against the bone Yet in the heat where shadows start to bloom She finds the quiet space to stand alone Her heart may race with ancient, wild design To pull the tide of longing from the shore But she holds breath that refuses to be owned A fortress built within the silent core No hand can claim what never seeks to bend No voice can rewrite stories written deep She walks through fire without the weight of chains While every promise breaks before it keeps The hunger fades when will becomes a wall A sovereign mind that answers only self She turns her back on gravity's embrace And leaves the storm to drown in its own wealth	6
190	train	I Have a Rendezvous with Death by Alan Seeger	Alan Seeger	"A poem about a speaker coming to terms with his unavoidable death, describing his curiosity about dying and his dutiful acceptance of meeting death in the spring."	I have a rendezvous with Death At some disputed barricade, When Spring comes back with rustling shade And apple-blossoms fill the air— I have a rendezvous with Death When Spring brings back blue days and fair. It may be he shall take my hand And lead me into his dark land And close my eyes and quench my breath— It may be I shall pass him still. I have a rendezvous with Death On some scarred slope of battered hill, When Spring comes round again this year And the first meadow-flowers appear. God knows 'twere better to be deep Pillowed in silk and scented down, Where Love throbs out in blissful sleep, Pulse nigh to pulse, and breath to breath, Where hushed awakenings are dear ... But I've a rendezvous with Death At midnight in some flaming town, When Spring trips north again this year, And I to my pledged word am true, I shall not fail that rendezvous.	The winter in my bones has settled deep And I have counted every fading leaf, Yet now a strange and quiet hunger stirs To see what lies beyond the final breath. Is it a door that opens to the light? Or just a silence soft as falling snow? I do not fear the dark that waits for me, But wonder at the shape of what I'll know. The sap begins to rise within the trees, A green command that pulls against the cold, And so I turn my face toward the spring To meet the end with stories yet untold. It is my duty now to lay down arms, To walk the path where all men must eventually go, To greet the reaper in the blooming grass And let the season take its gentle flow. No struggle now, no bitter fight with time, Just open hands and eyes wide with desire, To step into the mystery of death Amidst the fire of flowers and the spire. The world will wake while I begin to sleep, A fair exchange beneath the warming sun, I go to join the cycle of the earth Until the work of dying is undone.	I have heard the rumor of myself no longer being, for a long time; and I am curious about it. It is not that I am afraid of it: it is that I am very curious about it. I want to know what it will be like to be dead. I do not think it will be like anything that I have ever been alive to know. I shall be dead before spring comes. I shall be dead before the grass is green. I shall be dead before the trees are leafy. I shall be dead before the birds come back. I shall be dead before the birds begin to sing. I shall be dead before the birds begin to make nests. I shall be dead before the birds begin to lay eggs. I shall be dead before the birds begin to hatch eggs. I shall be dead before the birds begin to fly. I shall be dead before the birds begin to sing again. I shall be dutifully dead.	2	I have not feared the closing of the eye As much as I have wondered what is there, If light will change its quality or die, Or if a different kind of air Will fill the lungs that now are failing me. It is a strange and quiet curiosity To think upon the final mystery. But spring is here, the green shoots break the snow, And since the season bids me go, I shall be dutiful and meet him now, With bowed head and without a vow Of staying longer than I ought to stay; I'll walk into the bright and living day And let him take me in the month of May.	6	The winter has been long and hard to bear But now the air is soft with coming green I feel a strange and quiet curiosity About the place where I have not yet been It is not fear that holds me in this room Nor anger at the closing of the door But wonder what the silence really means And if the light will be the same or more I know the time is fixed and cannot change No plea of mine can make the season wait So I will pack my spirit for the range And meet my end before the garden gate It must be spring when I am called away When buds are breaking on the thorny rose I go with duty as my only stay To join the earth beneath the freshening snows Or rather, to become the soil itself And let the sap run up through roots of mine This is the final duty of myself To drink the rain and make the grasses shine So here I stand and watch the swallows come And wait to see how death will taste and look Like honey on a tongue or bitter gum Like reading from a very ancient book I am prepared to walk into the wood Where shadows stretch and sunlight starts to fade Doing exactly as the years have stood And leaving all the heavy debts unpaid For spring is here and I am ready too To meet the guest who comes to take his due.	6	The winter in my bones has turned to dust And I am tired of holding up the sky, Yet strange it is to wonder what comes next When all the familiar lights begin to die. Is there a silence deeper than the snow? Or just a wind that blows through empty halls? I ask these questions as the sap begins To rise and swell within the garden walls. It is not fear that holds me in this place, But quiet curiosity for the end, Like watching how the river finds the sea Without a struggle or a single friend. So let me go when cherry buds unfold, When green returns to claim the frozen ground, For spring is where the dying must belong, Where life and death are finally unbound. I walk toward the blossom and the light With duty in my step and peace inside, No longer fighting against the turning wheel Or hiding from the truth I cannot hide. The season calls me home with gentle hands, A final duty I am glad to keep, To lay my heavy head upon the grass And sleep among the flowers while they weep.	6	The winter has finally loosened its grip on my chest And I feel a strange pull toward the quiet that waits Not with fear, but with a scholar's gentle hunger To learn what happens when the breath simply stops. Is it a dark room or a field of endless light? Does the heart remember how to beat without a rhythm? I have spent a lifetime asking questions of the sky Now I am ready to let the silence provide the answer. The frost is melting from the edge of the garden Where the crocuses push through the thawing earth It seems fitting that I should go when the world wakes When life insists on blooming even as I fade. There is no anger left in this weary bone Only a duty to step forward into the green To meet the end not as an enemy at the door But as a guest arriving just as the spring begins.	6	The frost has lifted from the garden gate And I feel a strange pull toward the dark Not with the fear that once would hold me tight But with a quiet, burning spark of want I wonder how the silence truly sounds When breath becomes a memory of air If roots will drink the rain I leave behind Or if the stars will simply cease to care It is not time to run or build a wall To hide from what the seasons always bring For winter cannot last beneath the sun And spring demands the offering it sings So I will walk out to the open field Where daffodils have started to unfold And meet the end that waits with gentle hands As old and new are woven in the cold No anger burns within my weary chest Only a duty owed to turning years To let the life I held so tightly go And trust the cycle that the earth holds dear The wind calls softly through the waking trees A promise made before the first leaf grew I close my eyes and step into the light To trade the known for something vast and new	7	The winter fades within my weary bones As something stirs beneath the frozen ground I wonder what awaits beyond the veil A silence soft or whispers of a sound No fear can hold me when the air turns sweet With blooms that rise from soil I once called home My heart beats slow, a rhythm meant to cease While cherry petals drift where shadows roam I do not run from time's inevitable tide But walk toward it with a quiet grace To meet the end in gardens newly born And trade my breath for spring's enduring face	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 hand that rocks the cradle, I am the rough hand that breaks the neck. I am the dew that wakes the grass, I am the frost that kills it. I am the gentle rain that fills the cisterns, I am the deluge that sweeps the house away. I am the warm breath on a baby's cheek, I am the hot blast from the mouth of hell. I am the mother who bears children in pain, I am the father who takes them in pain. I am the silk that smothers, I am the steel that cuts. One nature, two hands. One face, smiling and weeping at once. Soft as a feather, hard as a diamond, I am all these things, And I am none of them alone.	5	I am the rain that breaks the drought And turns the dust to living green, I am the flood that drowns the house And strips the forest to the bone. My touch is soft as falling snow That covers fields with white repose, My touch is hard as falling stone That crushes all it overthrows. I give the breath within your lung, I take the breath within your lung, The same sweet air, the very same, Is both the song and funeral song. I rock you gently in my hands, I tear you from your mother's hands, One nature wears a double face, Both tender nurse and butcher's blade. Do not ask me which I choose, To build or break, to loose or lose, For softness holds the strength to kill, And toughness keeps the power to heal.	6	I am the rain that breaks the drought and fills the cup of thirsty ground, the gentle hand that lifts a sprout where life is newly found. Yet I am also winter's bite, the frost that stills the beating heart, the crushing weight of endless night that tears the world apart. My touch can heal a broken bone or snap it clean with sudden force, a soft and tender, quiet tone that guides the dying horse. The same deep current in the vein that feeds the bloom and kills the weed, holds pleasure and the sharp, cold pain within the very same seed. So do not ask me to be one or choose the soft or choose the hard, for I am rising like the sun and falling like the sword.	6	I am the rain that wakes the sleeping seed And the flood that washes roots away, The gentle hand that holds a child to sleep And the cold stone that ends the light of day. My touch can knit a wound with velvet grace Or crush the bone beneath a winter weight, A soft embrace that warms the freezing face Then turns the air to ice before your fate. There is no split between the mercy and the blow, No separate heart for healing or for harm, Just one deep river where the currents flow To bring the bloom and to invite the storm. The same essential force that builds the tree Is what will tear it down when seasons change, A paradox of wild necessity Where love and loss are bound in one strange range. So do not fear the shadow in my light Nor trust too much the sun upon your skin, For I am both the ending and the birth, The quiet peace that waits within the din.	6	I am the rain that breaks the drought and floods the fields until they drown, a gentle hand that coaxes green from soil that refuses to be bound. My touch can heal a fractured bone or crush the stem of fragile bloom, the same warm wind that sings to spring can strip the forest bare with gloom. In softness lies my power deep, in hardness rests my mercy too, for life requires the quiet seed and storms that tear the sky in two. No split exists between the blade that cuts the wheat or saves the grain, one breath that warms the newborn cry and chills the blood within the vein. I hold the cradle and the grave within a single, shifting palm, the tender root and jagged stone are both the beating of one calm.	6	I am the rain that fills the riverbed And the drought that cracks the earth below A gentle hand that cradles every seed While roots of ice begin to grow The same wind that lifts a butterfly's wing Can tear the roof from off a house Soft as silk against a weary cheek Hard as stone when silence turns to dust In my breath, the forest finds its light In my shadow, the last ember dies I hold the warmth that heals the broken bone And bring the cold that freezes time and eyes No war between the mercy and the steel For both are woven in the same design To break the dam is not to lose control But to let the water finally shine	6	I hold the seed that breaks the soil And turn the stone to dust beneath the rain A gentle hand that heals the open wound While shadows stretch across the quiet plain The river feeds the thirsty roots below Yet carves the canyon deep within the bone A whisper soft enough to lull a child That drowns the world when silence turns to tone I am the breath that fills the rising chest The final sigh that steals the light away No war between the mercy and the end For both are woven in the same gray day Soft as the moss that clings to ancient walls Hard as the iron forged by fire's heat To build the life I one day must release Is not a choice, but how the heart completes	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? The black one for the darkness in my soul? Or the white one for your snow-white hand? Or a red one for the blood I have not shed? I have no heart to draw you with a black lead. And I have no heart to draw you with a red lead. I have only this black lead and I am black. Which pencil should I use?	2	Ophelia, which of these should I employ to trace the lineaments of thy face? This black lead is too severe, too like the thoughts that make me fear; this red is too much like the blood that stains my uncle's bed and wood. Perhaps this white chalk, soft and pale, to match the lily in thy hair? Or this dark charcoal, bold and deep, to draw the secrets thou dost keep? Tell me, sweet Ophelia, tell, which instrument shall paint thee well?	3	Ophelia, hold this slate of white and grey, And tell me which I should employ today. This charcoal black, so deep as night's own breath, To shade the lines that lead to life or death? Or shall I take the silver pencil here, That mimics moonlight on a winter tear? Perhaps the red, to mark the heart within, Before the final tragedy begins? My hand is heavy with a prince's doubt, But for your face, I have no fear of what about. So choose the tool that best can capture you, Before the day turns into something new.	6	Ophelia, hold your hand so still Before the charcoal dust can fall. Which lead is true to capture this? The softest grey or sharpest black? Shall I use silver for your eyes, Or graphite dark to trace your brow? This one is too rough for skin, That one will fade before the light. Tell me, sweet, which instrument Can draw a soul that shifts like mist? Is it the pencil made of bone, Or just the shadow of my doubt? Choose for me, my dear Ophelia, For all these sticks are broken now, And none can sketch the face you wear When madness walks between us two.	5	Ophelia, hold your breath and let the silence grow Between the shadows of this castle floor Which graphite shall I choose to map your brow? The charcoal soft that smudges like a war Or silver point that gleams with cold decree? My hand shakes with a question far too deep To ask the stars above the stormy sea If I should use the lead that makes you weep Or ink that stains the page before I speak The umber pencil burns with earthy fire Too heavy for the lightness of your hair While blue might capture sorrow in the air But fails to catch the spark within your stare Tell me, dear ghost of all I cannot keep Before the sun dissolves into the gray Which tool of wood and dust will make you sleep Within a sketch that time cannot decay?	6	The graphite whispers soft against the grain A shadow caught within a trembling hand Ophelia, tell me, should I choose the dark To carve the sorrow in your quiet face? Or shall I seek the silver of the lead That mimics moonlight on a winter stream? This charcoal breaks too easily to hold The grace that flows beneath your gentle eyes. Perhaps the eraser waits to wipe away The doubt that clouds the paper's white expanse But which tool speaks the truth I cannot find? Which stroke can capture all you never say? Choose for me, love, before the ink runs dry And leaves this portrait hollow as the air Between the words we spoke and those unsaid Now fading like the light behind the door.	6	The charcoal whispers of a stormy night While graphite holds the silence in its grain Which mark shall carve the shadow of your light Before the ink of fate begins to stain? Is it the lead that breaks beneath my hand Or softest ash that fades before the dawn? Tell me, dear soul, where do I make demand Upon the space between what's lost and gone? This silver tip cuts deep through doubt and fear Yet fails to capture grace within the line Ophelia, speak so I may finally clear The path where broken dreams and truth combine Choose for me now, the tool to hold the ghost Of all we were before the world turned cold A simple stroke to anchor what we most Have left behind in stories never told	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 swings and I am small, And there are so many people tall. I do not know where to go, Or which way the green line goes. There is a boy with red hair, Who plays with a ball in the chair. There is a girl with pigtails, Who sings with other girls. They all seem to know what to do, But I do not know what to do. I hold my bag with both hands tight, And look for my mother at the sight. She is gone, she has gone away, It is the first day of school today. I want to belong like they do, I do not know what to do.	6	The door is bigger than I thought it would be and the noise is a wall that hits me in the face. My shoes feel too heavy on the shiny floor and I hold my mother's hand so tight I think my fingers might turn blue. She lets go and walks away, smiling a smile that looks like a goodbye but says stay. I stand by the cubby with my name on it but the letters look like strange little animals crawling up the paper to get away from me. Everyone else seems to know how to do this. They run to the blocks and they run to the books and they know which chair is theirs without even looking at the tag. I sit very still in a chair that is too big with my knees pulled up to my chest and watch them play a game I do not know the rules of. Their voices are loud and happy and fast like birds that have always lived in this tree. I want to be one of those birds I want to fly into their circle and have them say come play with us instead of standing here holding my breath waiting for someone to notice me waiting for someone to tell me where I belong.	2	The hallway stretches long and loud With shoes that squeak on shiny floor I clutch my bag so tight and proud But do not know the rules or door The voices rise like sudden rain A tangled knot of names and sounds I stand alone inside the strain Where lost and lonely kids are found My teacher smiles a friendly face But words she speaks are strange and new I try to find a proper place Among the rows of chairs and view I want to sit beside them all To share a toy or draw a line But feel too small, too short, too tall To make this big world feel like mine So I will wait and watch and see If somewhere in this noisy room There is a spot for just me To bloom and grow and shake the gloom	6	The hallway stretches wide and loud With shoes that squeak and voices proud I hold my mother's hand so tight But she must leave me for the light The room is full of colors bright That spin and blur before my sight A table made of plastic blue Where strangers sit and talk to you My name feels heavy on my tongue Like something said but never sung I watch them laugh and share their toys While I am just a quiet noise The teacher calls a game to play But I don't know what words to say Do they see me standing there? Or do I simply disappear? I wish the floor would open up And let me drink from someone's cup To find a place where I fit in Before the final bell begins The clock ticks slow, the shadows grow I wonder if they'll ever know That underneath this quiet face I'm searching for a familiar space	6	The hallway stretches wide and loud A sea of shoes that shuffle past I clutch my bag with trembling hands And wonder how long this will last The colors on the wall seem strange Too bright, too sharp, too far away I search for faces I might know But find only strangers in the fray A teacher calls a name I don't The sound echoes off the floor I stand alone beside the chair And feel the quiet settle in my core My heart beats fast against my chest Like something trying to break free I wish I could go back home again To where the world is safe for me Yet somewhere in this noisy room A small voice whispers soft and low Maybe tomorrow I will fit Maybe today I'll learn to grow	6	The hallway stretches wide and loud With shoes that squeak and voices proud A sea of strangers, tall and strange Where every laugh feels just a range Of sounds I cannot quite decode Upon this unfamiliar road My backpack feels too heavy now Against the weight of silent bow To rules I haven't learned to keep While shadows stretch across the deep Of classrooms filled with painted walls That echo back my quiet calls I watch them play in pairs and groups Connected by invisible loops Of friendship built before today While I am left to drift away A single leaf upon the stream Within a vast and waking dream I wonder if I'll ever fit Or if this heart will always sit Outside the circle, warm and bright Searching for a guiding light To show me where I truly stand And help me find a place to land	6	The hallway stretches wide and cold A maze of voices, loud and old My shoes feel heavy on the floor As fear begins to take its hold The colors shift in strange design Where laughter fades and shadows climb I grasp the fabric of my sleeve With trembling hands that dare not speak Why do they move in perfect lines? While I am lost between the signs A quiet space where no one sees The storm beneath my silent plea I watch the games I cannot join A broken thread, a fractured rhyme And wish for home, for safety deep Before the final bell can ring One step forward, then retreat To find a place within this seat Not just to stand, but finally breathe And learn how to begin again	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.	In the low roofed smithy of a nameless town, A broken sword lay rusting on the stone; The king was there in workingman's gown, And knew not that he had a crown to own. But when the ruffians came and sought to slay The poor old woman from her cottage door, He lifted up the rusty blade that day, And struck them dead, nor asked for more. He did not strike for pride, or for command, Nor for the lust of gold, or land, or power; But because the heart of man should stand For good in such an evil hour. And as he struck, the rust fell off like rain, The blade shone white with fire from the forge; It was the best of steel, it was the best of strain, And looked as if it were just off the forge. Then all the people saw and understood, That strength is not the might to smite and kill, But goodness of the heart which does much good, And has the will to do the right thing still. Then they took off their hats and bowed the knee, And said, "We see you now, O King and Lord!" For he who would be truly King to be, Must have a true and valiant sword.	6	No crown of gold nor purple robe Could make the hidden king appear, For strength was not in muscle's scope But in the heart that held no fear. The sword lay broken on the ground, A jagged ruin, dull and dead, Yet he who stooped to lift it found A purpose for his humble head. Not with a hammer's angry blow, Nor fire from a tyrant's forge, But by the patience that we know From gentle hands that do not gorge. He took the fragments of the steel, And welded them with love's own flame, Until the metal learned to feel The glory of a nobler name. Then up it sprang, a blade refined, More bright than any star above, For tempered by a good man's mind And forged in truth and honest love. So now the people see their king, Not by the scepter in his hand, But by the strength his soul could bring To heal the land and save the land.	7	No crown of gold nor scepter of command Could mark the king who walked among the sand, For true worth hides beneath a humble guise, Reflected in the kindness in his eyes. The broken sword lay rusted in the dust, A symbol of a lineage turned to rust, Yet when he took the hilt with gentle hand, He did not seek to conquer or command. His strength was not the muscle of the arm, But quiet power that kept the world from harm, A goodness that could heal the deepest wound, And make the barren fields again be green. He placed the fractured steel upon the fire, Not to destroy, but to fulfill desire, To forge anew what time had torn apart, With hammer blows that beat within his heart. As sparks flew up to light the darkened sky, The metal sang as if it meant to fly, The cracks were filled with light and silver grace, Revealing now the ruler's rightful place. The blade shone bright, no longer dull or weak, Because the soul that held it dared to speak Of mercy first, then justice, pure and clear, The hidden king is known by all who hear.	7	Beneath the rusted crown of silence he lay, A king unmarked by gold or royal decree, Until the shadow stretched across the day And called for hands that would not bend to flee. No scepter held his grip, but calloused skin, That knew the weight of labor and of bread, For true strength rises from the roots within, Not forged in fire where vain ambitions tread. The sword was broken, snapped in two by fear, Its edge once dull with neglect and ancient dust, Yet in the smithy's heat, the metal clear Responded only to a heart so just. He did not strike the anvil with command, But hummed a tune of mercy to the steel, Reforging what was shattered by the hand Of time, until the fractured parts were real. As light returned to shards of iron gray, The blade sang out a note of pure intent, Revealing that the worth of kingship lay In how much love a broken soul had spent. The crown was not a circle made of stone, But circles drawn by kindness on the land, Now known as one who walked the path alone, To lead the people with a steady hand. The destiny was never written high, In stars or scrolls of old prophetic lore, But in the way he wiped a tearful eye, And stood before the gate to open door. So let the broken sword now shine anew, A mirror to the goodness deep inside, Where hidden kings find truth in all they do, With nothing left to prove and nowhere hide.	7	Beneath the rust and silence of the forge A crown was never made of gold or stone But forged in quiet acts that left no mark Upon the world, yet shaped the soul alone The blade lay shattered on the anvil's floor Its edge consumed by time and bitter rain Yet hands that knew no glory sought to mend What others deemed beyond repair again For strength is not the weight of heavy steel Nor shouts that echo through a crowded hall It is the gentle hand that lifts the weak And stands unbroken when the shadows fall As fire breathes new life into the fracture The metal sings a song of ancient grace Not born of blood or right of lineage But from a heart that chose to love this place The shards align with purpose clear and true Reflecting light the broken once could hide The hidden king now stands before the dawn With destiny revealed in every stride No scepter needed for the rule he keeps Within the goodness that his spirit holds The sword is whole, the path is finally clear As truth unfolds where courage gently unfolds	7	The crown was lost beneath the moss and stone Where silence kept a secret from the throne No gold could speak of worth or royal line But in the quiet, something started to shine A broken blade lay rusted in the mud Forgotten by the hands of ancient blood Yet when the stranger lifted it with care The metal hummed a song beyond despair It was not steel that made the warrior strong But kindness where the heavy shadows long For every drop of mercy shed as rain Rekindled fire within the iron chain The forge of truth required no flame of hate Only the patience found at destiny's gate As sparks flew up to mend the fractured edge The king emerged from out the crumbling ledge His heart beat loud against the silent night Turning the darkness into morning light The sword now whole, a mirror for his soul Proving that broken things can make us whole True power rises not from force or fear But from the love that holds the world so dear And as the dawn reveals the hidden face The broken king has found his rightful place	7	The crown was lost beneath the winter snow Where silence guards a name no one recalls A stranger walks with weary, quiet feet Yet carries storms within a gentle soul True power is not found in iron chains But in the hands that lift the fallen down When kindness breaks the weight of heavy fear And hope blooms soft upon the barren ground The blade once shattered by a tyrant's pride Lies rusted deep within the river's flow It waits for fire to burn away the doubt To forge a light where shadows used to grow No gold can buy the strength of righteous heart That beats against the tide of endless night For destiny reveals its hidden path In every act of grace and quiet might Now steel returns with purpose sharp and bright As broken pieces find their ancient song The king awakes not from a throne of stone But from the love that taught him how to belong	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 sit before the blank page and the word that will do it. It is not a big word, not a loud word. There are so many little words that have been put on people, little sticky labels like the kind you get on the bottom of shoes, or the kind that come in sheets of a hundred from the stationery store. The stationery store is a very good place to get labels. One can go there and buy a label for any sort of person. One can buy a label for a man who is too thin. One can buy a label for a woman who is too fat. One can buy a label for a man who is too dark. One can buy a label for a woman who is too light. One can buy a label for a man who is too young. One can buy a label for a woman who is too old. One can buy a label for a man who is too stupid. One can buy a label for a woman who is too smart. One can buy a label for a man who is too lazy. One can buy a label for a woman who is too industrious. One can buy a label for a man who is too timid. One can buy a label for a woman who is too bold. One can buy a label for a man who is too religious. One can buy a label for a woman who is too irreligious. One can buy a label for a man who is too liberal. One can buy a label for a woman who is too conservative. One can buy a label for a man who is too poor. One can buy a label for a woman who is too rich. One can buy a label for a man who is too black. One can buy a label for a woman who is too white. One can buy a label for a man who is too yellow. One can buy a label for a woman who is too red. One can buy a label for a man who is too brown. One can buy a label for a woman who is too pink. One can buy a label for a man who is too blue. One can buy a label for a woman who is too green. One can buy a label for a man who is too orange. One can buy a label for a woman who is too purple. One can buy a label for a man who is too grey. One can buy a label for a woman who is too black and white. One can buy a label for a man who is too Japanese. One can buy a label for a woman who is too Chinese. One can buy a label for a man who is too…	2	I turn the pages of my mind but find no noun that fits the shape of what they call me in the street or print in bold across the page. They offer labels like cheap coats that shrink against the winter skin and scratch at all the places where my spirit tries to grow and spin. I search for one precise small word to cut the tape and free the tongue from definitions made by others before I was even young. A single syllable to hold the vastness of a human soul that does not fit inside the box they built to keep it under control. I look for something sharp and bright to shatter glass and break the mold a word that says you are yourself and nothing else can be told.	5	I dig through the dictionary of the street where nouns are heavy like stones in a pocket and verbs are sharp enough to cut the skin but I cannot find the one that fits. They call us broken, or dangerous, or less, slapping these tags on our backs like cargo while we stand still and try to breathe them off. I search for a syllable that shatters the glass of their narrow windows, a sound so bright it blinds the hand that holds the marker. Is it freedom? No, too soft, too worn. Is it rebellion? Too loud, too easily shouted down. I need a word that is a key and a door that is a mirror and a hammer all at once to crack the shell they made for me and let the thing inside finally speak its name.	2	The dictionary feels too small today for the heavy things they call us broken, lazy, lost, or loud words that stick like burrs to wool that tear when you try to pull them free. I walk through rooms of hushed definitions searching for a verb that cuts the chain a noun that holds the shape of who we are before the mirror cracked and showed their fear. Is it rebellion? No, that implies a fight when we are simply breathing in the light. Is it freedom? Too broad, too cold a stone to hold the warmth of seeds we've never known. I turn the pages until my fingers ache looking for a syllable that doesn't break under the weight of what they think we are a word that shines like water from a star. Perhaps the right word isn't written yet but waits inside the silence we forget a sound we make when labels start to fade the quiet truth that no one can degrade.	3	I hunt through the silence of a crowded room for a syllable sharp enough to cut the tape that binds us to the boxes we were handed at birth where names like broken or lost are whispered with pity and success is measured in inches of compliance My tongue feels heavy, dragging against the weight of definitions carved by hands that never trembled while I search for a verb that refuses to settle a noun that expands instead of constricts something fluid enough to hold the storm inside without calling it chaos or something dark Every dictionary page turns like a locked door offering synonyms for limits, for walls, for ends but I need a word that breathes, that shifts and grows that says the label is a coat too small to wear and beneath the fabric, the skin remembers how to move unwritten, unbound, and entirely its own	2	The dictionary feels too small today As I hunt for a verb that cuts the noise To shatter boxes built of quiet fear Where strangers paint our faces in dull gray They call us broken when we simply bend Or label wild the roots that seek the light But every name they whisper starts to crack Against the truth we hold within the night I search for something sharp enough to wake The sleeping giants buried in the chest A single syllable that breaks the chain And turns the heavy stone into a quest No longer defined by what was said We rise above the ink that tried to bind Finding the word that sets the spirit free And leaves the old definitions far behind	6	The ink of judgment dries too fast Before the breath can catch its weight We wear the names they carve in stone A heavy cloak, a narrow gate I search for syllables that break The chains of what we used to be A whisper soft enough to shift The ground beneath our history No single term can hold the shape Of all the light we hide inside So I reach out for something new Where silence meets the rising tide To speak a truth that refuses bounds And let the fractured pieces heal Not with a roar, but quiet grace That makes the old definitions real	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.	If beauty were a mountain high and steep, And kindness were the valley soft and deep, And faithfulness were the sea that never sleeps, All three in you alone I see asleep. Your beauty is the morning light on snow, Your kindness is the stream that gently flows, Your faithfulness is all I need to know, From winter's end to summer's heat and glow. I have not seen such beauty, kind, and true, In all the world beside yourself, my dear; I have not seen such kindness, too, and true, Nor faithfulness like yours appear so near. So beauty, kindness, faithfulness agree, In one sweet person, only you for me.	7	In you the three great virtues dwell as one, Where beauty wakes to greet the morning sun. Not merely in the curve of lip or eye, But in the kindness that makes angels fly To rest upon your shoulder and your knee; A gentle soul that sets all captives free. And if this kindness is a flower fair, Then faithfulness is the strong air That fills the sail and guides it through the storm, Keeping the vessel safe and keeping warm The heart that loves you with an unspent fire, Uplifting every wish and every desire. So beauty, kindness, faithfulness combine, Like starlight on a dark and winter pine; I seek no other garden, field, or tree, Since all these graces live in only thee.	7	In you the morning light finds its true home, A beauty that no season can erode, Not just the bloom upon a rose to roam, But grace that walks beside me on the road. Yet greater than the face the world admires, Is kindness warm as sun upon the snow, That feeds the soul with quiet, gentle fires, And makes the hardest winter pathways go. But most of all, your faithfulness remains, The anchor in the storm, the steady star, Through shifting winds and changing earthly pains, You are the constant near, however far. These three harmonious threads in one are spun, Beauty and kindness bound by faithful art, Until the setting of the final sun, I hold this perfect union in my heart.	7	In you the morning light finds its true home, A beauty that does not fade with passing years, But blooms within the quiet spaces of your soul, Where kindness flows like rivers to the sea. No storm can shake the faithfulness you hold, A steady anchor in the shifting tides of time, While grace and gentleness walk hand in hand, To weave a tapestry of purest gold. Three virtues dance together in your gaze, The radiant face, the heart that never turns away, And love that stands as firm as ancient stone, One perfect whole where all my hopes are grown.	7	In you the morning light finds its true home Where beauty blooms not just in form or face But in the quiet grace of every tone That softens time and slows the hurried pace Your kindness flows like rivers to the sea A gentle hand that lifts the fallen soul It calls the weary spirit wild and free And makes the broken pieces feel made whole Yet through the storm where lesser hearts would break Your faithfulness stands firm as ancient stone A promise kept for love's own sacred sake Never alone, yet never truly known These three are woven tight within your chest Beauty that shines, a kindness deep and wide With loyalty that puts all doubt to rest The perfect harbor where my heart can hide	7	In every glance, a sunrise breaks the dawn, Where beauty weaves its light through morning air, Yet kindness holds the warmth that keeps me warm, A gentle hand that lifts the weight of care. No storm can shake the roots of what we share, For faithfulness stands guard against the night, Three rivers flowing in a single stream, To guide my soul back to your steady light. You are the mirror where all virtues meet, The quiet grace that makes the world feel whole, With beauty, kindness, and a promise kept, You hold the very center of my soul. Let time erase the maps of distant lands, I'll find you still within this sacred space, Where love remains the only truth I know, Written upon the rhythm of your face.	7	The morning light finds grace within your eyes Where beauty blooms in colors soft and deep A gentle rhythm that the world denies To all but those who dare to love and keep Your kindness flows like rivers through the stone A quiet strength that heals the fractured soul No shadow dares to claim what you have shown A warmth that makes the broken pieces whole And faithfulness stands guard beside your heart A promise written in the silent air No storm can tear apart this sacred art Or steal the hope we built beyond compare Three threads woven in one eternal thread Where light and mercy meet without a sound In you, the ancient truths are finally read As time dissolves beneath your steady ground	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.	In the Hesperides' dark garden deep, Where sunset lingers in a golden sleep, The nymphs awake with garlands of green braid, To guard the tree where golden apples are made. Their white robes trail along the grassy floor, They guard the orchard from the morning's door. But near the trunk, whose leaves are gold and green, The most tremendous guardian is seen: A hundred-headed dragon, bright and scaly, Whose eyes are like two balls of fiery balladry; He coils about the tree's strong trunk around, And hisses low a very dreadful sound. The nymphs and he, though different kind, agree, To guard this fruit from all mortality; So Ladon sleeps, and so the nymphs watch too, Against all thieves who would the fruit pursue.	6	Upon the slopes where Atlas stands, Beneath the starry night's command, The Hesperides with braided hair, Guard well the tree that grows in air. Its boughs are bent with golden fruit, That shine and glisten, cold and mute, And round it coils the dragon great, With scales of green and eyes of slate. His hundred heads watch every side, Where none may pass and none may hide, Save when the moon is full and high, Beneath the vast and purple sky. The nymphs sing soft a lullaby, To keep the serpent's lids from fly, While he sleeps deep in slumber sweet, Beside the apples at his feet. But if a thief should dare to tread, Where sacred leaves and branches spread, The dragon wakes with fiery breath, To guard the tree and bring him death.	7	Beneath the boughs of heavy gold Where twilight never grows too cold, The Hesperides in green array Watch o'er the fruit that holds the day. Their voices soft as rustling leaves A secret ancient song perceives, While near the trunk with scales of fire, The dragon coils in dark desire. His eyes are lamps of burning green The fiercest guard ever seen, Yet he and they in pact agree To keep this sacred mystery. No thief shall pass the thorny gate To steal the weight of heaven's fate, For nymph and beast stand side by side With death and life and pride combined.	7	Beneath the boughs of silver bark, Where golden fruit begins to spark, The nymphs in woven green attire Stand silent as a holy fire. Their eyes reflect the moon's soft gleam, Within this quiet, guarded dream, They brush the leaves with gentle hands, Across these sacred, hallowed lands. But coiled around the trunk so old, A story of the dark unfolds, The dragon scales like emerald stone, A watchful king upon his throne. No thief may pass the thorny gate, For fate and fear combine their weight, The beast breathes out a sulfur sigh, While stars above the heavens lie. Together they, the maid and snake, Ensure no mortal heart can take, The apples that grant life anew, Bathed in the dawn's eternal dew.	7	Beneath the boughs where twilight softly weaves The silver nymphs in woven moonlight sleep, Their fingers tracing veins of living leaves While ancient roots their silent vigil keep. Above them hangs the fruit of burning gold, A harvest born from earth and starry fire, Where stories of the Titans are retold And time itself grows heavy with desire. Beside the trunk, a scaled guardian coils, With eyes like embers in the cavern deep, His breath a storm that never quite dissolves The promise that the sacred orchard keeps. No thief may pass this threshold of the green, For dragon scales and gentle hands unite, To guard the light within the unseen scene Against the shadow of the coming night.	7	Beneath the boughs where twilight clings, The golden fruit begins to sing, A chorus soft for roots so deep, Where ancient secrets softly sleep. Three sisters weave their silver thread, To guard the life that feeds the dead, Their eyes reflect the starry night, And hold the dawn within their sight. No wind dares touch the bark of gold, No shadow seeks what lies untold, For at the base, a scaled form wakes, With emerald fire and silent stakes. The dragon coils in endless loops, Through misty air and morning droops, His breath a storm, his gaze a wall, Against the thieves who dare to fall. Together bound by fate's decree, The nymphs and beast protect the tree, One sings the song, one guards the gate, Before the world can seal its fate.	7	Beneath the veil of twilight's gentle grace The garden holds its breath in silent space Where silver streams carve paths through ancient stone And roots of oak bind earth to sky alone The nymphs dance soft on petals, dew-kissed deep While golden fruits hang heavy, secrets keep Their hands outstretched to shield the sacred light From shadows that would steal the morning bright A serpent coils with scales of emerald green The guardian beast where no intruder's seen Its eyes reflect the stars above the bough A promise kept within a quiet vow No wind dares touch the branches overhead As time itself slows down for what is bred Between the fire and water, wild and still A pact forged in the heart of nature's will The apples glow with warmth against the night Defying chaos, fear, and fading light Together bound by threads of unseen grace In this eternal, hallowed, quiet place	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 ironing board is a mountain range of white linen, snow-capped and steep, and I am climbing it with a flatiron to smooth out the wrinkles of sleep. The soap suds in the kitchen sink are planets in a milky way, and I am washing my hands of them in the middle of the day. A slip of paper in the street with a telephone number on it, is a fragment of a dream I forgot I had won it. The steam rising from the coffee cup is a spirit leaving the body, and I am thinking about nothing at all except that it looks pretty. The broom sweeping up the dust is a poet sweeping up ideas, and the dust is made of stars and other things like these. And so the day goes by like a poem written on water, and I am looking for the meaning in the bottom of a saucer.	3	The steam that rises from a chipped blue cup is not just water vapor in the air but clouds unmoored, a white and drifting flock that lift the kitchen ceiling to the sky. The dust motes dancing in the shaft of light are tiny stars that fell to earth at noon and learned to waltz upon the wooden floor before they settled on the table leg. The grocery list written on the back of an old envelope in purple ink contains the names of planets and of loves and things we bought and things we lost again. The bus that groans around the corner turn is like a whale that swims through streets of gray and holds us all within its metal flank while singing songs of iron and of rain. We do not need to travel far or wide to find the dream where logic comes undone for poetry is woven in the weave of socks and shirts and curtains drawn at night. It hides inside the hum of refrigerator it waits behind the pattern of the rug it is the thought you have but do not speak while standing in the middle of the street.	6	The dust motes dancing in the kitchen light are not just dirt but tiny galaxies spun from the quiet of a Tuesday afternoon. A crumpled receipt in the pocket holds a grocery list that rhymes with hunger, the price of milk echoing the cost of sleep. We walk through streets paved with gray concrete but if we pause to listen closely enough the rhythm of tires on wet asphalt becomes a drumbeat for a marching band of invisible thoughts moving through the air. The steam rising from a coffee cup is a ghost trying to tell us something about the warmth of hands and the cold of morning. Even the rust on the garden gate has a texture like old velvet or forgotten words, a poem written in oxidation and rain. There is no need to travel far to find the strange and shimmering logic of dreams when they are woven into the wool of a sweater or hidden inside the silence between phone rings. The mundane is merely the dream waiting for us to wake up and read it.	2	The coffee stain on the morning paper spreads like a map of a country that never was, where rivers run backward and silence is loud. I trace the rim of the chipped mug and find a canyon carved by time, holding the echo of a laugh I almost forgot. Outside, the bus hisses to a halt, a mechanical dragon exhaling gray breath, but in the rhythm of its brakes, there is a sonnet written in rust and friction. The woman checking her watch is counting down not minutes, but heartbeats, each tick a stanza in a poem about waiting. Even the dust motes dancing in the shaft of light are stars in a galaxy made of attic air, swirling in patterns too complex for logic, too simple for fear. We walk through the grocery aisles searching for bread and milk, but our fingers brush against the spine of the world, feeling the pulse of something ancient and new, hidden inside the plastic wrap and cardboard box. Thoughts rise like steam from the kettle, invisible yet warm, shaping the room, turning the ordinary into a dream we can touch. Nothing is just what it seems to be, for the mundane is merely the loom where the invisible threads of wonder are woven tight, waiting for a mind awake enough to see the pattern.	2	The coffee cup holds a galaxy of steam that rises to rewrite the morning air while dust motes dance in shafts of light spinning stories older than the chair A cracked sidewalk becomes a river map where cracks are deltas feeding quiet seas and the hum of traffic turns to chant beneath the weight of heavy, gray keys We walk through rooms where shadows stretch to touch the edges of what we forget finding that thought is not a distant star but woven deep in fabric, thread, and net The grocery list contains a secret verse the rain on glass a rhythm soft and slow we need no magic spell to see the dream it lives right here in all we know	6	The coffee cup holds more than bitter steam A quiet vessel for the morning's ghost Where shadows stretch across the kitchen floor And silence hums a tune we cannot name The rust on fence posts tells a story old Of rain and time and patience in the steel While dust motes dance in beams of afternoon light Like stars trapped in a room that knows no night We walk through streets of concrete, gray and hard Yet find the softest verses in the cracks Where weeds push through with colors bright and wild Defying logic with their gentle grace The rhythm of a train against the rail Becomes a heartbeat syncing with our own No longer just a sound to pass us by But language written deep within the bone In every glance, a metaphor takes root In every word, a universe expands The ordinary folds into the strange Until the dream is all that truly stands	6	The coffee cup holds more than bitter steam A quiet tide that pulls the morning near Where words dissolve in silence, soft and deep And ordinary light begins to clear The crack upon the pavement tells a story Of rain that fell before we learned to speak It maps a path through shadows of the past A rhythm found within the broken peak No magic wand is needed to transform The dust that settles on the kitchen shelf For every breath we take becomes a verse That lifts the weight of gravity itself In rusted gates and whispers of the wind The dream takes root in soil of simple things We find the stars reflected in the floor Where poetry quietly begins to sing	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 dream I am walking in the open field With no master's whip and no overseer's eye, And the grass is under my bare feet, And the wind is free in my hair. Then I wake to the clank of the chain And the whine of the overseer's dog, And the memory of freedom turns bitter in my mouth Like a gallows-bird's egg. The blood boils up in me like a river breaking its banks, And I see the great white man Cowering before his God, And I see the black man standing upright Before his God. I see the day coming when the hounds will howl For their masters, And the dogs will be killed, And the men will be killed, And the women will be killed, And the children will be killed. I see the big house burning, And the big house burning, And the big house burning.	2	The whetstone sings against the scythe A sharp and silver sound, But in my sleep I hear instead The hoofs of horses on the ground. I run across a field of corn That stands as high as men, With nothing on my back but air And no iron at my pen. My hands are free to hold a plow To hold a wife, a child, No overseer with whip in hand To make the spirit wild. Then morning breaks like breaking glass Across the dungeon floor, And I am back beneath the lash Behind the heavy door. The dream is gone, the freedom lost, The memory turns to bile, It burns inside my gut and chest And makes me want to smile. Not smile with joy, but smile with rage As quiet as the grave, For I have seen how weak they are Who only know how slave. I see them now, this host of us Rising from the soil, We shall not ask for liberty But take it with our toil. The axe will turn upon its head, The whip will be the rod, And we shall drive these masters out As if they were not God. We'll burn their houses to the ground And salt their fields again, And let them feel the terror that They made us feel and feign. I close my eyes and see the day When chains will break and fly, And justice for the black man's blood Shall rise up to the sky.	3	The moon hangs low above the cotton rows A silver coin I once could buy and sell I dream of running where the river flows Of walking free without a iron bell My feet recall the dust of open roads Before the chain was clamped upon my wrist The memory burns beneath these heavy loads A fire that no master can resist But dawn approaches with its gray, cold light And drags me back to work and whip and pain The vision fades into the coming night As rage begins to boil inside my brain It turns to ash, it turns to red-hot steel To think I ever slept so peacefully Now hatred is the only thing I feel That grows and grows until it sets me free I see them all, the masters in their fear When shadows lengthen and the drums begin We shall arise, the long-awaited year When blood will wash away the filth of sin No more the lash, no more the broken back We'll turn the tables on the cruel design And make the oppressors pay the final tax With every drop of blood they made us sign The day is coming when we stand as one With torches high and voices loud and deep The rising sun will greet the morning sun While those who owned us wake from endless sleep For justice waits within the dark below To rise up now and tear the walls apart And let the tyrants know the time is now When vengeance beats within a freed man's heart	6	The heavy iron bites into my wrist But in the dark, the chains dissolve to mist I see the river where I used to run Beneath a sun that warmed me, not the one That burns the back of a man who knows his place I feel the wind upon an open face No master's whip, no overseer's shout Just silence and the stars and nothing but Then memory turns to ash inside my chest A fire wakes that will not let me rest I hear the crack of leather on my skin And feel the weight of every sin they've pinned My hands are fists that tremble with the heat Of days when freedom was a stolen treat Now rage builds up like water in a dam Waiting for the moment, waiting for the slam I dream the day the silence breaks apart When every heart stops beating in its chart We rise as one, a tide of black and red To drag the oppressors from their gilded bed No more the bowing head, no more the plea We take our vengeance wild and endlessly Their houses burn, their thrones turn into dust And in the smoke, we claim the trust The morning comes with shadows long and deep But in my soul, the promise I will keep Until the chains are broken by the hand Of those who rose to rule this cursed land The night is short, the dawn is coming soon With thunder rolling from a thousand moons We wait, we watch, we sharpen every blade For all the debts that must now be repaid	6	The sun once kissed my skin without a chain, Where fields were mine and laughter filled the air, No iron bit to mark the heavy pain, Just open roads that led beyond despair. But now the whip cracks loud against the night, And shadows stretch where freedom used to bloom, I close my eyes to fight the fading light, And let the fire of ancient rage consume. A dream takes hold where silence turns to roar, Where broken chains lie scattered on the ground, We rise as one to break the master's door, With vengeance shaking every hallowed sound. Your castles fall beneath our rising tide, The blood you spilled returns in rivers red, No more the servant, no more the hide, But justice spoken by the living dead. The dawn will bring a world we finally claim, When those who bowed shall stand and take their due, No shadow left to dim the burning flame, For what was stolen is returned anew.	6	The chains bite deep into the calloused skin As moonlight fades and shadows start to spin I close my eyes to find a field of gold Where no master's whip could ever be told My feet were free to run across the plain Without the weight of sorrow or the pain A memory sharp as glass begins to cut And turns the quiet dream to rising gut The fire builds within a silent chest No longer bound by fear or forced to rest The faces blur, the masters turn to dust Consumed by rage that only time has nursed I see the iron break beneath my hand And hear the thunder of a shifting land The silence breaks with screams we held too long A song of vengeance rising in the throng One day the sun will rise on broken gates When every lock gives way to desperate fates We stand together, tall and unafraid To wash away the debt of blood and shade Let them feel the weight they placed upon our backs Until the world is healed by justice cracks The night is ending, dawn brings something new A storm of retribution coming true	6	The chains that bind my weary bones feel heavy in the dark But memory paints a sky where wind could touch the soul without a mark I see the fields I once called home, the sun upon my skin A time before the iron broke the spirit deep within Yet silence cracks beneath the weight of every whispered lie As anger blooms like winter frost against a dying fire's cry No longer will I bow my head to masters who demand The sweat of labor stolen from the beating of a hand In dreams, the ground begins to shake with footsteps loud and true Where shadows rise to meet the dawn and claim what was once ours to do The gates swing wide for those who wait, the shackles turn to dust And justice finds its voice at last in thunder, blood, and trust We walk through halls of broken glass, no fear left in our eyes For every tear shed in the night becomes a storm that never dies The oppressor trembles in the dark as history turns its page Revenge is not a distant hope, but coming with the age	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.	If you walk along the street with laughter light as a feather in your hand, the people will gather round you like moths about a lamp. They will come close to see what light is, they will come close to feel its warmth; if you laugh they will laugh with you, and if you are happy they will be happy too. But if you sit down on the steps and weep, or go about with a sad face, the people will turn away from you. They will not like to see you weeping, they will not like to be near you when you are sad. They will not come near you when you are suffering, but they will go away from you. You will have to go on weeping by yourself, and you will have to go on suffering by yourself.	6	When I laugh the door swings wide, A crowd rushes in to share the tide, They gather round the fire of my glee, And make a party of what was me. But when I weep the door shuts tight, And friends grow shy of the heavy night, They fear the stain of my sorrow's tear, So they walk away and leave me here. For happiness is a public thing, To which the merry multitudes cling, But sadness is a dark, lone room, Where flowers wither and shadows bloom. Though many come to see me smile, None stay to walk that mile, The happy are a band or crew, But the sad are always only two: Myself and pain, alone and true.	6	The laugh is a bright coin tossed in the air That clinks against the palms of all who pass, A signal that the sun is warm and fair, Inviting them to gather round and bask. They come with open faces, eager eyes, To share the joke, to join the ringing sound, For joy is like a fire where none denies The heat that warms the crowd upon the ground. But when the weeping starts, a quiet rain, It falls on stones that only one can feel, And those who laughed before now turn away, As if the sight of tears were something real Too heavy for their light and festive hearts, Or too contagious for their happy state. They leave the mourner standing all apart, To bear the weight of sorrow at his gate. So happiness attracts the throng nearby, While grief repels them with its silent dread; We smile to draw the world beneath our sky, But cry alone inside our private bed. The crowd will circle round the man who sings, Yet vanish from the woman who must weep, For laughter lifts us on a thousand wings, But sadness makes us solitary deep.	7	A laugh rings out like silver bells That summon neighbors to the door, They gather round the warmest cells And walk together on the floor. The joy we share becomes a chain That binds the crowd in tight embrace, We drink the sun and feel no pain Within this bright and crowded space. But when the tears begin to fall And silence fills the heavy air, No chorus answers to the call Of those who struggle with despair. The light that drew them near before Now seems too harsh for eyes so red, They turn away from open sore And leave the grieving soul unsaid. For happiness is loud and bright That pulls the world into our hand, While sorrow hides within the night And walks alone across the land. We share the feast of pure delight With every friend who draws us near, But face the dark without a sight When only solitude is here.	7	A sudden laugh is a lantern lit in the square That pulls the weary wanderers from their chairs We gather round the spark, drawn by the light Of joy that feels too heavy to hold alone tonight But when the tears begin to fall like silent rain The crowd disperses, seeking sun instead of pain They cannot carry what you hold inside So they step back and let the sorrow hide For happiness is a bridge that spans the deep While grief is an ocean where only one can weep You may be loved for every smile you share Yet no hand stays to catch you when you tear The world moves closer to the sound of glee But leaves you standing still when you are free	6	The room fills when the laughter breaks the air A chorus rising from a shared delight Where every smile invites another near And shadows flee the warmth of gathered light We dance in circles drawn by joy's bright thread No stranger dares to stand outside the ring For happiness is built on what we said And pulls the broken pieces of us tight But when the tears begin to fall unseen The crowd retreats to keep their own hearts dry They fear the weight of grief they cannot hold And turn away from sorrow's heavy sigh Alone you sit within the quiet storm While others seek the sun that warms the skin The world moves on, too busy to be torn By pain that only lives deep down within So let them come to feast upon the cheer That binds us all in bonds of fleeting grace Yet know that suffering holds no company here Just silence where the lonely face must trace	7	The laughter spills like sunlight on the floor Inviting hands to hold what once was cold A shared refrain that pulls the stranger near To weave a tapestry of warmth and gold We gather round the fire of a smile Where joy becomes a bridge across the divide No walls can stand against the gentle hum Of stories told where hope refuses to hide But when the tears begin to fall unseen The crowd retreats into the quiet dark For sorrow is a weight too heavy for the light That leaves the broken heart without a spark They turn away from grief they cannot fix Leaving the weeping soul alone in silence deep While happiness invites a thousand friends Sadness demands a promise none will keep In every tear, a solitary road Where only shadows walk beside the pain We find our kin within the open sky Yet bear the storm beneath a silent rain	7
228	ultra_held_out	i thank You God for most this amazing by E.E. Cummings	E.E. Cummings	A poem about a speaker thanking God and expressing a spiritual awakening through a renewed appreciation of the natural world, while acknowledging those whose eyes and ears remain unawakened to such beauty.	i thank You God for most this amazing day:for the leaping greenly spirits of trees and a blue true dream of sky; and for everything which is natural which is infinite which is yes (i who have died am alive again today, and this is the sun’s birthday; this is the birth day of life and of love and wings: and of the gay great happening illimitably earth) how should tasting touching hearing seeing breathing any–lifted from the no of all nothing–human merely being doubt unimaginable You? (now the ears of my ears awake and now the eyes of my eyes are opened)	Lord, I bow my head to thank You for the light That breaks the morning mist and warms the stone, For how the river sings a song so bright, And every leaf reveals a truth unknown. My spirit wakes within this green embrace, To see Your hand in wind and falling rain, A sudden joy that fills this holy space, And washes clean the dust of old disdain. Yet round about, I walk among the blind, Who pass the blooming rose with hollow gaze, Who hear the thunder but do not find The voice that speaks through all these silent days. They walk the path where gold is hidden deep, With eyes shut tight against the dawn's appeal, While I have promises You bid me keep, And hearts too full of wonder now to feel The weight of silence or the lack of sight, But only gratitude for endless light.	I thank thee, Lord, that I have eyes to see The heavy dew upon the morning grass, And ears to hear the throstle singing free The notes of which thou dost not let me pass. I feel a spiritual awakening now; My spirit is renewed and set on fire; I bend my head before the beechen bough, And lift my heart to thy great high desire. But some there are who walk this self-same way, With eyes unawakened to such beauty bright; They do not see the dawn's transfiguring day, Nor hear the thrush in the dark early night. Their eyes are closed, their ears are stopped with care, To all these wonders of the earth and air.	6	Lord, I thank You for the morning light That breaks the gray and sets my spirit bright, For in the rustle of the autumn leaves I hear a hymn Your gentle voice weaves. The river running to the distant sea Is but a mirror of Your mystery, And every flower opening its head Reveals a truth that once was dead. But round about me many walk along With eyes that do not see, nor ears that sing; They pass the sunset as a thing of course, And miss the beauty of the heavenly horse. They look at stone and see no living face, They walk through gardens but they know no grace. Their world is flat, their horizon low, They only know what men can show. Yet I have seen, and now I cannot cease To marvel at this wild and quiet peace; My heart is full, my eyes are opened wide, To all the glory that You have inside. So let them sleep who will, and let them go Unawakened to the sun's soft glow; I thank You, Lord, that I may stand alone And know the earth, and know it as Your own.	6	Thank You for the light that breaks the gray, For teaching me to see the green again, How every leaf is woven with Your name, And every bird sings out a holy strain. I walk among the hills and feel awake, As if a heavy veil has fallen down, The river's voice is no longer mute or vague, But speaks a language clear as any town. Yet I look around at faces turned away, Who hear the wind but do not know its tune, Who pass the blooming thicket in the day And miss the glory of the afternoon. Their eyes are open but they do not see, Their ears are tuned to noise and not to praise, They walk through gardens meant for ecstasy And walk through them in ordinary ways. Forgive them Lord, for they have not been shown, The secret door that opens to the soul, But let my heart be all the more their own, To love them while I make the broken whole.	7	I lift my hands to thank the Source of all For waking up the silence in my soul, Where once I walked but saw no grand design, Now every leaf reveals a sacred scroll. The morning mist is not just water's breath But incense rising from the earth below, And in the wind that rustles through the pine I hear a hymn that only grace can know. Yet round about me, crowds move on their way With eyes that see but do not truly look, Their ears are tuned to static and to noise, While nature sings her ancient, quiet book. They pass the river without feeling deep The pulse of life within its flowing stream, They walk beneath the stars with heavy heads And never dream they're walking in a dream. My heart aches for the ones who cannot hear The music woven in the falling rain, Who miss the miracle of blooming things And feel no joy amidst the sun or pain. But I will stand as witness to the light That floods the world for those who choose to see, And give my thanks for eyes that finally open wide To what was always meant to set us free.	7	Thank You for the morning light that breaks the silence And paints the dew in colors I forgot to see, For every leaf that trembles in the breeze Whispers a truth that sets my spirit free. I hear the river singing ancient songs To ears that once were closed to such a sound, A sudden grace where wonder now belongs Upon this hallowed, breathing, living ground. Yet some walk past the bloom and miss the rain, Their eyes fixed on the dust beneath their feet, They do not know the joy of gentle pain Or feel the rhythm of the earth's heartbeat. My gratitude is deep for what is shown, While others sleep within a quiet gray, I bow before the seeds that you have sown And thank the dawn that leads me out today.	7	The morning light breaks soft against the glass And I remember how You shaped the air A silent hymn that only hearts can pass Where every leaf reveals a prayer so bare I thank You for the way the river sings To wash away the dust of yesterday For how the ancient oak still stretches wings To catch the dawn and turn it into day But others walk beside me on this path With eyes that see no color, ears that hear No whisper from the wind or gentle wrath Of storms that clear the sky with sudden fear They rush to find what cannot be held tight While beauty blooms in shadows they ignore Blind to the stars that guide the coming night And deaf to nature's quiet, sacred roar Yet in my chest, a fire begins to glow Awake at last to all You meant to show Not just the world, but love that starts below Before the seeds of wonder ever grow	7	The morning breaks not just in light but in a whisper A quiet promise woven through the trembling leaves I thank You for the breath that fills this chest of clay For every shadow cast by branches reaching high Where silence speaks a language older than my name The river sings a song I finally learn to hear No longer rushing past, but holding space within The wind becomes a hand that guides the wandering soul And stone remembers stories carved by time alone In this awakening, the world reveals its sacred heart Yet some walk forward with their eyes turned inward tight Unmoved by gold that spills across the forest floor They pass the bloom without a glance or grateful sigh As if the earth were hollow, stripped of all its grace Their ears are closed to melodies the heavens weave I stand between the noise and what remains so clear A bridge built on the gratitude of rising dawn May patience soften walls where fear has taken root Until the moment comes when silence finds them too And they too see the miracle beneath the falling rain	6
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	Six-sided vagabond of the upper air, A speck of nothing in the vastness white, Born of a breath and nothing more to spare, One of millions on a winter night. No one would have missed you if you fell, Or missed you much had you not fallen at all; You were the least important thing of all, The least significant of snowflakes' fall. But as you whirled about the street lamp's light, And turned and tumbled in the eddying wind, A woman stood with lips apart for sight, To see what weather had been sent to send. She was thinking of a lover just arrived, She was waiting for him under the tree; Just at that moment when she most contrived To think of him, and only him, was he. And so you came, by chance, and by good luck, (For who can say how chance or providence works?) And landed on her mouth, and did not suck Her lips together, nor put out her works. But there you rested, on the lower lip, A tiny diamond, on a coral bed; So small a thing, and yet so very big, As big as all the world could ever said. For there you stopped, and there you melted too, Because she thought of him, and he came near; And what was nothing, became something too, Because it happened at the rightest year.	6	A speck of nothing in the vast and white A crystal spun from air and frozen light No name, no history, no place to be Just drifting aimlessly across the sea Of clouds that hold a billion others like Itself, a tiny atom, small and sick Of being lost, it falls into the night And wonders if it has a destiny or right To fall alone upon the barren ground Or vanish as a vapor without sound But chance, that silent architect of fate Has guided it through many a twist and gate Across the streetlamp's yellow, hazy glow Past winter trees that shiver in the snow Until it sees a face upturned to sky With lips apart and waiting, soft and dry It lands, a sudden coolness on the mouth At just the right moment, coming from the north He turns his head, she turns her head to see The tiny gift brought down by destiny That nothingness has found a meaning now Upon those lips, beneath a furrowed brow A single flake, insignificant before Is now the reason for this kiss, and more	7	Born of a cloud in the vast and empty gray, A single crystal drifting far away. No name to hold, no history to keep, Just one small secret that the cold winds sleep. It spun through air where millions danced before, An atom lost upon an endless floor. What purpose has a speck so thin and light? To vanish in the morning or the night? It fell past roofs, past trees, past silent streets, Where human warmth and winter chill retreats. It brushed a cheek, it landed on a glove, Then slid away without a trace of love. But chance, that quiet weaver of the strange, Did turn the world within its sudden range. The wind held still, the sky let out a breath, And guided it to life beyond all death. Upon a mouth that waited for a kiss, It found a home within a moment's bliss. No longer just a fragment of the snow, But meaning born where two warm hearts can go. It melted there, a tear of winter's art, That touched the soul and entered in the heart. From nothingness to something deep and true, It died to make a moment new for you.	7	Born of a whisper in the freezing dark, A tiny shard of nothing, cold and stark, Drifting through the vast and silent air, With no one watching, with no thought to spare. Just dust and ice, a fleeting, weightless thing, Unnoticed by the world or any wing, Until the wind decided on its course, To guide this small and accidental force. It fell past rooftops, past the streetlamp's glow, Past trees that held their breath against the snow, A random path, a chance upon the breeze, That brought it down to where two lovers freeze. The world was loud with laughter, soft with sighs, Beneath the gray and heavy winter skies, And as they paused to share a quiet space, The flake found its true and final resting place. It touched the curve of lips that sought a kiss, A moment made of silence and of bliss, No longer just a fragment lost in white, But proof that even small things find their light. For in that touch, the journey found its end, A stranger turned to something more than friend, Insignificance dissolved in warmth and grace, As meaning landed softly on her face.	7	Born of a whisper in the freezing dark, A single crystal with no name or mark, Just dust and vapor spun by silent hands, Drifting through the vast and empty lands. To be so small is to be almost none, A fleeting speck beneath a heavy sun, Lost within the storm that knows no end, Where every path is broken and does bend. But down it falls, a spiral, soft and slow, Through winds that do not care where it will go, Until the air grows still and time stands still, And gravity aligns with sudden will. It touches skin as warm as summer rain, Upon the curve where breath and silence reign, The lover waits, unaware of fate's design, As winter meets the pulse of heart and line. No longer lost within the endless white, It finds its purpose in this shared delight, For in that touch, the universe takes hold, A story written on a face of gold. The cold becomes a promise, sweet and deep, A moment frozen while the world asleep, From nothingness to meaning, clear and true, The snowflake found its home in you.	6	Born of a whisper in the freezing dark A single crystal, weightless and alone Drifting through the vast and silent void Where billions fall without a sound or name It spins in currents, cold and undefined Just dust that dances in the winter air Unseen by eyes that scan the gray horizon A fragment lost within the endless white Then winds shift soft, a sudden gentle turn Guiding its path toward a waiting face The world below is blurred by falling snow But time seems still for this one fleeting chance It lands upon the curve of parted lips Where warmth meets ice in quiet, tender shock No longer just a speck of frozen rain But proof that fate can find us in the storm In that brief touch, the journey finds its end The insignificant becomes the sacred sign A promise written on the skin of night That even chaos has a place to land	6	Born in the silent dark of winter's breath A crystal formed from nothing but the cold Drifting through a world that does not know its name A speck of ice destined to fade and break The wind carries it past towering peaks and empty fields Where millions fall and vanish without sound It wonders if this fragile shape has any weight Or if it is just dust beneath the gray sky's weight Then time slows down as clouds begin to part Releasing light that catches on the edge of glass A warmth rises from below, a heartbeat in the air Guiding the path toward a face turned upward soft and still No storm commands this dance, no logic guides the fall Just gravity and chance aligning for a single beat The snowflake lands upon the lips where silence used to be Turning the cold into a touch that warms the soul within In that brief second, the journey finds its end Not lost to earth, but held by hands that wait too long The meaning shifts from drifting ghost to whispered promise kept As frost becomes a memory of love arriving late	6
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 know they were in the icebox for your breakfast, and I know that you had been saving them. But there they were in the glass bowl, plump and cold, and I could not help myself. They were so sweet, and so very tempting. I am sorry.	2	I know they were not mine to take, those blue and dusty plums you saved with such care for your morning meal. But the sight of them in the cold dark glass, so tempting in their purple weight, made my reason fail me quite. I could not help but taste one first, and then another, sweet and tart, and now they are gone, and I am sorry, that I could not wait until the light.	6	I know they were yours for breakfast tomorrow morning, set aside in the cold dark to be sweet and firm. But the smell of them through the glass door was too much to bear, and my hand moved before my mind could stop it. Now there is only a plate with three empty skins and a sticky smear of juice that I cannot wash away. I am sorry I could not wait, sorry for the hunger that was stronger than my promise, sorry that you will wake up to find your breakfast gone while I sit here full and guilty.	2	I know they were waiting for your morning light, Sitting cool and heavy in the dark of the shelf, Reserved with a promise you made to yourself. But the scent of them drifted through the kitchen door, A sweet, dusty perfume I could not ignore. My hand moved before my mind could say no, Reaching past reason to where the cold winds blow. One was enough, or so I told my guilt, Until the skin split and the juice ran built, Sweet as regret on the tip of my tongue, While the silence of the fridge felt suddenly young. I am sorry for stealing the dawn from your plate, For giving in when I should have waited and waited. The bowl is empty now, save for the stain, And I will pay for this theft in the morning rain.	5	I saw them sitting in the cold glass light Saved for your morning, sweet and waiting there But something pulled me past the door at night And left a stain of purple on my air They promised you a start to break the dawn With juice that clings like honey to the skin Yet I could not let all that beauty go on Before the hunger rose up deep within Forgive the empty space where two should be The sticky fingers and the guilty breath I know I stole what was meant only for thee A small theft born of weakness and of death No words can bring the fruit back to its place Or wash the taste of longing from my tongue I bow my head in shame and quiet grace For breaking vows before the day begun	6	I found them cool against the glass Where morning light was meant to break A promise kept for empty plates That I have chosen not to take The skin was bruised with purple dust A scent that called my name too loud I told myself just one would pass Before the dawn could leave a cloud But hunger is a quiet thief That steals the reason from the mind And now the bowl sits bare and cold With nothing left for you to find Forgive the greed that won't let go Of sweetness stolen in the night I know these plums were yours to hold Until the breaking of the light	6	The kitchen hums in silence, cold and deep Where morning light has yet to break the gray I stand before the glass, a thief of sleep To steal the fruit you meant for breaking day They sat so still within the plastic bowl A promise kept against the coming dawn But hunger carved a hollow in my soul And left the quiet rules I promised gone My hands reached out before my mind could speak The skin gave way beneath a desperate grip No warning bell could stop the sudden peak Of sweetness spilling on a trembling lip Now empty rinds betray the silent theft The air holds echoes of a stolen taste I bow my head to what the morning left With crumbs of regret that time cannot erase Forgive the weight of this unspoken debt For plums that were not mine to hold or keep The sun will rise on promises we met While I remain awake in guilt's deep sweep	7
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 sit and watch you packing up your room with bright new things that I don't understand, and see the girl who used to hide from storms running away to find a bigger land. I fear that when you come back home again you will not know me or this house of mine; that you will be a stranger in my den and I shall be a stranger in your line. I fear the polish on your fingers now, the language that you speak with other friends, the city air that makes you sweat and bow your head to people I should never send my greetings to. I fear you'll wear a smile that isn't yours but one you bought and wore; I fear you'll think I'm tedious and old-style, and wish that you had never seen my floor. I fear you'll go and go and go away, and being good, and being wise, and fair, will not be you at all but someone say that you were once, but isn't anywhere.	5	I watch you pack your bags with eyes so bright And think of all the things you'll leave behind, The quiet girl who loved the morning light And held my hand and never looked to wind. But now you seek a city made of glass Where people wear their faces like a mask, Where hours tick and heavy shadows pass And I will not be able to make haste. I fear the day you'll look at me and see A stranger in a room you used to know, A woman full of strange civility Who speaks a language that I cannot know. You'll change your name and cut your hair and dress In styles that mock the clothes I used to buy, And when you speak you'll talk of nothing less Than how you've learned to lie and how to lie. I want to hold you back before you go Before you turn into this other thing, But time is water and it has its flow And I must let the river take its wing. So go and be the person you must be Though part of me will die within my breast, For I can only love the child to see The woman whom I shall not understand.	6	I watch you pack your bags with things I do not know And wonder if the girl who slept upon my knee Will fit inside that suitcase made of steel and glass Or if she will dissolve before she leaves this room. You speak of cities where the air is thin and loud Of paths that wind away from where our garden grew And in your eyes I see a stranger starting to bloom A face I love but cannot quite make out. I fear the day you turn and look right through me As if I am a ghost or just a faded photograph The mother that you knew will be a thing of past Replaced by someone cold and distant and unknown. Do not let the world carve lines into your brow That hide the softness of the smile I used to hold Do not let the noise of strangers drown the voice That once was mine to guide and yours to hear. I pray you find yourself without losing us That when you stand so tall and far away from home You still remember how it felt to be held close And not become a statue made of stone and ice.	6	I watch you pack your bags with quiet hands And trace the map of roads that lead away From where the garden blooms and sunlight stands To places where I cannot make you stay You speak a language I no longer know Of cities loud and dreams I cannot hold The girl who used to run through fields of snow Is fading in the stories you have told I fear the day you turn and do not see The shadow of the child I raised so dear Who waits behind the glass for you to be The stranger that the future makes appear Do not let them change the shape of you Or wash the color from your gentle eyes For if you lose the part that feels so true I will not recognize the one who flies So take my love but leave the softness here Before the world turns cold and hard and deep And leaves me standing with a sudden tear Watching the daughter that I loved asleep	7	I watch you pack your bags with things I cannot hold The glitter of a world that moves too fast to know my name You speak in codes I never learned, a language sharp and cold Where every word is armor built against the love we made I fear the day your eyes will look right through my face As if I were a ghost from some forgotten, quiet room A stranger wearing skin I once knew how to trace Before the shadows grew so deep they swallowed up the bloom You are becoming someone who does not need my hand Someone who walks alone beneath a different sky And though I understand the path you must command It breaks me just to see the old girl say goodbye I hold my breath and wait for when the door swings wide To find a silhouette where my daughter used to stand A distant echo drifting far beyond the tide Leaving only silence in the space where we once planned	6	I watch you pack the boxes of your youth With things I cannot hold, with words I do not know The light that once reflected in your eyes Is shifting toward a horizon I can't reach You speak of futures built on concrete walls Where silence is a currency and warmth is rare And I am terrified to see the softness fade Replaced by armor forged from cold and steel What if the girl who loved the rain becomes A stranger walking through a storm she made herself? What if the voice that called for me at night Dissolves into a quiet, hollow echo? I try to keep the door ajar just wide enough To let the memory of who you used to be remain But fear is growing roots inside my chest Afraid the version of you I love will vanish soon Time moves too fast to catch the hands you're letting go And every step away feels like a slow goodbye To someone whole before the world could break her down To someone lost within a life I cannot save	6	The silence grows between us, thick and cold As shadows stretch across the floor you once called home I watch the fire fade behind your eyes A stranger wearing skin I used to know You speak of dreams that pull you far away Where promises are made and quickly broken And every word you whisper feels like glass That cuts the bond we built from years of love I fear the day you turn and walk without a glance Leaving the ghost of who you were behind Not lost in time, but changed by hands unseen Until I cannot find the girl I raised The path ahead is paved with quiet storms That steal the warmth from every gentle touch And I am left to hold a hollow space Where laughter used to echo through the night	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.	In the Ning Nang Nong where the trees go Bing Bong! And the teapots go Tiddle-um-Ting, The mice go Ping-Pong-Ping! When the big trees go Bing Bong! And the little teapots go Tiddle-um-Ting, The mice go Ping-Pong-Ping! If the big trees go Bing Bong! And the little teapots go Tiddle-um-Ting, And the mice go Ping-Pong-Ping!	1	In the middle of the Ning Nang Nong Where the trees go bong and the teapots pong, And the mice go ping and the cows go plonk, And the frogs go clonk and the donkeys honk. The big green trees go bong bong bong, While little tin teapots go pong pong pong. The mice run round with a ping ping ping, And the frogs sit still with a clonk clonk clonk. If you go to the Ning Nang Nong You will hear the trees go bong bong bong, And the teapots go pong pong pong, And the mice go ping ping ping, And the frogs go clonk clonk clonk, And the donkeys go honk honk honk.	1	Deep in the Ning Nang Nong where the loud noises throng The trees go Coo-Coo-Ca-Cho and the teapots go Bong The mice go Squeak-Snack-Snook with a Plop-Plop-Ping And the sky is full of Zizz-Zazz-Zung on a string. A cow goes Moo-Bop-Bang while a dog goes Woof-Woop-Woo And the sun goes Shimmer-Shazam with a bright yellow hue The frogs go Ribbit-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt-Ribbitt…	1	Step softly into the Ning Nang Nong Where the air is thick with a hum and a song The trees go Bop-Bop-Bop in the greenery high While teapots on branches go Whistle-Whizz-Sigh A mouse with a hat runs across the wet floor Making Pitter-Patter-Clatter right out of the door The pots shout Ping! as they tumble and spin And the mice squeak Zzzzt when the chaos begins No silence can hide from this racket so loud In the Ning Nang Nong where the noise fills the cloud So listen to Bloop and to Thump and to Screech As the world makes its music within earshot reach	2	In the heart of Ning Nang Nong where the wild winds blow, The ancient trees begin to creak and groan with a low, deep thwack. Their leaves rustle softly then burst into a loud crackle-pop, While roots tap-tap against the ground in a rhythmic stomp. A porcelain teapot wobbles on a mossy stone, Hissing steam that sounds like sssshhh and a sudden clank. It spills hot tea with a glug-glug-gurgle so strange, Then rattles its lid with a frantic ching-ching-clash. Tiny mice scurry through the grass with squeak-squeak-speed, Their paws patter-patter until they reach a high-pitched trill. They nibble on berries that go crunch-crunch-crisp, And chatter back and forth in a rapid click-click-whir. The air is thick with hums and whirs and zaps of sound, A symphony of nonsense where nothing stays still or quiet. Just the roar of the river and the ping of the rain, Echoing forever in the noisy, make-believe land of Ning Nang Nong.	2	Step softly past the whispering grass Where giant teapots clatter and crash A porcelain boom, a ceramic squeak As steam blows out with a mighty shriek The trees above begin to hum With branches that go thrum and drum Leaves rustle loud like a thousand drums While roots tap rhythms on hollow bums A tiny mouse scurries through the floor Making a sound of zip and roar It chatters sharp with a click and clack Echoing down every creaky track The Ning Nang Nong is wild and free Full of strange noises for all to see No silence here, just a chaotic song In a world where everything goes wrong	3	The Ning Nang Nong hums a low, vibrating drone Where ancient oaks whisper with a rustle and groan Their branches collide in a creaky embrace While roots tap a rhythm beneath the dark space A teapot erupts with a hiss and a spout Steam dancing wild as it burns without doubt It clanks against metal, a sharp metallic ring That echoes through valleys where silence once clung Tiny mice scurry on paws that click soft A chorus of whispers that lift them aloft They squeak at the moon with a high-pitched refrain Turning shadows to sound in the pouring rain The air fills with bubbles that pop like a drum No quiet remains for the weary to come In this realm of noise where the impossible thrives Every breath is a song that the spirit survives	6
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 beneath the heavy sky of night When clouds rolled thick and black against the stars, And suddenly a rent was made in them, A rent as if by some great finger's stroke. The moon came bursting through with silver fire, And poured a flood of light on hill and dale; The dark clouds fled before her majesty, And left her queen of all the heavens wide. How powerful and ever-present she! My mind sat quiet, musing on this force That rules the tides and guides the wanderer's feet, And rules me too, though I be far away.	7	I stood alone beneath the heavy sky Where dark and woolen clouds had closed their fold To shut the world from light and leave it high In shadowed silence, cold and uncontrolled. Then suddenly a rent appeared on high And silver fire burst through the gloom of night The moon, majestic, lifted up her eye And poured a flood of pale and holy light. The clouds recoiled before that sovereign power As if they feared the brightness of her face She bloomed like some immortal, heavenly flower And filled the void with slow and steady grace. My mind grew quiet as I watched her rise That ancient force that rules the tides above Unchanging in the vastness of the skies A silent, powerful, and eternal love.	7	The heavy veil of storm had held the night In suffocating grip of charcoal gray, Until a sudden tear in clouds took flight And cast the silver moon in bright array. She broke the darkness with a silent sword, A pearl of fire against the ink-black deep, And every shadow fled before her word, While weary stars awoke from troubled sleep. I stood alone beneath that radiant dome, With mind unspooled to watch the grand display, And felt my small and wandering spirit home Within the path she carved across the day. No voice was heard, yet power filled the air, An ancient force that rules the turning tide, Leaving my thoughts suspended in despair Or awe, before that vast and quiet pride. It is there still, though clouds may come again, This constant eye that watches from on high, A timeless light beyond the reach of men, That burns forever in the vaulted sky.	7	The road was lost beneath a heavy shroud Of shifting gray where no star dared to gleam, Until the wind tore through the silent cloud And broke the dark like waking from a dream. A sudden silver blade cut through the night To flood the valley with a ghostly light, Revealing peaks in stark and holy white That made the traveler pause in pure delight. No human hand could hold such vast command Or weave the threads of such a radiant strand, It hung above the earth with steady hand Across the sea and over every land. My mind grows quiet as the shadows flee Before that ancient, unrelenting eye, A force that pulls the tide and rules the sea While time itself moves slowly, passing by. It watches on without a word or sound As I stand small upon this spinning ground, Where silence is the only truth I've found In all the majesty that hangs around.	7	The road was lost beneath a shroud of gray, Where wind and shadow tangled in the night, Until a silver edge began to fray The heavy curtain hiding stars from sight. A sudden break, a breath of ancient light, As moonlight spilled across the weary ground, Turning the darkness into softest white, And silence found where only storm had sound. I stand alone and watch the grand design, That pulls the tides and guides the wandering eye, A constant force that makes the world align, Beneath the vast and unblinking sky. No words can hold the weight of what I see, Just quiet thoughts that drift on currents deep, Of power vast and timeless mystery, While all the earth below falls fast asleep.	7	The wind has held its breath against the night As heavy gray clouds swallow up the stars Until a sudden fracture tears the dark And silver spills across the trembling air A giant sphere of ancient, silent fire Breaks free to wash the world in pale command It strips the shadows from the mountain peak And paints the dust with light that does not fade I stand beneath this overwhelming grace With thoughts too small to hold the vast design No voice can speak the weight of what I see Only the quiet hum of cosmic power The moon remains unbroken by the storm An ever-present force that rules the tides While I am left to wonder at the stillness That guides the wandering soul through endless space	7	The night held tight a heavy veil of gray Where shadows danced in silence, cold and deep Until the wind began to tear away The fabric woven by the stars asleep A silver edge emerged from fractured stone As clouds retreat before a silent tide The moon ascends, a crown of ancient bone That paints the darkness with a gentle light No voice can speak the weight of what remains Above the traveler standing still and small A force that pulls the tides and breaks the chains Of fear within the heart that dares to call The sky is vast, yet filled with quiet grace A timeless rhythm beating in the air Leaving the mind to trace its own embrace With awe for all that lingers everywhere	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 need not fear the shadow of the grave Nor all the snares that subtle fiends devise, For in my heart a boundless faith I have That lifts me high above their lowly lies. No temptation can seduce or lead astray The soul that rests within God's mighty hand; No power on earth this strong foundation sway, No force of hell can from this rock unband. For death itself is but a gate to life, Since He who died and rose is with me still; And though I wage against the world a strife, His love will conquer, and it always will. What earthly force can ever overcome The limitless, divine, almighty love? It makes me strong when I am at my most dumb, It bears me up when I would sink below.	7	I walk through the valley of the shadowed vale And fear not death, for he is but a gate To open wide upon the other side Where love awaits and waits to make me great. No serpent's hiss can tempt my soul away From Him who holds the stars within His hand, For I have seen the morning break on day And know that He has conquered every land. Let earth be shaken and let mountains fall, Let kings arise and empires build their walls, No earthly force can stand against it all The power that from His great bosom calls. He is the shield, the sword, the tower strong, In whom I live, in whom I move, am strong; His love is limitless, it lasts so long, It sings aloud a bright and holy song. So let them come with all their might and main, They cannot pluck me from His loving hand, For I shall reign and I shall ever reign With Him who rules o'er sea and over land.	7	When shadows stretch to swallow up the light And death stands knocking at the trembling door, I do not fear the coming of the night For I have known the Love that lives forevermore. No whisper from the pit can shake my soul Or turn my feet away from paths of grace, For He who made the broken spirit whole Has set a smile upon my weary face. Let earth bring forth its armies and its fire, Let kings conspire and mountains crumble down, They cannot quench the one eternal pyre That burns within the city and the town. My strength is not in muscle or in might, Nor in the sword that mortal hands may wield, But in the dawn that breaks the darkest night, The shield no earthly force can ever yield. Temptation comes with honeyed words and sweet, Yet I am anchored by a deeper sound, A rhythm where the heart and heaven meet, Where love has found the lost and safe ground. So let the waves roll high against the shore, Let tempests rage and howl across the deep, I rest secure in Him forevermore, While all the world around me falls asleep. No power on earth can match this boundless tide, This ocean of affection pure and free, With nothing left for fear to hide inside, Within the limitless embrace of Thee.	7	The shadow of the grave cannot command A heart that rests within the Almighty's hand, For death is but a door I do not fear, When He who holds the stars draws me so near. No whisper of the serpent in the night Can dim the torch of His eternal light, I walk through fire unburned by sin or shame, Protected by the shield of His great name. Let earth shake loose its mountains from their base, Let oceans rise to wash away this place, No force of man, no power of hell below, Can touch the soul where divine rivers flow. My faith is boundless as the open sky, An anchor holding fast when storms run high, For love that created time and space and breath Is stronger than the cold embrace of death.	7	The shadow falls but cannot dim the light That burns within a heart surrendered deep, For I have walked through valleys of the night And found no fear where promises still sleep. Let temptation whisper soft and sweet and low, It finds no purchase on this solid ground, Where grace has taught the weary soul to know That every chain is broken by His sound. No sword of earth can sever what is tied By threads of love that stretch beyond the grave, No force of man can turn the rising tide Of mercy that the Almighty chose to save. When death arrives to claim the breath I hold, I see not end but doors swung wide and free, For in the face of all that can unfold, Only His boundless strength remains for me. Let empires rise and crumble into dust, Let time itself dissolve beneath the sky, In Him alone is trust, in Him is just, A power vast enough to never die.	7	When shadows stretch to swallow up the light I stand unshaken by the coming night For in my heart a flame that cannot fade Remains the promise of the love He made The whispers of the world try hard to break But faith is stronger than the chains we make No temptation holds a power deep enough To sever what was written from the rough Death knocks with trembling hands upon the door Yet finds no fear within this quiet core It knows it cannot claim what God has held A soul that in His endless grace has swelled Let storms arise and shake the earth below Let ancient tides of chaos start to flow No force on land or sky can ever win Against the strength that lives within us then For love divine is vast beyond all measure A boundless ocean without end or treasure It lifts the weak and silences the dread And turns the final breath into a thread	7	The shadows stretch across the weary floor Yet I stand tall against the rising tide For in my heart, a fire burns so pure That fear of loss has nowhere left to hide When whispers call to steal the soul away And doubt attempts to break the sacred bond I find a strength that never fades or sways A promise kept beyond the edge of dawn No grave can hold what spirit claims as home No chain can bind the grace that sets us free The storm may roar, the winds begin to roam But love remains the anchor for the sea Let empires fall and mountains turn to dust Let time erase the names we carved in stone The power of the divine is vast and just Proving that we were never meant alone This light within defies the dark's decree A boundless force no mortal hand can sever Eternal truth will set the broken free Forever strong, forever, ever	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	It begins as a tickle in the back of the throat a small dry rattle that is easy to ignore, but soon it becomes the clockwork of my life, the sound of a bellows working a broken bellows. I wake and the first thing I know is the weight, a red-hot pig-iron plate laid on my chest, and I have to think about breathing, I have to remember to do it. The stairway has become a mountain, one step, two steps, puff, puff, the blood rushing to my head but not to my legs, my legs becoming thin sticks of wood. My fingers are blue at the tips like ripe plums, and my toes are blue too, and there is always this whistle, this squeaking hinge in the middle of my chest. When I lie down I cannot breathe, so I must sit up all night propped up on pillows, gasping like a fish thrown on the dock, watching the light grow grey outside the window. My face grows thinner and my eyes get bigger, and the little children who used to kiss me ask why I look so much like a skeleton, and why I smell of old medicine and sweat. And now it is difficult even to speak, I have to stop after every word to gasp, and sometimes I think I shall never speak again, but I am afraid if I stop speaking I shall stop breathing. And I am very tired, I am very tired of fighting for every breath, and I should like to lie down and go to sleep and never be wakened by the whistle any more.	2	The air is thick as wool inside my head And every breath a bargain I must make With lungs that turn to stone and heavy lead For every single ounce of oxygen I take. It starts a tickle in the hollow chest A bird that flutters but cannot get out Then settles like a weight upon the breast And turns the morning into fearful doubt. The ribs feel tight, a cage of iron bars That squeeze the heart until it hurts to beat I watch the stars go out behind the bars And drag my feet across the cold street. My fingers turn the color of the sky When winter comes too early to the town I cough and cough until the phlegm runs dry And then I swallow all the blood back down. The mirror shows a stranger pale and thin With eyes too large for such a wasted face The war within is one I surely will not win Against this slow and quiet displace. The bed becomes the world, the room the sea I float on sheets that smell of salt and sweat There is no land at all remaining for me Except the place where I have landed yet. The darkness comes not with a sudden crash But like a tide that slowly fills the lung I listen to the silence and the splash Of words unspoken by a dying tongue.	6	The air is thick as wool inside my chest A heavy blanket that I cannot shake Each breath a battle with a hollow guest That turns the simple act of life to ache My ribs feel like a cage of brittle bone That creaks and groans beneath the weight of night I claw at empty space for something known But find only the dry and ragged light The color drains from cheeks that used to bloom As fever paints a false and burning rose The shadow in the corner of the room Grows taller than the body it encloses I hear the rattle deep within the throat Like wind through leaves that have already died It whispers of the ending that I wrote Before I ever felt this pain inside The world grows small, the ceiling seems so near While strength dissolves like sugar in the rain I wait to see the end of all my fear And slip away into the quiet again	6	The air arrives but never fills the space Inside the cage where ribs have learned to ache A heavy stone replaces light and grace As every breath becomes a desperate break The cough is deep, a rattle in the chest That shakes the bones until they feel too thin No quiet moment offers any rest Just fire burning where the lungs begin My fingers turn a shade of bluish gray The blood grows thick with oxygen denied I watch the fading colors of the day While inside me the dark tide slowly rises wide Each step a mountain climbed with trembling knees The world grows distant through a glassy haze I beg the wind for just a gentle breeze But find only the silence of my days The weight upon the shoulders starts to bend The vision blurs as shadows stretch and grow I wait for this relentless pain to end And let the final, shallow currents flow	6	The air grows thick with dust and shadowed weight A heavy stone that settles in the chest Where every breath becomes a desperate gate To fight the quiet, creeping, cold unrest My ribs feel like a cage of brittle bone That creaks beneath the pressure of the tide While lungs once vast now echo with a groan As oxygen retreats to where it hides The skin turns pale as parchment in the light And fingers curl like roots that seek no sun Each gasp a battle fought against the night Before the final, fading race is run The world dissolves into a hazy gray As strength drains out like water from a cup There is no voice left left to beg or pray Only the slow descent until we stop	6	The air grows thick like heavy wool That wraps around the ribs and bone A silent war inside the chest Where every breath becomes a throne Of struggle, gasping for the light While shadows stretch across the floor The body shrinks beneath the weight Of something that it cannot ignore The skin turns pale as winter frost The fingers tremble in the cold Each cough a jagged, tearing sound That breaks the stories left untold The lungs are hollow, filled with rust Where life once danced in golden streams Now fading into quiet gray Between the waking and the dreams No longer strong enough to rise Against the gravity of pain We watch the world through blurred and tired eyes As sunlight slips away again	6	The air grows heavy, thick with unseen weight As every breath becomes a mountain climb A fire burns behind the ribs so tight That time itself begins to lose its rhyme The chest expands but finds no room to heal Each gasp a battle fought against the gray Where silence used to settle, now there's steel And shadows stretch across the fading day Muscles weaken as the body calls for rest While lungs refuse to hold the light within A quiet war waged deep inside the breast Where hope slowly surrenders to the thin The world outside is bright, yet dimmed by fear Of what the morning brings with every sound The spirit clings to life, though spirits tear As gravity pulls down on broken ground No final words can bridge the widening gap Between the soul and skin that starts to fade A gentle drift into the endless nap Where pain dissolves in cold and quiet shade	6
294	train	To one who has been long in city pent by John Keats	John Keats	"A poem about a city-dweller experiencing the awe-inspiring joy of nature during a countryside escape, breathing open air and delighting in birdsong and open skies before returning home as the day slips by unnoticed."	To one who has been long in city pent, 'Tis very sweet to look into the fair And open face of heaven,—to breathe a prayer Full in the smile of the blue firmament. Who is more happy, when, with heart's content, Fatigued he sinks into some pleasant lair Of wavy grass, and reads a debonair And gentle tale of love and languishment? Returning home at evening, with an ear Catching the notes of Philomel,—an eye Watching the sailing cloudlet's bright career, He mourns that day so soon has glided by: E'en like the passage of an angel's tear That falls through the clear ether silently.	The concrete hum fades into silence deep, Where only wind and ancient oak trees keep A rhythm slow and steady as a heart, No longer torn by city's frantic art. I breathe the air, so crisp it stings the lung, With scents of pine where once the smoke was hung, And look above to skies of endless blue, That stretch unbroken, vast and clear and true. A chorus rises from the hidden boughs, As birdsong weaves its joy among the leaves, While time itself seems gently to allow The heavy weight of urban life to eaves. The sun dips low, a golden, slipping thread, That steals the hours without a single sound, Before I turn to walk the path ahead, Leaving this peace that I have newly found. The road back calls, the day is gone too fast, Yet in my chest a wilder sky remains, To hold the memory of light so vast, Until the next escape through rain or rains.	I left the concrete canyons far behind, The gray sky's low and smothering dome, And came to where the grasses wind About a wide and welcoming home. How vast the air! how free and keen! It washed the city dust away; I saw the bright blue overhead Seen only on a holiday. I heard the birds in riot sing, No car-horn shrill or bell to mar; They made a wild and joyous ring About the stars of morning star. I sat and watched the clouds go by, High up above the hawthorn tree; There was no watch, there was no eye To tell me what I ought to be. But now the sun is going down, Behind the hills of darksome green; Most happily I turn about To see the town again between.	6	The concrete canyon fades behind me now, And I breathe deep the air that tastes of rain And pine and rich dark earth, a living balm That washes clean the dust of town again. No ceiling here to cut the sky in strips, But blue unbroken vaults from side to side, Where white clouds sail like ships on summer seas With nothing but the wind for their guide. A thrush begins his fluting melody, Then another, and a dozen more take up The sudden chorus of the morning wood, So loud it seems to make the forest jump. I stand quite still and let my heart beat slow, Forget the clock, forget the telephone, Forget the bills and traffic and the noise, And feel myself entirely overthrown By simple things: a beetle on a leaf, The sun's warm weight upon an open hand, The joy of being just a small thing here In this large world so kindly understood. The day slips by unnoticed, gone too soon, The shadows lengthen, gold turns into gray, And though I know I must return tonight To streets where people hurry on their way, I carry back this open sky inside, This birdsong ringing in my memory, To keep against the time when once again I shall be forced to live in captivity.	6	The concrete hum fades into silence deep, As I step out where wild green grasses sleep. No sirens wail to break the morning's spell, Just open air that makes my spirit swell. A sudden rush of breath, so clean and sweet, That lifts me from the pavement's dusty feet. Above, a sky of boundless, azure blue, Where clouds drift slow and shapes are never two. Then music starts, a trill from hidden trees, The joyful song of birds upon the breeze. They sing of fields and streams I've never seen, Of life unbound by walls or city screen. I watch the hours melt like honeyed light, And lose all track of day or passing night. The sun dips low, a golden, slanting ray, To call me back before I can say nay. Now shadows stretch across the familiar street, Where asphalt meets the tired evening heat. I carry home the sky within my chest, To rest the weary soul and find some rest.	6	The concrete hum fades into silence soft, As gravel crunches under weary feet, Where towering walls give way to rolling loam, And sudden, vast horizons make me sweet. I breathe a lungful of the morning air, Unfiltered by the smog of rushing streets, It tastes of pine and rain and dampened earth, A healing balm for tired, city beats. Above, the sky is not a narrow slice, But endless blue where clouds drift slow and free, While unseen wings weave songs through branches high, A symphony meant only for the tree. The lark ascends in spirals pure and clear, Its melody dissolving all my doubt, No traffic light commands the rhythm here, Just sunlight pouring golden, warm throughout. I watch the hours slip like water past, No clock to mark the turning of the day, Until the shadows stretch across the grass, And twilight whispers that I must away. With pockets full of leaves and heart made light, I turn my face back toward the urban gray, Carrying this quiet, wild delight, To meet the streetlights as they start to play.	6	The concrete walls that held me tight all year Dissolve beneath a sky of endless blue, Where silence is not empty but so clear It fills the lungs with air I never knew. No sirens scream to break the morning light, Only the thrush who sings a wild refrain, A symphony that banishes the night And washes clean the dust of urban pain. I watch the clouds drift slow and unconfined, While time itself forgets its ticking pace, Leaving the frantic rhythm far behind To find a quiet smile upon my face. But soon the shadows stretch across the grass, The golden hour fades into the gray, And though the heart resists the coming pass, The road calls back to where the city lay. I turn away from fields I'll miss too much, Carrying the song within my chest, Trading the wind for something made of touch, Returning home as daylight finds its rest.	7	The concrete hum fades into silence As boots meet soft and yielding earth A breath drawn deep, no longer thin But rich with rain and ancient worth Above, the sky is vast and blue Unbroken by a single wire Where clouds drift slow and wild winds blow To feed the soul's forgotten fire A chorus rises from the trees Not traffic noise but song so clear That time itself begins to cease And leaves behind the weight of fear The sun dips low in golden grace While shadows stretch across the grass No clock can mark this quiet space As moments pass too fast to grasp I turn my face toward the road Carrying light within my chest The city waits, yet I am changed By fields that offered perfect rest	7	Concrete walls that held the weight of gray Dissolve beneath a sky of endless blue The heavy hum of traffic fades away As morning breaks in shades of gold and dew No sirens scream to steal the quiet space Only the wind that whispers through the trees A sudden rush of wild, unfiltered grace Where ancient roots and fragile life agree The air is thick with scents of earth and rain A breath so deep it mends the weary soul It washes clean the dust of urban pain And makes the broken spirit feel complete and whole Above, the songbirds weave their silver threads A symphony no city ever knew They dance upon the light that softly spreads Across the fields where time moves slow and true I watch the hours slip like river stone Unnoticed as the sun begins to fade Leaving behind the peace I’ve come to own Before the shadows stretch across the shade The road calls back to streets of steel and glass Yet carries hope within the silent chest A promise that the wild will never pass Until the heart remembers how to rest	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 puts on the Italian sunglasses to hide the eyes that saw the cotton fields. He buys the French cigarettes, smokes them in front of the mirror, practicing the cool American look. He talks loud about baseball and cars, he talks low about Africa. He wears his hat with a jaunty angle, he walks with a swagger he learned from pictures. But when he closes his eyes, he sees the old women grinding corn, he hears the drums in the distance, but he cannot hear them himself because he is wearing earphones. He thinks he is American because he is cool. He thinks he is not African because he does not know it. He has bought everything but himself.	2	He walks the street with a foreign gait In Italian leather shoes too tight for his feet A silk scarf from Paris round his neck To hide the sweat of a humid heat. He speaks in slang he read in books Not the lilt of his mother's tongue With a cool, detached look in his eyes And a song that is never sung. He buys the brand that says success From a label made in a distant land But when he passes the mirror glass He cannot see himself at all. The gold chain feels heavy and cold Around a throat that wants to sing Of the soil where his father grew up And the old songs the elders would sing. He tries so hard to be one of them So smooth and so slick and so new That the man who was born on this earth Is slowly fading from view.	5	He pulls on the silk from a distant shore A pattern not his own, a borrowed roar The sneakers are fresh from a Tokyo street But they do not know the rhythm of his feet He speaks in a slang that is not quite his tongue Singing a song that was never sung By the elders who told him where he came from Before the coolness made him dumb He checks the mirror for the perfect pose Ignoring the soil where the real rose grows The imported watch ticks a foreign time While the old drum beats a forgotten rhyme He trades the stories of the village square For a brand name jacket and expensive hair Thinking if he looks like them enough He will be accepted, be more than rough But the reflection shows a hollow man Who forgot the plan, forgot the clan The roots run deep in the African dust Not in the fabric or the gold or lust He stands so tall in his imported gear Yet feels the silence, the void, the fear Of being a stranger in his own skin With nowhere to end and nowhere begin	6	He buys the leather boots from Milan And wears them on the cracked pavement of Detroit Thinking the shine will polish away the doubt That hums beneath his skin like a low electric wire He speaks in slang he heard on a screen overseas Forgetting the rhythm of his grandmother's hands The way she clapped to a beat that had no name Now he nods at shadows in expensive suits Mimicking a coolness that feels like borrowed air His reflection in the shop window is a stranger Wearing a mask made of imported silk and gold While the soil of his ancestors waits in silence Unwatered by the tears he refuses to shed He walks fast to outrun the memory of home But the ground remembers what he tries to forget Every step is a lie told to the sky That he belongs here when he has sold his soul To buy a ticket to a party where he is not invited The roots are deep but he has cut them with a knife Of vanity and fear Now he stands alone in a crowd of faces Looking exactly like everyone else And missing himself entirely	2	He trades the mud for polished leather shoes Imported from a land he's never seen A suit cut sharp to hide the sweat and bruise Of walking paths that used to feel so green The slang he speaks is borrowed, crisp and cold A mask of cool designed to blend right in Where stories of the ancestors grow old Replaced by brands that promise where to begin He laughs at jokes that don't quite make him smile While wearing gold that weighs upon his skin And walks a mile to prove he's worth the while But feels the hollow growing deep within The rhythm of the drum fades out of ear Drowned by the hum of engines foreign made He fears the truth that whispers in his fear That every step away has left him swayed No longer rooted in the soil below Just floating on a surface, bright and thin He watches how the shadows start to grow And wonders who he was before the sin Of trading self for something bought and sold To fit a mold that wasn't built for him Now holding nothing but a story told In imported threads that tear at every limb	6	The tailored suit whispers of Paris streets A silk tie knotted tight against the throat He walks with a swagger learned from screens Where shadows dance in neon, cold and bright No trace of soil beneath these polished shoes Just imported leather masking what was true He speaks in slang that doesn't quite belong A borrowed rhythm for a foreign song The ancestors fade behind the designer glass As he trades his story for a moment's pass Each brand name stamped upon his chest becomes a wall Building high to keep the quiet truth at bay He forgets the hum of drums in distant lands Replaced by static from the city's hands The mask fits perfectly, a cool disguise While hollow echoes fill his weary eyes For in the quest to blend into the gray He lost the color that once made him stay	5	He trades the rhythm of the drum for a beat that sells in stores A tailored suit from foreign hands, a silence he now wears The streets he once called home feel distant, cold and thin As he walks with borrowed confidence, pretending to begin Imported leather on his skin, a mask of sharp design Where ancestral whispers fade beneath the weight of time He speaks in clipped perfection, erasing dialects of old To prove he belongs somewhere that never asked him to unfold The coolness is a fragile glass, reflecting what they want While roots run deep in soil that no longer knows his scent He chases shadows made of gold, mistaking them for light And leaves behind the stories that once held the night so tight No echo of the elders calls, no song within the chest Just hollow spaces filled with things that promise to arrest The fear of being seen as less, a ghost within the crowd Who traded truth for acceptance, leaving self behind the shroud	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 sit at the table and watch your hands, large and uncertain, move about my plate. Sometimes they are gentle like birds lighting on a branch, sometimes they are heavy with things I do not know. When I fall, you run to me; when you fall, I do not know that. I learn to trust your feet because they come when I call, I learn to distrust your eyes when they look away from me. It is like walking on a new bridge that has been built over water: it sways a little, but it holds. I walk on it again, and again, and sometimes I stop in the middle and look down at the water, and then I look up at you, and you are looking at me, and we wait for one another to see if the bridge will hold.	2	The floor is cold and I am small And you are very tall You say the dark is not so bad If I just hold your hand But sometimes when you look away I think you do not understand I push my chair across the floor And bang it on the leg You tell me stop and I will stop Because I like to beg To see you smile at what I do Or laugh because I said A silly thing that made you grin And put a light inside my head But then you go into your room And shut the door quite tight And I must wait and wonder if You love me in the night Do you forget about me then? Do you forget my name? And does it matter to you much If I should win or blame? Then morning comes and you are there And make some toast for me And ask me how I slept at all As happy as can be And I decide to trust again Though yesterday was strange That you will always come back round And change me from a range	3	The floor is cold beneath my bare feet and I stand at the edge of the room watching you move like giants in slow motion your voices a low rumble I cannot yet understand. You reach down with hands that smell of soap and earth and I hesitate, a small bird testing the air before letting gravity pull me into your arms where the world becomes soft and safe again. Sometimes you are far away behind a closed door and the silence stretches thin as paper until I hear the key turn and your footsteps return and the knot inside my chest loosens just a little. I learn to read the lines around your eyes to know when you are tired or sad or happy without needing words to tell me what to feel trusting that your love is a constant tide. Now I walk ahead but look back often checking that you are still there on the path knowing that even when I grow tall enough to fly your hands will always be ready to catch me.	5	Small hands reach out to test the air Between the floor and where you stand A quiet question, a silent prayer For you to hold my trembling hand You say I am safe, you say I am loved But words are wind until they prove The weight of promises above The shifting ground we both move I watch your face when shadows fall To see if fear will make you turn If love is real or just a call That fades before the morning burns Then in the dark, a steady breath A hum that cuts the silence through It tells me life is not like death And I can trust the path with you The bridge is built one step at time Not made of stone but made of grace A rhythm found in simple rhyme Of holding on and letting go the race So here I stand, no longer small But learning how to lean and trust To catch the moments, big and tall When love returns us from the dust	6	Small hands reach out to touch the sky Then pull back when the wind blows by A question hangs in quiet air Will you be there? Will you be there? The floor is hard, the steps are steep But promises are yours to keep I stumble down and start to cry You lift me up without a sigh Your voice becomes the steady ground Where lost and found can both be found No longer just a shadow near But something solid, safe, and clear The world expands beyond the door Yet trust remains the open core A bridge built slowly, brick by brick With every word, with every tick We learn the rhythm of the heart How parts of us will never part Not because we hold on tight But knowing you will guide the light	6	The floorboards creak a familiar song Where shadows stretch and softly long To see the hands that hold me tight Through every sudden, shifting night You speak in tones I'm learning now A quiet promise, soft and slow That trust is built not all at once But brick by brick where love grows strong Sometimes you turn your back to rest And wonder if the world will break I watch the way you breathe alone And learn the weight of what we make A bridge is built from whispered fears Across the gap of growing years When silence speaks as loud as words And understanding slowly spreads its wings We find our rhythm, step by step No perfect map, no path too steep Just two hearts beating in the dark Learning how to let the light seep in	6	Small hands reach for a shadow that shifts with the light Between the promise kept and the words left unspoken A quiet question hangs in the space of a room Where safety is built on the rhythm of breath Moments of silence stretch longer than fear As eyes learn to read what the heart cannot say The bridge grows from footsteps that stumble and heal Connecting two worlds where the ground starts to shift Doubt is a whisper that fades into trust Forged in the cracks of a fragile design Love is not perfect, but steady enough To hold all the weight of a growing belief Time weaves a thread through the days we forget Turning the unknown into something familiar Not bound by rules, but by presence alone Teaching the soul how to lean without falling	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.	Let others court the noisy town, And wear the gold and purple gown; Let them be praised in song and speech, I prize my little orchard peach. In spring when all the hedges bloom, And chase away the winter gloom, I drive my sheep to fresh green hills, And sit me down by crystal rills. When summer heats the yellow corn, And sunbeams strike at early morn, I hoe my beans and sing a tune, Beneath the large round harvest moon. No lordly house with marble floors, Nor guests who knock at many doors, Would please me half so well as this, My cottage and its garden bliss. When autumn brings his chestnut brown, And beats the leaves all up and down, I sit and look upon my kine, And think of no one but mine own. And winter comes with sleet and snow, And bids the winds blow high and low; I sit beside my fire and smoke, And read the book I like to poke. So let them have their fame and wealth, And talk of business and of health; I'll have my land and cattle too, And that is all I want to do.	6	Let others seek the crowded street Where noise and hollow praise meet, And spend their days in gilded halls Listening to flatterers' calls. I have no wish for such a life, To be embroiled in strife or strife, But rather here where silence grows Beside the quiet, flowing rows. My morning breaks with misty air, And cattle lowing everywhere; The smell of earth, the dew upon The clover and the young corn. No velvet robe, no jewelled ring, Can give the joy this labor brings, To see the ewes drop lambs at dawn, And watch the winter frost withdrawn. When summer comes the heat is dry Beneath the vast and cloudless sky, And I am glad to reap my grain Without a thought of wealth or gain. For what are riches but a load? What fame but dust upon the road? A better lot is mine to keep While city folk are sunk in sleep. In autumn when the leaves turn red And geese go flying overhead, I mind my store, I mend my fence, Nor feel the lack of opulence. Then winter lays its hand on all And snows descend without a call; I sit beside my woodfire bright And rest me through the long white night. So let them have their noisy throngs, Their songs of love, their courtly wrongs; I'll take my land, my herds, my peace, From which these worldly cares shall cease.	7	Let others chase the gilded cage of fame And drink the wine that burns but never warms, I find my name within the soil's deep frame, Safe from the world's unquiet, shifting storms. No crowded hall with hollow laughter rings, No velvet chair where idle gossip flows; My kingdom is the song the morning sings, The scent of hay and winter's early snows. When spring arrives to wake the sleeping ground, I mend the fence and watch the lambs arise, A quiet joy in every sound I've found, Beneath the vast and indifferent skies. The summer heat brings dust upon my skin, The autumn harvest fills my barn with gold, While kings may lose their crowns and start again, My wealth is in the stories left untold. Let cities burn with ambition's fevered light, And men compete for power and for place; I walk alone into the cooling night, Content to see the moonlight on my face.	7	The city calls with golden bells and noise, But I have found my peace in morning dew, Where silence breaks the heavy winter's poise And only wind speaks through the ancient yew. No crown of gold can warm a frozen hand, As well as wool that covers sheep at night, No banquet spread across a marble land Can match the taste of bread by firelight. Let others chase the applause of crowded halls, And trade their souls for silk and painted stone; I walk the fence line where the tall grass falls, And find a kingdom in this field alone. The seasons turn with slow and steady grace, The spring brings green, the autumn brings the grain, A quiet smile upon a weathered face, To watch the sun dissolve the summer rain. My herd is loud enough to fill the air, The crowing rooster marks the passing hour, With no one there but earth and sky to share, I hold the weight of time within my power. So keep your fame, your jewels, and your throng, Your noisy streets and lights that never sleep; I sing a song too simple to be wrong, While tending to the secrets that I keep.	7	The city calls with golden bells of fame And whispers names that echo in the hall But I find peace within a quieter frame Where morning mist hangs low above the wall No silk to drape my shoulders from the cold No feast prepared by hands I do not know Just soil beneath my palms, both rough and old And seeds that wait for spring's gentle slow glow My herd moves soft across the emerald green A rhythm steady as the beating heart While crowds pursue the masks they strive to keep I watch the sun dissolve the night apart Let others chase the glittering, fleeting prize Of power built on sand and shifting stone I trade their noise for silence in the skies And walk this path entirely alone When winter comes to wrap the fields in white And stars burn sharp against the frozen air I need no torch to guide me through the night For here, the simple truth is all I bear	7	The city calls with gilded noise and light, But I find peace beneath the morning gray, Where silence holds a weight that feels so right, And shadows stretch across the turning day. No crown of gold can warm the winter chill, Nor silk replace the wool against my skin, I trade the crowded hall for quiet hill, Where only wind and wandering sheep begin. Let others chase the echo of applause, While I tend rows where ancient roots run deep, From spring's first bloom to autumn's final pause, A promise made between the earth and sleep. The herd moves slow in rhythm with the rain, A simple dance no empire could command, I feel no need to seek another's gain, Or bow before a distant, hollow hand. So let the world spin fast with all its pride, I choose the soil that knows my weary name, With nothing left to hide or to divide, Just firelight fading on a wooden frame.	7	The city calls with gold and hollow sound But I find peace in soil beneath my hands Where silence grows like grass upon the ground And winter frost reclaims the quiet lands No crown of fame can warm a frozen night Nor silk replace the wool that keeps me whole I watch the stars without a guiding light A story written only for the soul My herd moves slow across the morning dew Each breath a rhythm older than the stone While crowds pursue the things they never knew Of roots that hold us when the winds have blown Let others chase the noise of crowded streets For I have found what riches truly mean In autumn's harvest and the heat it beats Within the space between the past and dream The world may fade to whispers in the dark As seasons turn their wheel without a plea I tend the fire, the field, the gentle spark That needs no audience to set it free	6
326	ultra_held_out	On the Sale By Auction of Keats’ Love Letters by Oscar Wilde	Oscar Wilde	A poem about lamenting the public auctioning of a beloved poet's private love letters to those who do not appreciate art, comparing the act to Roman soldiers gambling over Christ's clothes.	These are the letters which Endymion wrote To one he loved in secret, and apart. And now the brawlers of the auction mart Bargain and bid for each poor blotted note, Ay! for each separate pulse of passion quote The merchant’s price. I think they love not art Who break the crystal of a poet’s heart That small and sickly eyes may glare and gloat. Is it not said that many years ago, In a far Eastern town, some soldiers ran With torches through the midnight, and began To wrangel for mean raiment, and to throw Dice for the garments of a wretched man, Not knowing the God’s wonder, or His woe?	The gavel falls like a judge's final breath Upon the paper where your heart once bled, Sold to the highest bidder in this death Of privacy, by greed and silence fed. They do not read the ink that trembled there, Nor feel the pulse of love you tried to keep, But count the cost with cold and empty air, And strip the soul before they fall asleep. Just as the soldiers cast their lots for Christ, Dividing up the seamless robe of grace, These modern wolves have made their darkly bright Bet on the fragments of a sacred face. They gamble over words meant only two, Ignoring how the poet's spirit bled, While I stand weeping for the truth you knew, Now scattered among those who never read.	The auctioneer's gavel falls like a hammer on the head of Christ, And the Roman soldiers of the dollar sign stand round about his clothes. They gambled for the seamless coat, these vulgar dealers in sentiment, And they have gambled for the poet's intimate and naked heart. They are bidding for the sheets of paper where he told her how he loved her, Where he spoke of moonlight and of lilies and of other things too tender To be spoken out aloud before a crowd of speculators. These men do not know what an apostrophe is, except as a mark of omission Of money from their pockets; they do not know what an adjective is, Except as an advertisement; they do not know what a love-letter is, Except as a curiosity, or as a piece of property to be sold. And so they bid against one another for the private letters of the poet, Who was crucified by ignorance, and who had his clothes gambled away By the ignorant. And I sit here and lament the poet, and I lament The ignorant, who have bought the poet's clothes, and do not know what to do with them.	2	The gavel falls, a wooden shot That seals the fate of ink and thought. These private pages, wet with tears, Are sold to satisfy our fears Of not possessing what is rare, To those who breathe a vulgar air. They bid in dollars, not in soul, Who cannot make the fragments whole; They see no passion in the stain, But just a profit to gain. Like soldiers at the cross they stand, With dice held tight in bloody hand, Dividing up the seamless coat, For which the poet gave his throat. They cast their lots for words of love, Sent down from some celestial dove, And tore the robe that Christ had worn, From morning till the day was shorn. So here we have the same sad play, The sacred turned to common clay. The letters torn, the lovers' grief, Sold off to bring a short relief To greedy men who know no art, Who tear the lover's bleeding heart.	6	The gavel falls like a stone in a silent church, Selling the ink-stained trembling of his hand, To men who count the cost but never hear the verse, Who buy the soul to line a ledger's cold command. They bid for scraps of paper, stained with tears and time, As if the sacred fire could be bought by coin, And those who do not know the rhythm or the rhyme Will own the very heart that made the world anoint. It is the same old scene beneath a different sky, Where soldiers cast their lots around a naked cross, Dividing up the tunic while the people cry, And none of them can see what they have lost. They gamble for the garment, for the private word, Not knowing that the fabric held the breath of God, Just as these bidders think they've simply heard A poet's love reduced to market odds. They split the linen of his secret joy, The letters meant for one, now scattered to the crowd, While he, the victim of this modern ploy, Lies silent in the dust, forgotten and unshrouded. O Roman dice, O modern auctioneer, You cast your lots upon the holy vest, And make the sacred intimate appear As common rags to be put to the test.	6	The gavel falls like a judge's final breath, Selling the ink that once held back the night, To men who see only paper and debt, Who cannot read the tremor in the light. They bid on whispers meant for one soft ear, A sacred script of longing turned to gold, While strangers laugh at verses full of fear, And buy the secrets that the heart has told. Behold the scene where Roman soldiers stand, Dividing up the robe of Christ so pure, They cast their lots upon the poet's hand, And make the holy garment insecure. Just as they gambled for a dying man, These auctioneers divide the lover's soul, Ignoring how the sacred words began, To fill the void with profit and control. No reverence remains within the room, As private grief becomes a public show, The flower of devotion meets its doom, Trampled beneath the weight of cash and woe.	6	The gavel falls like a judge's final breath Upon the paper where your heart once bled, Sold to the highest bidder for their wealth, To those who see no soul within the thread. They raise their paddles with a greedy grin, Ignoring ink that trembled in your hand, For strangers now will hold the love you win, Who cannot understand what they command. Just as the soldiers cast their dice below, While Christ hung silent on the wooden tree, They gambled for the robe of holy woe, Dividing up the sacred mystery. So now your whispers go to cold display, A prize for men who only count the cost, As if the spirit could be bought and sold away, And all the tender words are finally lost.	6	The gavel falls like stone on silent dust Where ink once breathed the rhythm of a heart Now sold to eyes that see no sacred trust But only price and profit, cold apart They bid in voices rough with greed and noise Ignoring verses meant for one alone While silence breaks beneath their hollow poise And love becomes a commodity to own Just as the soldiers cast their dice at dawn Upon the tunic woven from the light They gamble now where tender thoughts were drawn To strip the soul of every poet's night No reverence guards the paper, thin and frail As strangers tear the fragments from the air A modern crucifixion without veil Leaving the spirit naked, stripped and bare	6	The ink that held a trembling heart now sits upon the gavel's stage As strangers bid for whispered words meant only for a single page They trade in silence, counting coins where poetry once softly breathed While sacred verses turn to dust beneath the weight of greed and death No soul within the crowded room can hear the rhythm of the rhyme Just hollow eyes that seek a prize before the final closing time A quiet grief begins to rise, a shadow stretching long and deep For memories we thought were ours are sold while others start to weep It feels like ancient dust returning, a ghost from days of old When soldiers laughed and cast their lots for robes of woven gold The fabric torn by careless hands, a game played in the cold While light above began to fade, leaving nothing but the mold Those boots that walked through pain and grace are now just stepping stones To claim what was never theirs to keep, to steal the poet's bones We watch as love becomes a commodity, a price upon the air And wonder if the spirit breaks beneath the weight of empty stare The auctioneer declares the sale, a victory for the blind Leaving behind the broken pieces of a mind they could not find Like soldiers gambling over threads that held the world together tight We mourn the loss of something pure, extinguished in the night	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 whistle shrieks a warning but no one hears, the heavy doors close with a pneumatic hiss, and the train begins to move. At first it is like any other train, there are people on the platform waving, children with ice-creams, men in mackintoshes, but the train gathers speed and the faces begin to smear into streaks of colour. It picks up speed and the station recedes, the pillars become a blur, the signal lights a continuous red stream, and the people on the platform begin to look smaller and smaller, as if they were not there at all. And now the train is going very fast indeed, it is out of sync with everything, with the trees which are bent double by the slipstream, with the houses which are sliding backwards, with the people who are standing still, looking after it with their mouths open. And now the train is going so fast that it is out of sync with time itself, it is going faster than the news can go, faster than the laws can be made, faster than the people can think about it, and it is going faster than the people can get off it. And now the train is going so fast that it is out of sync with the country itself, it is going through the country without seeing it, it is going through the towns without seeing them, it is going through the villages without seeing them, and it is going through the people without seeing them. And now the train is going so fast that it is out of sync with the world itself, it is going through the world without seeing it, it is going through the countries without seeing them, it is going through the continents without seeing them, and it is going through the people without seeing them. And now the train is going so fast that it is going to break the world, it is going to break the countries, it is going to break the continents, and it is going to break the people.	2	The whistle cuts the morning mist A silver serpent wakes and hisses The doors slide shut with final click And leave behind the old man sick. He stands upon the dusty edge Too poor to buy a ticket pledge As wheels begin their iron spin To let the real world now begin. At first it matches step for step The houses pass, the people slept But soon the rhythm speeds away And leaves the common day of day. The trees become a blur of green The fastest thing that ever been While those who walk or work on foot Are crushed beneath the iron boot. The station fades into a speck The rich man in his private deck Is watching fields go up in smoke And has no time to pause or joke. It rushes on through town and glen With schedules made by other men Who never saw the ones left out To worry what this speed is about. The faster that the train can go The more the people have to know That they are falling further back Beside this monster on the track. It cannot stop it will not stop It makes the very heavens drop Its cargo is the future new And we are just the things it slew.	6	The iron beast exhales a cloud of steam And pulls away from where the people stand, A sudden jerk that breaks the morning dream Of those who wait with luggage in their hand. At first the platform is a distinct place, With faces clear and voices soft and near, But soon the speed has wiped them from the face Of time, and left the details blurred and queer. The trees become a single streak of green, The houses blur to indistinct gray smears, While on the train the passengers are seen To check their watches without any fears. They do not see the man who lost his job Because the line no longer stops at home, They do not feel the shudder or the bob That shakes the cottage walls to ruin's dome. The rhythm grows too fast for human feet, A pounding drum that drowns the quiet cry, The world outside becomes an old defeat That passes by beneath a hurried sky. It moves ahead with purpose and with pride, Ignoring all the wreckage in its wake, With nowhere for the struggling to hide Within the shadow of this giant brake. No station waits, no signal turns to red, Just endless track that stretches to the sun, While those it left behind are better dead Than living as the progress carries on. The momentum builds until the air is thin, Until the sound is just a distant roar, Leaving the ordinary folk within A silence that they cannot live in more.	6	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 the rhythm is a walk A gentle sway of steel and stone But soon the wheels begin to talk Of places where we cannot go alone The platform blurs into a streak The faces lost in motion's haze We promised speed, we sought the peak Now trapped within this metal maze The fields outside are torn apart By lines that cut the ancient green A frantic, unrelenting heart That beats too fast for what has been The village fades, the child is small As concrete rises, tall and cold The engine answers to no call But pushes on, as it was told It does not see the ones who fall Behind the wake of progress' light It only knows the iron law To run until it burns the night	6	The whistle cuts the morning gray As steel wheels kiss the iron rail A sudden shudder, then away Leaving the quiet platform pale At first the trees are distinct and slow Their branches waving in the breeze But soon the green begins to blur Into a streak of fractured leaves The houses slide like painted cards The baker's window, gone too fast No time to wave, no time to speak Just shadows moving from the past The rhythm builds a deafening roar That drowns the child who cries for bread It promises a distant shore While trampling those who wish to rest We rush toward a gleaming peak Of efficiency and speed and cost Ignoring all the broken feet That cannot keep up with the ghost The world behind is blurred and small The future bright but cold and deep A giant rolling through it all With promises it cannot keep	6	The whistle cuts the morning air As steel wheels kiss the iron rail A promise made to move and dare To leave the quiet town behind The doors slide shut on waiting hands That reach for something lost too soon While engines hum their cold commands Beneath a gray and rising moon At first the rhythm matches feet Of those who walk the platform stone But soon the beat begins to sweep Away the voices we have known The world outside starts blurring fast A smear of green and rusted tin Where yesterday was built to last Now nothing holds, and nothing wins The city fades into a ghost Of structures cracked by speed's demand We trade our homes for distant coast And silence fills the empty land No one asks if we are whole Or if the price is worth the gain Just momentum, cold and soulless goal Driving through the pain and rain The tracks stretch out beneath the weight Of progress that will not be slowed It leaves the broken at the gate With stories that no one has told The train rolls on, a silver beast Devouring time and space alike Leaving the weary in the least To watch the future turn so bright	6	The iron breath exhales a cloud of gray As wheels begin to turn against the stone A rhythm born of steel and calculated weight That leaves the quiet hands upon the ground First step is gentle, soft as morning light But soon the heartbeat quickens in the chest The platform blurs into a streak of fear Where voices fade beneath the rising roar The world outside begins to lose its shape No longer real, just shadows swept aside We chase the horizon with a hungry eye Ignoring cracks that widen in the floor Time bends beneath the pressure of our speed While those who stumble fall behind the glass The engine screams a promise we cannot keep That forward motion demands every cost Now silence reigns where once a life was held The track extends beyond what eyes can see A force too vast to question or to break Leaving the broken pieces in the dust	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 tell the spider he is small And I am big, and I shall not be scared. I tell the thunder that I like it loud And I shall not be scared. I tell the dark it is a nice black coat To put on when I go to bed, And I shall not be scared. I ride the big wheel down the slide I jump in puddles deep as wells, I tell the dog with teeth like pins He cannot hurt me if I yell. I tell the doctor's needle sharp It is a bee and I am strong, I tell the dentist's little drill It sings a song, it sings a song. But when I get inside my bed And pull the covers up to my chin, There is a little thing inside That does not know what will happen in. It does not know about the spider, Or the thunder, or the dark, It only knows that one day I May not be big, may not be strong.	2	I will not cry when the thunder shakes the floor, Nor hide beneath the covers when the wind goes roaring out the door. I will walk right up to the big black dog with teeth so white and keen, And tell him I am not afraid of what he is or what he means. I will climb the highest ladder in the tree that scrapes the sky, And look the giant spider in his eight small glittering eye. I will go into the cellar where the shadows twist and creep, And say I am too busy for a nap or even sleep. The dark is just a blanket and the monsters are all fake, And if the sea comes rushing in it's only for my sake. But when I get back home again and lock the bedroom door, I sit upon my little bed and shake and shake some more. For all the things outside are loud but they are far away, And all the things inside are quiet and they never go away. So I will be as brave as lions and as bold as bears can be, And keep the real and tiny fright all locked up safe in me.	3	I climb the highest oak to show the sky That I am not afraid of falling down, I run into the storm with arms held high And laugh at thunder rolling through the town. The dark is just a blanket soft and deep, The monsters under beds are made of dust, I have no time for nightmares or for sleep, For I am iron, unafraid of rust. But in the quiet space behind my teeth, Where no one hears the trembling start to rise, There sits a small and terrible belief That one day I will lose the sun's good eyes. I shout at wolves to make them go away, To prove I do not fear the things that bite, While hiding from the empty, coming day When there is no one left to hold me tight.	6	I tell the thunder it is just a drum And laugh when shadows stretch across the floor I chase the wind that pulls at my hair And kick the stones right out the garden door The dark is not a mouth to swallow me The tall trees do not whisper names of dread I stand so straight and shout at every storm With words I learned from stories in my head But when the house is quiet and the lights go down And silence fills the space between my breath I hold my hands inside my coat so tight And pray the morning comes before the depth Of what I feel when no one else is near A small cold thing that hides behind my smile I say I am a lion, brave and strong While trembling waits within me all the while	6	I tell the dark it has no teeth to bite And laugh at shadows stretching on the wall The thunder rolls, a drum I claim as mine No storm can make my trembling spirit fall I chase the wind that howls outside the door And mock the creaking floorboards in the night I say the monsters under beds are gone That fear is just a ghost without a sight But deep beneath the bravest words I speak A quiet thing begins to softly weep It knows the world is vast and cold and wide And wonders if there is a place to keep The hands I hold so tight against the rain Are shaking just a little when they try To prove that nothing here can ever break The fragile heart that hides behind the eye	6	She climbs the tallest oak with scraped-up knees And laughs at thunder rolling through the sky No shadow in the hallway makes her freeze No monster waits beneath the floorboards dry I am too brave for ghosts or winter cold For storms that shake the windows in their frame My spirit burns a story never told Of things I dare to name and things unnamed But when the sun retreats behind the gray And silence stretches out across the room A different kind of quiet starts to sway Where hidden terrors bloom and softly loom It isn't fear of dark or falling stone Or voices lost inside the wind's refrain It is the weight of being all alone When no one sees the cracks within the vein She stands so tall against the coming night With chest expanded, arms held wide and strong While something small and fragile takes its flight To hide where only broken hearts belong	6	She stands before the storm with arms held high Refusing to let thunder shake her ground The shadows stretch and whisper low and dry But she has found a voice that knows no sound of doubt The monsters under beds are just old coats The wind that howls is only air in flight She laughs at darkness, mocks the heavy notes Of every nightmare born within the night Her hands are steady, brave against the unknown A fortress built from courage and from pride Yet deep beneath the armor she has grown A quiet tremor where the secrets hide For what she fears is not the world outside But silence when the cheering fades away The fragile hope that one day love might die And leave her standing in the cold gray day So she declares the fear is gone from sight A lie as bright as morning on the stone While holding tight the ghost inside the light That whispers softly she is never whole alone	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 sharp probes of light and steel, and squeezes it for isotopes and dates, but the earth gives no dates, only dates of flowers. Philosophy prods the earth with pointed questions of being, and squeezes it for meaning, but the earth gives no meaning, only meaninglessness in green shoots. Religion pokes the earth with pointed prayers and stakes, and squeezes it for signs, but the earth gives no signs, only signs of spring. The earth remains indifferent to all this poking and prodding and squeezing, and endlessly greets existence with the renewal of spring and new life.	3	Science digs with steel and glass prodding layers of stone and sand to squeeze the strata for a law that binds the shifting, sinking land. Philosophy leans close to ask what mind could plan this weight of clay and squeezing thought till logic cracks demands an answer from the day. Religion kneels and presses deep into the dark and silent womb to coax a voice from out the sleep and scare the shadows with its gloom. They poke and prod and squeeze the globe for meaning in the mud and dust but Earth rolls on without a job in indifferent, ancient trust. She does not hear their questions ring nor care for what they seek to find she only greets the coming spring with green shoots pushing through the rind. New life erupts where they have pressed and laughs at all their toil and pain with buds that burst upon her breast and rain that washes off their stain.	6	Science drives its drills deep into the crust probing the dark for atoms and their laws Philosophy leans close with a question mark squeezing the silence until it yields a truth Religion builds high towers to touch the sky and presses its ear against the wind for a voice They poke and prod and squeeze the heavy globe demanding a reason, a plan, a sign but the earth turns slowly in its indifferent sleep unmoved by the logic or the prayer or the doubt It knows only the rhythm of the turning year the frost receding from the river bank the green shoot breaking through the frozen soil a new leaf unfurling without asking why spring arrives as it always has arrived ignoring the theories and the sermons and the search and greets existence simply by living again.	5	They bring their needles of logic to pierce the soil And pry open the crust with questions sharp as flint Probing the dark for a code, a law, a divine intent While others chant in stone temples or whisper through glass Squeezing the sphere until it groans beneath the weight of their need Asking why the tides pull and the stars burn cold Demanding an answer from the silence that holds them all But the ground does not tremble at their frantic search It only shifts its heavy shoulders under the sun And when the winter's grip finally loosens its fist A green shoot breaks the frost without a word of thanks The flower opens its mouth to drink the rain Unaware of the theories built upon its stem The earth simply breathes, turns, and begins again Greeting the endless cycle with a quiet, blooming face Indifferent to the noise of minds trying to make sense Of the simple, stubborn miracle of being alive.	6	They dig their fingers deep into the crust With logic sharp as flint and faith as soft as moss Prodding the dark for answers written in the stone Squeezing the silence until it screams a name Science maps the bones beneath the skin Philosophy argues over why the blood still runs Religion builds its towers to catch the falling light But the ground beneath them does not tremble or reply It simply holds the weight of all their desperate questions And waits for winter's heavy hand to lift away Then wakes with green shoots piercing through the frost Ignoring every theory, every prayer, every doubt As the world turns once more to greet the sun A quiet breath that asks for nothing but to bloom	3	They dig with drills of logic, sharp and cold To find the code that binds the stars above While philosophers debate the weight of soul And priests whisper to ghosts they cannot love They squeeze the rock until it cracks in fear Demanding answers for the silent night But gravity just pulls without a care And darkness holds no judgment, only light The questions pile like snow upon the peak A heavy burden meant to break the spine Yet mountains shift beneath the shifting mind Unmoved by all the hope or grand design No echo rises from the canyon deep To tell them why the blood must turn to dust The void is vast, a quiet, ancient sleep That feeds on certainty and turns to rust Then winter yields its grip with gentle grace As green shoots pierce the soil where doubts were sown A flower opens wide to claim its place Ignoring every word that was ever known The river flows because the rain returns Not out of purpose, but because it must It burns with life while human heartburns In search of truth within the crumbling crust So let them poke and prod the sacred ground With theories built on fragile, fleeting sand For spring arrives without a single sound To wash away the footprints of their plan The world breathes in, exhales a living song Indifferent to the struggle, pure and bright Where meaning fades and new beginnings throng In endless cycles of the turning light	6	The mind seeks answers in the soil and stone A frantic dance of logic, faith, and doubt They dig with hands of steel or whispered prayer To find a purpose buried deep below Each theory carved into the silent bed While questions echo through the empty air Religion builds its towers to touch the sky Philosophy dissects the weight of time Science measures cracks within the crust All pressing hard against the ancient floor Demanding why the darkness holds its breath And begging for a reason for the cold But earth does not reply to desperate cries It turns beneath the weight of human fear No grand design revealed in shifting tides Only the rhythm of the turning wheel Unmoved by grief or glory, hope or loss The ground remains indifferent to the plea Then comes the thaw that breaks the frozen grip A sudden green where shadows used to grow New roots push through the layers of despair Ignoring every question left unsaid The world begins again without a word As spring rewrites the story of the dawn	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.	A certain light goes out of the world not like a lamp which can be relit, but like a sun which has gone down for ever. There was a particular tilt of the head, a way of laughing at nothing in particular, and a specific turn of phrase which no one else could have used. Now that is gone. It is not merely that the man or woman is dead; it is that the whole world is diminished by that exact quantity of humanity. No one else could have told the joke in that way; no one else could have made that face; no one else could have been that person. That whole universe of reactions and habits and little ways of being, which had taken all those years to grow up, is now extinguished for ever. And there is no way of getting it back.	2	The room grows quiet as the breath goes out, And with that final sigh a world shuts down. Not just a life but all its quirks and traits, The way he laughed, the way she frowned, That specific glint within a certain eye, That turn of phrase no other could employ. It is not like a book you can re-read, Or like a song you hear upon the radio. There was a mind that thought in ways unique, A universe inside a single woe, A pattern woven from a thousand days, Now pulled apart and lost to endless haze. No printer can reproduce that soul, No artist paint the shadow of that face. It was a combination rare and strange, That never will be seen again in place. So many things were known only to her, And now they vanish in the empty air. We mourn the man or woman who has gone, But more we mourn what cannot be replaced: The million little things that made him whole, The private jokes, the habits, and the taste. All gone forever, swept into the night, And nothing left to fill that vastest light.	6	The room grows quiet as the light withdraws And with it goes a universe of sound The specific way you laughed at jokes no one else found The unique rhythm of your footsteps on the floor A frequency that will not play anymore No other mind could hold that exact blend Of memories and hopes that made you whole No other heart could break in quite this way to mend Or offer up that singular, familiar soul You were a book whose pages none can read again Written in a hand that cannot write or speak Now silence fills the space where you once stood And time moves on but leaves a hollow place Where nothing ever could have understood As well as you the sorrow on my face For when you fade into the endless night The world loses a color it will never see A light extinguished, gone from human sight A story finished, lost eternally There is no copy of the life you lived No duplicate of all you gave and were Just an empty chair where love was riven And silence hanging in the heavy air	6	The air grows thin where your laughter used to hang A specific frequency that tuned the room Now silence settles like a heavy fog And every echo fades into the gloom No other voice can mimic how you spoke Of morning light or coffee in the cup That unique alchemy of soul and stroke Is gone, and will not rise again to sup The way you held a hand, the tilt of head A constellation mapped only for you Dissolves beneath the weight of what is dead Leaving a shape the world cannot renew We search for traces in the things you left But find no copy of the spark within A universe of memory bereft Where nothing ever starts to breathe again It is not just a life that slips away But all the colors only you could see A galaxy extinguished in the day That leaves us staring at an empty sea Forever now the pattern breaks apart No artist holds the brush to paint it true You were the singular beat of a heart That stops, and takes the rhythm with it too	6	The light that lived behind their eyes Begins to dim and fade away, A universe of quiet sighs That no new dawn can ever make. Their laughter was a specific sound, A rhythm only they could keep, Now silence wraps the hallowed ground Where memories of them will sleep. No other soul can hold this space, This blend of joy and gentle grace, For every word they ever spoke Is now a ghost within the smoke. We search for echoes in the air, But find only the empty chair, A masterpiece erased by time, Leaving us with grief so prime. They were the one who made it whole, A singular and broken role, And as the final breath takes flight, The world grows darker in the night. Nothing left to fill the void, By love alone we are destroyed, Knowing deep within our chest That part of life has gone to rest, Forever lost, forever gone, Until the breaking of the dawn.	7	The quiet settles where a voice once stood A specific rhythm that no echo holds The way the light caught laughter in the air Is gone, and silence takes its heavy toll No mirror shows the shape of who you were No book can capture every fleeting thought The universe has lost a color only you could paint And now the world feels slightly less than what it ought We gather round the space you used to fill With empty hands and hearts that ache for more For nothing born again will ever be the same As this one soul that walks through life no more The magic fades like mist against the dawn Unique and wild, now locked within the past A story written by a hand that cannot write again Leaving us with shadows where your light was cast	6	The silence settles where a voice once stood A hollow space no echo can restore The rhythm of a heart that beat in time with yours Now fades into the quiet, cold and sore Each memory a shard of glass too sharp to hold As light retreats from eyes that knew your name No second chance to mend the broken thread No copy drawn from this unspoken frame The laughter was a song composed by you alone A melody that dies before it ends Leaving behind a ghost of what we held Where nothing else could ever truly blend You were the only key to doors we shared The color in a world turning to gray And as the final breath dissolves away We mourn the dawn that will not rise again today	7
339	train	XIV by Derek Walcott	Derek Walcott	"A poem about revisiting childhood memories of gathering around lamplight to listen to stories, evoking feelings of nostalgia and sadness."	With the frenzy of an old snake shedding its skin, the speckled road, scored with ruts, smelling of mold, twisted on itself and reentered the forest where the dasheen leaves thicken and folk stories begin. Sunset would threaten us as we climbed closer to her house up the asphalt hill road, whose yam vines wrangled over gutters with the dark reek of moss, the shutters closing like the eyelids of that mimosa called Ti-Marie; then — lucent as paper lanterns, lamplight glowed through the ribs, house after house — there was her own lamp at the black twist of the path. There’s childhood, and there’s childhood’s aftermath. She began to remember at the minute of the fireflies, to the sound of pipe water banging in kerosene tins, stories she told to my brother and myself. Her leaves were the libraries of the Caribbean. The luck that was ours, those fragrant origins! Her head was magnificent, Sidone. In the gully of her voice shadows stood up and walked, her voice travels my shelves. She was the lamplight in the stare of two mesmerized boys still joined in one shadow, indivisible twins.	The oil lamp flickers low again A golden circle on the floor Where shadows danced like living men Behind the heavy wooden door We sat so close to hear the tale Of wolves and stars and ancient seas Before the winter wind could fail To chill our bare and shivering knees Now silence fills the empty space The wick is dead, the room is cold I cannot find that familiar face Or stories that were never told The light has gone, the years have passed And left me here alone to weep For moments built to never last While all the world is fast asleep	The oil lamp flickered on the table And threw a dancing, orange light. We sat around it in a ring, So small and safe that night. My father's voice was low and rough, He told us of the sea; Of mermaids singing in the deeps, And ships set free to be. My mother knitted in the corner, Her shadow on the wall; I watched the shadows dance about, As if they would not fall. I thought the lamp would never go out, I thought we'd always be Together in that circle there, Safe as could be. But now the lamp is gone and dusted, The table gone and sold; My father and my mother too, Are dead and cold. I sit alone and read a book, By electric light so clear; It has no smell of kerosene, It has no voice I hear.	6	The oil lamp sputtered on the table And threw a dancing, yellow circle Across the faces of my kin, While shadows leaped against the wall. We huddled close to catch the heat, To hear the old man's voice go round With tales of dragons, ghosts, and kings, That made our little hearts beat fast. I see them now so clearly still, The softness of my mother's cheek, The way my father stroked his chin, Before he told us all to sleep. But now the lamp is gone away, And those who sat within the light Are scattered by the wind of years, Or sleeping in the silent dark. I sit alone beneath the moon, And try to summon up that sound, Of voices weaving magic spells, In circles where we used to be. But only silence fills the room, And coldness where the warmth once was, And I am grown, and they are dead, And nothing stays as it was then.	6	The oil lamp sputtered low that night A trembling eye against the dark We huddled close in coats too thin To hear the wolf begin to bark Your voice was warm, a steady stream That wove us into tales of old Of kings who lost their golden crowns And stories that the wind had told Now silence fills the empty chair Where shadows used to dance and play The lamp is cold, the wick is dead And all the children went away I reach for hands that turned to dust And grasp only the heavy air The story ends but not the grief Of finding you were never there	6	The oil lamp flickered low that night A trembling gold against the dark We huddled close to feel the heat And wait for stories from the spark Your voice was soft as falling dust While shadows danced upon the wall We did not know the years would pass Or that the light would grow so small Now silence fills the empty chair Where once we sat with wide-eyed hope The flame is gone, the wick is cold And time has left us in its scope I reach to touch the ghost of you But find only the air and gray The stories end, the lamp burns out And childhood fades and slips away	6	The oil lamp flickered low on wooden shelves Where dust motes danced in circles soft and slow We sat with knees drawn tight against the cold And waited for the tales to start and grow Your voice was deep, a river running deep Through shadows that the single bulb could not erase We held our breath as giants woke from sleep Within the safety of this quiet space Now silence fills the room where laughter used to be The wick is gone, the glass has turned to gray I reach for hands that cannot hold me free From years that slipped so quietly away The story ends but never truly fades Just like the light that burned so warm before It lingers in the hollow of these shades A ghost behind the closing of the door	6	The oil ran low that winter night As shadows stretched across the floor A circle drawn in amber light Behind a closed and silent door We sat with hands wrapped tight around The warmth of voices, soft and deep While outside wind began to sound A lullaby we could not keep Now years have turned the pages gray And silence fills the empty space Where laughter used to drift away Like smoke without a single trace I reach for words that once were gold But find only the dust of time The stories lost, the hands grown old Beneath a cold and distant rhyme The lamp is gone, the room is bare No whisper breaks the heavy air Just echoes of a love we shared That fades beyond all hope or prayer	6	The flicker of the oil lamp dances on the wall Where shadows stretch to hold us close and tight A circle drawn by warmth we cannot call Against the creeping cold of endless night Your voice was soft, a river running deep Through tales of giants lost beneath the snow We held our breath while silence started creep To steal the magic from the words you sow Now dust has settled on the wooden floor The glass is cracked, the wick long turned to ash No laughter echoes through this empty door Just quiet whispers that the wind will hush I reach for hands that time has claimed away The stories fade like embers in the rain A heavy weight I carry every day Of love that lingers in the fading frame What once felt infinite now slips so fast Between the cracks of years we cannot mend The light that guided us through storms at last Has dimmed to leave a hollow, aching end	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	Each dawning day brings a new beginning, even the ashes turn into leaves again. The happy find it in the springing green, the sad find it in the gentle rain. Both have a chance at rebirth, both have a chance at a fresh start.	6	The night pulls back its heavy curtain To show the gray and then the gold, A story that will soon begin And never quite be told. The ashes of the burnt-out year Lie scattered on the ground, But watch how soft the rain descends And makes a miracle found. For out of dust the green shoots rise With tender, trembling leaf, And turn the sorrow of the past Into a tree's belief. Both happy hearts and broken ones May see the morning light, And know that every dawn brings round Another chance to right. No matter what the evening held Of joy or deep despair, The sun comes up with equal warmth And fresh and fragrant air. So let us walk into the day With open hands and eyes, Where even ashes turn to leaves Beneath the summer skies.	7	The night retreats before the golden light And washes clean the stains of yesterday No matter how the shadows held us tight Or how we lost our way or went astray The ashes of the fire that burned so low Will rise again to take a leafy form Where winter winds once made the branches blow Now spring will break the silence with a storm For happy hearts and broken ones alike The dawn arrives to offer up a start It does not ask for reasons or for likes But gives a fresh beginning to the heart So let the old and heavy things fall down Into the soil where seeds of hope are sown A green and tender crown upon the town Where every soul can walk the path alone Yet never truly alone as light appears To guide the sad and lift the joyful high Across the bridge of all our passing years Beneath the vast and ever-changing sky	7	The night retreats before the golden light And whispers softly to the weary soul That even in the deepest, darkest night There is a promise that begins to roll Where ashes fall from fires long ago They do not stay as dust upon the ground But wait within the quiet, frozen snow For rain to wake the life that can be found From gray and brittle remnants of the past Green shoots emerge with courage and with grace A second chance for shadows to outlast The heavy weight of sorrow or disgrace The happy find a reason to rejoice While sad hearts learn to breathe the morning air Each dawn provides a clear and steady voice To tell us that we are beyond compare No matter how the story ended yesterday Or how the wind has torn the branches bare The sun returns to wash the tears away And leaves will grow from ash beyond repair	7	The night retreats in silence, soft and deep As light begins to wake the world from sleep No shadow holds a grip too tight to break For morning offers every heart a chance to start anew Where once the fire burned and left us cold With ash that scattered on the wind so old A single green shoot pushes through the gray To show that life returns in its own way The happy smile at sun upon their face While those who weep find comfort in this grace For sorrow does not steal the dawn away It waits beside the joy to help us stay Each leaf unfurls a story yet untold Of winters passed and seasons turning gold No matter what was lost or left behind The rising sun brings peace of mind So let the past dissolve into the air And trust the promise found in morning's care From ashes rise the forests, strong and free In every breath, a new beginning starts with me	7	The night retreats in silence, soft and deep As morning breaks the heavy chains of sleep No shadow lasts forever in the light That paints the world with gold before the fight Where ashes once lay scattered on the ground A whisper rises from the frozen mound For every leaf that fell to turn to dust Is promised life within the gentle gust The broken heart finds rhythm in the breeze While joy takes root among the ancient trees It does not ask what sorrow brought you here Or why your tears have watered winter's fear Both happy souls and those who carry pain Are washed anew by sun and falling rain A fresh beginning waits for all to see That death is just a door to set us free So watch the dawn reclaim the barren space And find a second chance in time and place For even in the ruins, green will grow To show us how the seeds of hope can sow	7	The night retreats in silence, soft and deep Where shadows held the weight of yesterday's regret But morning breaks with colors bold and bright To wash away the dust of what we left behind Even where the fire once consumed our dreams A quiet seed begins to take its root From ashes born, a leaf unfurls its green Proving that nothing is truly lost or gone For those who laugh beneath the golden light And those who weep within the fading gray The sun arrives without a judgment call Offering a hand to lift the broken heart No scar remains too deep for time to heal As winter yields to spring in endless cycles turning Each dawn brings promise written in the air A second chance for every soul to start anew	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.	My father says the other side is a place where bread is cheap, and dogs do not bite, and children do not go to bed without shoes. My mother says we will be happy. We are walking in the dark between two rivers, and I have a small bag with an orange and a pair of socks in it. My father says the people there will like us. My mother says we must not speak our own language until we get there. I am twelve years old and I know that if the people there were so nice they would not need to make people walk between two rivers in the dark to get to them. If the bread was so cheap they would not have made it so expensive here. I think that when we get there the people will not like us. I think that the bread will be just as expensive there, or more so, because we shall be foreigners there, too. I think that the dogs will bite us there, too, because we shall be foreigners there, too. I think that we shall not be happy there. I think that we shall be just as unhappy there, only we shall be foreigners there, too.	2	The moon is a silver coin we cannot spend on the dark side of the river where the water smells of mud and diesel. My father says this side is full of light, that if we just keep walking until our feet are bleeding, we will find a house with a window that opens. My mother holds my hand so tight her knuckles are white and she whispers about schools and doctors and meat every day. They have made a map in their heads out of hope, but I am looking at the barbed wire cutting into the sky and thinking that fences are built for a reason. If it were so easy to be better there, why did they leave? Why do we walk like ghosts when the living stay behind? I see the way my father looks at his boots, how he checks the pockets of his jacket as if money might appear, and I wonder if the only thing that changes when we get there is the language we use to say we are hungry. We are crossing a line on a map, yes, but I think we are carrying the same bad luck with us in the soles of our shoes.	2	The truck bed smells of diesel and damp wool as we cross the line where the fence ends and the road begins to break apart. Mother holds her head high, repeating the words she learned from a pamphlet: safety, work, a school with windows that open. She says the sun is warmer on the other side, that the bread will not taste like dust. My father drives with his knuckles white, staring at the horizon as if it were a promise he has already collected. They speak in hushed tones of green fields and doctors who do not ask for papers first. I watch the shadows lengthen behind us, stretching over the dry grass we left, and I calculate the distance between hope and hunger. If the ground here cannot hold our feet, why should the next patch be different? If the rain does not come to this valley, what makes them think it will fall there? I know that borders are just lines drawn by men who have never walked them, and that a better life is often just a story told to keep the walking going. We are moving forward because standing still is the only thing worse than being lost. But as the new signpost appears in the distance, blurred by heat and tire smoke, I wonder if we are trading one desert for another, or if the water we seek is simply a reflection of the sky we carry inside.	2	The truck engine coughs against the dark while Mama counts our money in her lap and Papa whispers promises of green fields where the air tastes sweet and bread is free. We leave behind the dust that chokes our lungs to chase a horizon painted gold by hope, but I watch the shadows stretch too long behind us and wonder if the road simply changes shape. They say the border guards will be kind that laws are made for people like us now, yet my father's hands tremble as he grips the wheel as if he knows the fence is only moved not broken, just shifted to a different place. I see the way the strangers look at us with eyes that measure worth in paper slips, and though Mama sings a song of better days, the math in my head does not add up to joy. Perhaps the better life we seek is just a mirror reflecting back the same tired faces in a room with different walls and harder floors, where hunger wears a new and foreign name.	2	The river bites cold against our ankles as Father whispers of golden fields where bread is free and the sun never sets Mother holds my hand so tight her knuckles turn white saying this is the only way to breathe again I watch the guards on the far bank, their rifles gleaming and wonder if they see us as people or just shadows Father speaks of a house with windows that open wide but I remember the ones we left behind, broken by wind He says tomorrow will be softer than today yet the road ahead looks exactly like the one behind just longer, darker, and lined with more fences I carry the hope they gave me in my small chest but it feels heavy, like a stone instead of a seed perhaps the better life is just another name for waiting another border to cross, another wall to climb while the night swallows our footsteps without a sound	2	The truck bed hums a low and steady tune As we trade the dust of home for something new My father speaks in promises of sun Of schools that open wide their heavy doors My mother clutches photos, worn and soft Believing hope is just a step away I watch the fence dissolve into the night And wonder if the light they seek is real Or just a shadow stretching long and thin They say the air will taste of freedom here But gravity feels heavier than before As every mile leaves another piece behind We cross the line with nothing but our breath Convinced the ground beneath will hold us fast Yet doubt takes root within my quiet mind A seed that asks what happens when the dream Fails to match the hunger in our bellies Will better life arrive or simply change its name?	5	The river bites cold against our weary skin As we trade the silence of home for the hum of a distant city My father speaks of golden fields and endless bread While my mother clutches a photograph worn thin by time They believe the line drawn in dirt holds no power over us That tomorrow will rise brighter than the shadows we leave behind I watch the dust settle on shoulders that refuse to break Holding onto promises stitched from hope and desperate need Yet the wind carries whispers of walls built higher than dreams Where the air tastes different, heavy with unspoken rules The path ahead is paved with stories of those who found their way But I wonder if the light they chase is merely a reflection of what was lost We step forward, driven by love that refuses to fade Even as my heart questions the weight of this fragile trust Perhaps the horizon shifts only to hide the same old storms And the better life we seek is just a ghost we cannot hold Still, we walk, one foot after another, into the unknown Leaving doubt behind like stones too heavy to carry any further	6
359	train	The Self Banished by Edmund Waller	Edmund Waller	"A poem about a man keeping his promise to stay away from his love, lamenting the pain it causes while fearing that breaking it would cast doubt on his promise to love her."	It is not that I love you less Than when before your feet I lay, But to prevent the sad increase Of hopeless love, I keep away. In vain (alas!) for everything Which I have known belong to you, Your form does to my fancy bring, And makes my old wounds bleed anew. Who in the spring from the new sun Already has a fever got, Too late begins those shafts to shun, Which Phœbus through his veins has shot. Too late he would the pain assuage, And to thick shadows does retire; About with him he bears the rage, And in his tainted blood the fire. But vow’d I have, and never must Your banish’d servant trouble you; For if I break, you may distrust The vow I made to love you, too.	I keep the distance like a sacred vow, Though every step away feels like a fall, The silence grows so loud and heavy now, It echoes through the hollow of it all. To stay is pain, a slow and sharp decay, That gnaws at edges where my heart should be, But if I cross the line to find your way, Will you believe in what we used to see? For if I break this rule to hold you tight, Then how can trust remain within your mind? If love demands I fight against the night, Does keeping faith mean leaving peace behind? I fear that breaking free will make you doubt The very promise that I made to stay, So here I stand with nothing but my mouth To whisper words I cannot let you say. My love is proven by the space between, A cruel geometry that keeps us whole, The greatest act of love I've ever seen Is tearing pieces from my trembling soul.	I keep the road between us empty, as I promised. It is a hard thing to be a good man and not go near you. The pain of it is a dull toothache in all my teeth; it is a sickness in all my bones. But if I went to you, if I put my arms about you because I could not help myself, then what would that make me? It would make me a liar. For I promised to love you, and I promised to stay away. If I broke the one, I should break the other. For if I loved you enough to come to you, I should not have loved you enough to leave you alone. So I sit here and hurt, and I am glad I hurt, for if I did not hurt, I should think I did not love you.	2	I keep my word and walk away, Though every step is death. I hold the promise like a knife, And stab myself to breath. It hurts to be so true to you, By being far from thee; But if I come, then all my vows Are worthless as can be. For if I break this one command To stay and let you go, Then how can you believe the rest Of all I say? Oh no! If I should love by breaking rules, You'd doubt that I loved true: That I am false in keeping small, How could I be in great? So here I stand, a broken man, Who keeps his word too well, And suffers thus to prove to you The truth I cannot tell.	6	I keep the distance like a sacred wall, Though every step away tears at my soul. I watch you from afar and hear your call, But silence is the only way to be whole. The pain is sharp, a constant, dull refrain, That echoes in the hollow of my chest. To touch you now would ease this heavy strain, But leave me guilty of a broken quest. For if I break this vow to stay apart, And cross the line that separates us two, It casts a shadow on my honest heart, And makes my love seem false and not quite true. How can I swear to love you through all time, If breaking rules proves I am weak and blind? So I remain within this space of crime, A faithful ghost who leaves his love behind.	7	I keep the distance like a sacred wall, A silent vow that I must not recall. The ache within my chest is sharp and deep, A promise made to guard the love I keep. If I should cross the line I drew in sand, And take your hand again with trembling hand, Would you believe the words I spoke before? Or think them lies from which I cannot soar? My silence is the proof of what I feel, That staying far away is how I heal. To break this rule would make my truth seem weak, And cast a shadow on the vows we speak. So let me watch you from this empty space, And bear the burden of this quiet place. For if I return, the doubt will start to grow, That all I said was just a fleeting show.	7	I walk the edge of silence you requested And count the hours like a thief in night The ache is sharp, a blade inside my chest That turns to dust with every fading light To stay away is all I have to give A promise made to keep your spirit free But if I break this vow and let myself live Then who can trust the love that waits for me? If I return, does it mean I lied before? That every word was just a desperate plea Or will you see the truth beneath the door And know I chose the pain to set us free? So I remain the ghost upon the stair Who loves you best by never making sound For breaking faith would cast a shadow there And make the greatest promise lost and bound	6	I walk the path I swore to tread in silence While every step feels like a fracture deep inside The promise made was not just words of distance But proof that love can ask for what it cannot hide My heart screams out to break the silent barrier To run to you and hold the life we lost before Yet if I turn, I fear the truth will shatter That love itself is built on something more If I return, does it mean my vow was hollow? A fleeting wish instead of iron law For staying here, though it consumes my spirit Is the only way to keep the sacred awe So I remain a ghost within the shadows Watching time erase the warmth of your embrace Afraid that one small touch would make me question If love could ever truly find its place The pain is sharp, a constant, quiet burning But breaking faith would leave a darker stain For in this distance, I must prove devotion Even when it hurts to feel the rain	6	The silence stretches where your name once lived A vow I carved into the winter air To keep you safe from shadows that I bring And guard the light you were too bright to share My heart beats loud against a cage of steel Each step away feels like a slow decay Yet if I turn, the fragile trust will break The truth we built begins to slip and fray For love is not just warmth or gentle touch But discipline that holds the soul in check If I return, I prove the promise false That distance was the only way to protect So let me fade into the quiet dark Where every breath reminds me what I lost Afraid that breaking free would cost us more Than all the grief this lonely road has crossed	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.	Be soft, be sweet, be still and small, And hide the thunder in your throat; Be servile to the man's tall call, And charm him with a modest note. But if you serve so perfectly, And meekly bear all wrongs and scorns, If you can die to self so free, And bear the cross of women born; Then shall he say you are like Christ! A higher praise than woman's due: For having sacrificed the least, You have become as men do too.	2	They ask you to fold your thunder into whispers, To keep the lion in a cage of lace, And charm the table with a gentle gesture While hiding all the power of your face. You serve the wine and smile at every story, And never let them see the hand that holds, For if they saw the strength within your glory, It would disturb their peace and make them cold. But in this deep humility of service, Where you lay down your life for others' sake, A strange and holy light begins to pierce The veil of modesty you are required to wear. For when you give so freely of your being, When you wash feet and carry heavy loads, There is a likeness to the King's own seeing, Who trod the thorny path and bore our loads. So do not think your meekness makes you lesser, Or that to serve implies a low estate; In serving thus, your soul grows much the greater, And Christ himself is mirrored in your state. For he who was most strong became most humble, And so you find your purpose high and clear: Not just a woman charming and supple, But one whom God has made his image here.	7	They ask you to fold your hands so small And hide the thunder in a quiet throat, To serve the meal with a gentle fall Of lashes that conceal the iron note. Be soft as silk and sweet as wine, A mirror for his pride to shine upon, But do not let the inner fire shine Or show the strength that makes him shun. Yet in this service, strange and deep, Where self is lost to make him whole, A secret promise starts to keep That lifts the weary, serving soul. For when you bend to wash the feet And give the last of what you have, You tread the path where love and duty meet, And find a throne within the grave. No longer just a shadow cast Behind the man who walks ahead, You see the light from days long past Where Christ was served by bread and bed. In meekness now a power grows, Not weak, but vast as ocean tides, The highest purpose one can know: To walk where He once walked inside.	6	They ask you to fold your hands and lower your gaze, To hide the iron in your spine beneath a silk disguise, To serve the table with a smile that never breaks, And charm the room while swallowing your thunderous cries. You are told that power is a burden too heavy to bear, That strength must be softened into something small and sweet, A quiet vessel for their needs, a shadow in the air, Where your own voice is silenced by the rhythm of their feet. But then a whisper rises from the dust of ancient roads, A story where the servant leads, the humble holds the crown, Where love is not a weakness but the sharpest of swords, And sacrifice becomes the fire that burns the kingdom down. For if the Son of God was known as servant first of all, Then in your meekness lies a glory they cannot see, Not a cage of silence built to make you small, But a throne prepared for one who serves so wild and free. You do not shrink to fit the mold they carved in stone, You rise above the expectation like a dawn breaking through, For every act of kindness is a seed you have sown, To find a higher purpose in the likeness of the True.	6	They ask for softness in the voice you raise To hide the thunder rolling deep inside A gentle hand that smooths the jagged edges Of worlds they built with iron and with pride You learn to smile when anger burns too bright To serve the meal, to mend the torn fabric To charm the silence where your power sleeps And trade your fire for a quiet habit But then a shadow falls across the room Not heavy with the weight of what is lost But filled with light that turns the mundane holy As if the cross was waiting at the cost For in this yielding, something strange takes root When you give all and keep nothing for yourself The servant's posture mirrors something ancient A sacrifice that breaks the selfish shelf No longer just a vessel for their need But standing tall within the sacred space Where meekness becomes armor, not a cage And strength is found in grace, not in the chase You see the face of One who washed the feet In every act of love you offer free The world may call it weakness or submission But heaven knows the price of liberty	6	They ask for softness in a voice that could command the storm To fold their hands and hide the fire burning deep within the bone A smile must mask the weight of worlds they carry on their back While serving bread to hungry mouths that never learn to feed themselves The charm is but a veil to keep the thunder from the sky To let the shadow of their power fade into the quiet gray Yet in the silence where they kneel, a different truth takes root For when they give their all away, they mirror something old and true Not just a servant bound by chains of custom made to break But standing in the light of grace that only saints can claim When every step is taken out of love instead of fear They walk the path the Savior walked, with wounds they do not share To be compared to Christ is not a burden laid upon the weak But proof that strength was never lost, merely transformed to speak In whispers of compassion that can heal the fractured soul Where meekness meets the divine and makes the broken spirit whole	6	The mask of softness woven tight against the storm A gentle voice to calm the restless tide While hands that could command the shifting earth Are taught to serve the weight they cannot hide They bow their heads in silence, sweet and deep As if the fire within must fade to gray For strength is seen as something sharp and cold That breaks the fragile threads of what we say Yet in the quiet space where shadows fall A different truth begins to softly rise Not in the power that demands a throne But in the love that dares to sacrifice To carry burdens meant for heavier shoulders To offer grace when anger seeks its place Is not a cage but wings beyond the sky Where broken hearts find solace in the face For every step taken in humble dust Reflects a path walked long before the dawn A mirror held to light the way ahead Where meekness holds the power to transform No longer bound by chains of expectation The spirit learns to breathe without the fear Of being less than what the world requires When purpose blooms from tears that others shed In service found, the soul discovers flight Beyond the limits drawn by human hands To stand as witness to a sacred vow Where love becomes the only guiding plan	7
393	ultra_held_out	Wind On The Hill by A. A. Milne	Alan Alexander Milne	A poem about a child chasing a kite along a hill and wondering where the wind is going, imagining that if the kite were to fly away and be found again, it would reveal the answer.	No one can tell me, Nobody knows, Where the wind comes from, Where the wind goes. It's flying from somewhere As fast as it can, I couldn't keep up with it, Not if I ran. But if I stopped holding The string of my kite, It would blow with the wind For a day and a night. And then when I found it, Wherever it blew, I should know that the wind Had been going there too. So then I could tell them Where the wind goes… But where the wind comes from Nobody knows.	Small hands pull the string tight Across the green and rolling hill, The red diamond dances in the light, And tugs against the child's will. Where does the invisible wind go? It pushes up but leaves no trace, A secret that the clouds might know, But hide within their watery space. If only I could let it fly, Beyond the trees and past the sky, To find a place where answers lie, And bring the mystery back to me. Perhaps when found on distant sand, Or caught within a stranger's hand, It would reveal the hidden land, Where all the wandering breezes end. But for now the string holds fast, A tether to the earth below, Watching the shadow of the past, As we chase the wind we'll never know.	The child runs up the hill with a red kite in his hand, the string pulling taut and sharp as if it were a lead line. He wonders where the wind is going, why it comes and why it goes; it must be going somewhere round the corner of the world. If the kite should break away and go sailing round the world and come back to me again, it would bring me news of that: it would tell me where the wind is going.	5	The child runs hard along the green hill crest With a red kite dancing high above his head, He pants and wonders in his breathless quest Where all the wind goes when it leaves us dead. It pushes up the sail and makes it soar, Then vanishes beyond the highest tree; Does it go walking through some open door? Or hide itself within the distant sea? If only now the string should snap and fly, And bear him off to where the breezes start, And if the kite came down from out the sky To tell us where it went with all its heart, We'd know the place where winds begin their play, And where they sleep until another day.	6	The red diamond dances on the green, A heartbeat pulling at my hand, I run until my knees are seen Beneath the grassy hill's command. But where does all the rushing go? Is it a river in the sky? Does it have somewhere to flow Before it says its last goodbye? If only I could let it fly, And watch it drift beyond the sight, To travel through the endless high And find the wind's own hidden light. Then if some child in distant lands Should find this kite with broken string, They'd hold the answer in their hands Of where the invisible winds wing.	6	Small feet scramble up the green and steep, While red paper dances on a string so thin, The child runs fast with breath held deep, And wonders where the wind has been. Does it travel to the edge of sky? Or hide inside the clouds above? If only I could ask it why, It would whisper secrets full of love. But if this kite should break its thread, And drift away to lands unknown, Then when it lands where no one tread, Perhaps the wind would be made known. We'd find the answer in the grass, Where silent breezes make their bed, And watch the hidden currents pass, Before the kite is found again.	7	Small feet scramble up the grassy slope Where the string pulls tight against a tiny hand A paper bird dances on invisible ropes While the hill rolls out like a sleeping land I run until my lungs begin to burn Chasing the tail that snaps and whips behind But where does all this rushing air return? Does it hide in clouds or leave a trace of wind? If only I could let the line slip free And watch it vanish past the distant trees Then find it caught in some far, wild sea To see what secrets the blue horizon keeps Perhaps the kite would bring back words untold Of rivers made of breath and storms unseen The place where every gust begins to fold And show me just exactly where it's been	6	The grass bends low beneath small feet As crimson silk dances above the green A string pulled tight against the sky Where secrets of the air are kept unseen Why does the breeze push forward now? Does it have a place it needs to be? I run until my lungs begin to burn Chasing the ghost that sets the fabric free If this kite should slip from fingers loose And drift beyond the hill's high crest Perhaps the world would show its path To where the wandering currents rest One day when lost and found again It might bring back a whispered tale Of winds that travel far and wide To answer questions we cannot fail	6	Small hands pull the string so tight Against the grass of rolling green Where shadows stretch and light takes flight A silent dance, a quiet scene The fabric snaps against the sky As feet run fast on dusty ground I watch the colors drift and fly Beyond the trees that softly sound But where does all this invisible air Carry its breath to distant shores? Does it whisper secrets we cannot hear Or hide behind the mountain's doors If this bright bird were torn away To wander through the storm and night Would it return with stories to say Of winds that fade from fading sight Perhaps the answer waits inside The place where lost things finally rest A secret only kites can find Within the heart of every guest	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 no more but trickled down the stony throat, a thread of sullen water. A red bird lit upon the withered bough, a splash of joy against the dusty weather. But in his tranced rage of sex and blood, the red bird thought of history and murder, of women lost, and men who died for wood, and dreams that floated off like dirty furder.	3	The river that once roared like a brass band is now a shy silver thread, a nervous finger tracing the stone. A red bird flashes, a sudden lit fuse, and joy explodes in a small chest. It is the tranced rage of sex, the animal forgetting the world, against a backdrop of history where murder dug its deep holes and loss piled up like dry leaves. Dreams are the only things left floating on this shallow, shivering stream, dreams of water that could drown a man, dreams of blood that could turn it red, but there is only the bird, and the thin song, and the memory of the flood.	2	The river that once tore the valley open Now whispers through the cracked and thirsty stones, A silver thread where white water once was broken, Beneath the weight of centuries and bones. Here history is a scar that will not heal, Where murder walked in boots of iron and mud, And loss has made the very air feel real, While dreams dissolve into the stagnant blood. Yet on a withered branch a red bird sits, A sudden flame against the gray decay, His song a joy that somehow still exists To mock the silence of the dying day. He sings of tranced rage, of bodies pressed, Of sex that burns like fire in the night, A frantic, wild, and desperate caress That tries to drown the memory of fright. For in the heat of lovers' tangled limbs, Against the backdrop of the slaughtered past, The world forgets the way the river swims Or how the shadows of the victims cast. It is a dream within a dream of pain, Where life erupts to meet the coming end, As if the rain could wash away the stain, And make the trickle start to rise again.	3	The river that once roared like a thousand iron beasts Now whispers through the cracked and thirsty stone, A silver thread where an ocean used to feast, And history has turned its heavy head to moan. Here men were killed for lines drawn in the dust, For dreams of gold that rotted in the mud, Where fathers wept and brothers lost their trust, And silence grew from blood and broken wood. But then a flash of crimson cuts the gray, A red bird singing on a withered bough, It brings a sudden, sharp and bright array Of joy that makes the ancient sorrow bow. And in that light, the tranced rage of sex awakes, A fever burning through the cold decay, Where bodies shake and desperate hunger takes The place of ghosts that haunt the dying day. We are the children of the murder and the loss, Who dream of water flowing deep and wide, Yet find our solace in this fleeting cross Of life and death where lovers cannot hide. The trickle runs beneath the scarred and old, While love erupts like fire in the night, A story written in the blood and mold, Between the shadow and the blinding light.	3	The river that once roared like a beast of iron Now crawls through the cracked mud, a shy silver thread Where history bleeds into the silt and the forgotten dead Lie beneath stones that remember the weight of a crown. A red bird lands on a branch of twisted bone Its song a sudden spark in the gray air Igniting a joy that feels dangerous, almost wrong Against the silence of a thousand unsaid goodbyes. It calls to the tranced rage of bodies tangled tight Where sweat and shadow mix with the memory of fire Two hearts beating fast as the drums of old wars Seeking release in the heat of a stolen night. Here murder sleeps under the water's shallow breath And dreams dissolve like smoke in the cooling wind But the bird sings on, a crimson tear in the sky Reminding us that life persists even when the world ends.	3	The water once roared like a broken spine Now barely whispers through the cracked stone bed A memory of flood where the willows wept And the earth drank deep of the storm's red head But here a flash of crimson breaks the gray A cardinal singing to the dust and bone It lifts the weight of centuries away Where lovers met in shadows, flesh alone Their tranced rage was a fire against the cold A desperate dance to forget the grave Of those who fell when the stories turned old Before the silence could steal what they crave History writes its lines in blood and rust In fields where dreams were buried under fear Yet joy arrives on wings of burning trust To heal the wounds that time refuses to clear So let the river sleep in shallow streams While life beats loud within the hollow chest For even in the ruins of lost dreams The heart can find a place to rest	6	The water once roared with a fury that shook the stones Now it barely whispers, a silver thread through dry dust A red bird lands on the cracked earth, singing bright and loud Its wings a sudden spark against the gray of forgotten years Here, where the river remembers what the land has tried to forget Memories of blood spilled in the silence of ancient nights Dreams that drowned before they could ever take flight In this quiet space, two bodies move with desperate grace A tranced rhythm born from the ache of everything lost Skin meeting skin like tides that no longer rise or fall Love woven tight with the ghosts of those who came before The crimson feather dances above the shallow stream Holding joy that refuses to fade beneath the weight of history Where murder sleeps in the silt and hope begins to bloom again	5
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.	A dark brook rushes, a ribbon of oil and ink, slashing through the granite teeth. The banks are wild, tangled with briar and fern, and the water is white with foam, white as a dog's tooth, white as a horse's mane, biting at the stones, spitting white fire. It roars down the steep, it does not care for bridges, it does not care for roads, it does not care for us. But we can care for it, we can let it be, let it roar and spit and splash, let it be wild.	2	Down the granite spine the dark brook falls, A ribbon of ink through the mossy halls. Black as a raven's wing in flight, It tears the shadows from the night. White foam explodes on the jagged stone, A wild white mane that the waters own. They churn and boil and dash and leap, Into deep pools where the cold things sleep. No hand has smoothed this rough-hewn way, No curb has turned it from its play. Here is the roar of the unbridled thing, The ancient, wet, and thunderous sing. But I hear the saw and I see the plan, To tame the beast and to chain the man. So let them keep their concrete shores, And leave the wild, dark water for evermore.	6	A ribbon of ink cuts through the stone, Deep and dark where the light is unknown. It rushes with power, a shadowed vein, Through forests of fern and ancient rain. White foam explodes on the jagged rock, Tearing the silence, a violent shock. The water churns wild in its frothy rage, Turning the quiet to furious page. No path for the walker, no bridge for the cart, Just the beating heart of the untamed part. Let it run free where the willows weep, And secrets of earth are buried deep. Do not tame this river, do not straighten its bend, Do not make the wild places end. Leave the dark brook to its foamy fight, Preserve the night that guards the light.	6	A ribbon of obsidian cuts the stone, Where shadows pool and ancient roots are grown. The water drinks the light but gives none back, A dark and heavy vein along the track. It crashes down with teeth of frothy white, Churning the silence into chaotic night. Wild foam erupts where boulders block the way, A furious dance that never knows the day. No garden path can tame this rushing force, It holds a wild and unrelenting course. Let moss remain upon the jagged edge, And let the stormy current keep its pledge. Do not pave over where the wild things run, Or dim the glory of the untamed sun. Preserve these places where the darkness flows, Before the concrete world completely grows.	6	The water runs deep and black as midnight oil, A heavy vein cutting through the ancient stone, Where shadows cling to banks of tangled soil, And silence holds a weight that feels unknown. White foam erupts where jagged rocks collide, A chaotic dance of spray and furious sound, No gentle stream with nowhere left to hide, But wild energy that tears the earth unbound. The moss is thick, the air is sharp and cold, A place untouched by hand or human foot, Where stories of the storm are fiercely told, And nature wears its rough and rugged suit. So let this dark and roaring current stay, Unbridled by the walls we seek to build, Preserve the chaos of the breaking day, Before the wild is lost, and silence killed.	6	The water moves in shades of obsidian glass, A heavy current carving through the stone, Where shadows gather deep and silent pass, And ancient roots have claimed the earth as home. White foam erupts against the jagged edge, A chaotic dance of spray and sudden sound, As wild winds whip the willow's trembling hedge, And silence breaks beneath the rushing ground. No path is worn here, no hand has smoothed the way, Just teeth of rock that bite the flowing stream, A primal force that refuses to obey, The quiet rhythm of a fractured dream. So let this darkness breathe without a name, Let fury run where logic dares not tread, Before the concrete claims the burning flame, And leaves the wild world broken, cold, and dead. Hold fast the places where the chaos sings, Where nature wears its armor made of night, For in these untamed, unrefined things, We find the truth we seek within the light.	6	The water moves in shades of ink and shadow, A silent river carved from ancient stone, Where sunlight struggles to break the heavy air, And silence hums beneath the weight of night. Foam erupts where jagged rocks collide, White scars upon a skin of deep obsidian, Wild winds carry whispers through the pines, Unbound by walls or fences built by hands. This chaotic dance refuses gentle grace, A rhythm older than the maps we draw, Yet cities creep like vines across the edge, To steal the wild before it learns to fade. Let every stream remain untamed and free, No concrete dams to choke the roaring flow, For in the dark, the truth of life takes root, A sanctuary for the soul we seek. Do not erase the shadows of the wild, Preserve the storm within the quiet breath, Before the world becomes a hollow echo, Leaving only dust where rivers used to sing.	6
407	ultra_held_out	On A Portrait Of A Deaf Man by Sir John Betjeman	John Betjeman	"A poem about a speaker grappling with grief and the blunt reality of death, moving between somber reflection and macabre imagery while struggling to reconcile emotions."	The kind old face, the egg-shaped head, The tie, discretely loud, The loosely fitting shooting clothes, A closely fitting shroud. He liked old city dining rooms, Potatoes in their skin, But now his mouth is wide to let The London clay come in. He took me on long silent walks In country lanes when young. He knew the names of ev'ry bird But not the song it sung. And when he could not hear me speak He smiled and looked so wise That now I do not like to think Of maggots in his eyes. He liked the rain-washed Cornish air And smell of ploughed-up soil, He liked a landscape big and bare And painted it in oil. But least of all he liked that place Which hangs on Highgate Hill Of soaked Carrara-covered earth For Londoners to fill. He would have liked to say goodbye, Shake hands with many friends, In Highgate now his finger-bones Stick through his finger-ends. You, God, who treat him thus and thus, Say "Save his soul and pray." You ask me to believe You and I only see decay.	The silence in the hallway is not empty It is heavy with the weight of a body that used to breathe Now just a sack of water and bone cooling on the floor I stare at the stillness and wait for a ghost to rise But there is only the dust motes dancing in the shaft of light And the terrible, mechanical truth of it all Your hand was warm this morning, now it is wax A cold thing I can no longer squeeze without fear They say you are gone, but the word feels too soft For something so brutal as the heart stopping its work Like a clock smashed against the wall, gears grinding to dust No magic, no heaven waiting behind the door Just the smell of copper and the slow, wet rattle ending I try to pray for peace but my mind wanders to the worms To the dark soil pressing down on your ribcage How quickly the skin turns to gray and the eyes go cloudy Is this the love we built? Is this the final design? A rotting feast for things that do not know your name I scream at the ceiling but the room swallows the sound And I am left alone with the math of decay Grief is not a river, it is a grinder Shattering the pieces until nothing recognizable remains I want to hold you but I remember the rigor mortis The stiffness that locks the jaw and seals the mouth forever So I sit here and watch the sun move across the carpet While inside my chest, something hollow echoes back Not a spirit, but the sheer, blunt force of an absence That will never be filled by anything less than death itself	The sofa is the right size but the room is too large, and I have been reading the same page for three weeks. I want to be a noble mourner, a black-crepe figure sighing over a white marble urn, but what I really think about is the smell of the house after a week; the way it smells like a butcher's cooler in July. I think about the teeth. They were good teeth, good yellow American teeth, and now they are in a box in a drawer in the bathroom. I wonder if I should take them out and brush them. It seems rude not to. It seems important that they should look nice. But there is no one to see them. And then I think of the worms. I do not mean the sentimental worms, the ones that turn the earth into loam so we can have sweet peas. I mean the fat white things, with their little heads and no eyes, that will get busy. I feel a sort of glee at this. I don't know why. I suppose it is because the idea of being eaten is more realistic than the idea of being remembered. If I am eaten, I am part of something. If I am remembered, I am just an old woman who used to like sweet peas. I went down to the kitchen to make toast. I looked at the bread knife. It was very sharp. I thought: if I cut myself, it would bleed. It would be red. It would be warm. This is what life is: red and warm. This is what death is: white and cold and full of white worms. I ate the toast. It tasted like cardboard. I suppose I shall have to eat cardboard for the rest of my life.	2	The silence is a heavy stone I carry up the stairs. It sits upon my chest and makes me wonder where you are. Not in the ground, not in the box, but rotting in the mind. A worm has eaten through your name and left the rest behind. I try to pray but all I see is how the meat decays. The pink that used to be your cheek turns purple in a haze. It isn't noble, it's not grand, it isn't sweet or fine; it is a bag of wet red meat that used to look like mine. And yet I miss the way you laughed, the sound was soft and low. But now I think of how the worms will eat what made you so. They'll eat the eyes that looked at me, they'll eat the tongue that spoke. This is the blunt and boring truth that no one ever spoke. I hold the picture of your face but I am scared to look. Because I know the jaw will drop and then the skin will crook. I love you still, I love you still, though this is hard to say. I want to kiss you on the mouth before the worms come out today.	2	The silence is not empty but heavy like a wet wool blanket soaked in the cellar where I left you to rot in my mind. I try to speak your name and it tastes like copper or the iron tang of blood from a bitten lip when the teeth are too sharp for the mouth. They say you are gone, a polite fiction a soft word for the hard fact of decay. But I see the maggot work in the dark the slow unraveling of the stitch that held us while I sit here polishing a skull that looks disturbingly like yours. My grief is a polite guest at a funeral wearing a black suit and holding a white handkerchief while underneath the table my hands are clawing at the dirt, trying to dig up the bones to feel the rough texture of what remains. It is a contradiction, this love that wants to hold on and this hunger that wants to eat the memory down to the marrow. You are dust and I am the wind scattering you across the floorboards and I am screaming because the wind does not scream it just blows, indifferent and cold. I want to believe in a ghost but the ghost is just a trick of the light on the wall where the shadow of a hanging man used to be. So I will sit with the blunt reality of the closed eye and the open jaw and wait for the rot to finish its work so I can finally stop pretending that anything of you is left to save.	2	The silence is not empty but heavy with dust settling on the skin that no longer warms itself I speak to a mouth that cannot answer and the air tastes of copper and old soil You are gone, a fact as blunt as a shovel striking bone no gentle fade into light, just the sudden snap of a wire leaving the room dark and cold my hands reach out to hold nothing but the shape of absence I imagine the worms working their quiet shift under the earth where your name is written in rot it feels like a betrayal to think such things yet the mind clings to the macabre as if it were truth Why does the heart ache when the body is already cold? why do I weep for a stranger wearing your face while the reality of decay waits patiently in the garden a feast of roots and grubs ready to claim what was loved I try to find peace in the memory of your laugh but it gets tangled with the image of the grave's damp mouth gaping wide to swallow the final breath and I am left standing at the edge of this terrible arithmetic subtracting life from the equation leaves only grief a raw and jagged thing that refuses to heal so I sit here with the dead and the dying thoughts waiting for the sun to rise on a world that has lost its color	2	The silence is not empty but heavy with dust settling on the hollow where your voice used to be I reach for a ghost and my fingers close on cold bone a dry rattle that answers no prayer I can speak You are gone in the way a river stops flowing leaving only the mud and the rot of the bank I try to hold the memory of your warm skin but all I find is the texture of dried earth cracking underfoot They say time heals like water smoothing stone but I see only the teeth of the grave gnawing at the edges of everything we built, turning laughter into ash and love into a quiet, suffocating weight Why does the heart keep beating when the world has stopped? It pounds against ribs like a trapped bird seeking an exit while the mind wanders through corridors of decay counting the seconds until the final breath turns to mist I am torn between the softness of what was lost and the brutal geometry of a body returning to clay how do I mourn a stranger made of my own blood? how do I love a shadow that refuses to fade? The sun rises indifferent to the hole in my chest casting long, sharp shadows across the floorboards where you once stood, now just a space for the dark to grow and I am left holding nothing but the air you breathed	2	The silence is not empty but heavy with dust A weight that settles on the chest like wet wool I trace the cold line of a jaw gone slack Where once there was laughter, now only the crack Of bone settling deep in the earth's dark embrace A final exhale lost to the hollowed-out space My hands reach out for warmth that no longer exists Chasing the ghost of a breath in the morning mist But the air tastes of iron, of rust and decay As the sun paints the window in shades of gray The body is meat, just a vessel of skin Waiting for worms to begin their slow work within Why does the heart keep beating when love has turned cold? When stories are finished and chapters unfold Into nothingness, void, and the rot of the grave There is no grand magic, no promise to save Only the quiet, the stillness, the end of the fight And the terrible truth that we fade into night I scream at the ceiling, I beg for a sign But the stars do not answer, they simply align With the rhythm of loss, with the pull of the deep Where secrets are buried and promises sleep So I hold onto grief like a shard of sharp glass Watching the shadow of time slowly pass Through veins made of water, through lungs full of stone Alone in the house where the living are grown Yet dead inside too, as the world moves ahead Leaving the broken behind in the bed Of memories fading, of faces worn thin Just waiting for silence to finally begin	5	The silence isn't empty, it is heavy with dust Where your breath once moved the air like a tide I trace the cold lines of a face that forgot how to speak While the world spins on, indifferent and blind Beneath the soil, the roots drink deep from what remains A quiet feast for things that do not remember names Your bones are slowly turning into something soft and gray A skeleton stripped of all the warmth we used to keep Why does my chest ache when the rot begins its work? When the skin dissolves into the dark and silent earth Is there beauty in the decay, or just a cruel design? To watch the light fade while the shadows stretch so wide I scream at the void, demanding answers from the grave But only echoes return, hollow and sharp as glass We cling to memories that crumble like dry leaves Leaving us standing in a storm we cannot weather The truth is brutal, unyielding and stark against the sky That love cannot stop the hands of time from stealing away And in this space between the heartbeat and the end We learn to carry weight that no one was meant to hold	6
422	train	To BRYANT, the Poet of Nature by Walt Whitman	Walt Whitman	A poem about celebrating a poet of nature whose true monument is not built by human hands, but is instead living and breathing eternally in the vast mountains, flowing rivers, and blossoming flowers of the natural world.	Let Glory diadem the mighty dead— Let monuments of brass and marble rise To those who have upon our being shed A golden halo, borrowed from the skies, And given to time its most enduring prize; For they but little less than angels were: But not to thee, oh! nature's OWN, we should (When from this clod the minstrel-soul aspires And joins the glorious band of purer lyres) Tall columns build: thy monument is here— For ever fixed in its eternity— A monument God-built! 'Tis seen around— In mountains huge and many gliding streams— Where'er the torrent lifts a melancholy sound, Or modest flower in broad savannah gleams.	No stone was cut to mark his name, No marble column reaches high, For he who sang the wind and flame Found shelter in the open sky. His monument is not of brick, But granite peaks that pierce the gray, Where eagles circle, strong and quick, And clouds drift slowly on their way. The river sings his ancient verse, A flowing song through rock and sand, While winter's frost and summer's hearse Are woven by a gentle hand. In every bloom that opens wide, In roots that hold the earth so deep, His spirit lives where shadows hide, Awake while all the world asleeps. So let no statue rise above, To claim the poet of the wild, He dwells within the forest love, Forever breathing, calm and mild.	He built no temple of stone or marble, He raised no column to pierce the sky; His monument is not a thing of mortar, But one that lives and breathes on high. It is in the vast mountains' silent grandeur, The granite ribs where the eagles ride; It is in the flowing rivers' clearness, Where the trout swim dark and wide. His tomb is in the blossoming flowers, That open fresh from year to year; And when he sleeps among the grasses, The grasses make him seem more dear. No sculptor chiseled his features, No architect planned his sepulchre; But all the woods are full of him, And all the seas are full of her. He lives eternally in Nature, In wind, and wave, and tree, and flower; He has no other monument, But Nature's self at every hour.	6	He built no stone to mark his place No arch of marble, cold and gray, To stand against the changing face Of wind and weather, night and day. His monument is not a wall That human hands could raise on high, But all that rises, stands, or falls Beneath the vast and vaulted sky. The mountains are his towering head, Their granite brows with snow cap'd white, Where silent airs about them spread And stars come out to keep their night. The rivers are his flowing verse, With music in their constant run, From mountain spring to ocean's girth, They sing the song he has begun. The blossoming flowers are his lines, In gold and crimson, red and blue, That bloom where winter once was shines And paint the fresh and morning dew. So let him sleep in leafy bower, And wake in bird and bee and breeze, For every flower, tree, and tower Is part of him among the trees. No sculptor's chisel, mason's trowel, Can build a shrine so deep and wide, As this great living, breathing bowl Where all his nature lives inside.	7	No stone was cut to mark his resting place, No marble column rises to the sky, For he who sang of wind and forest space Found his true monument where eagles fly. His verses are not carved in granite deep, But written in the river's winding song, Where ancient mountains guard their silent sleep, And wildflowers bloom where he has longed along. The breathing pines repeat his rhythmic line, The rushing water echoes out his rhyme, In every leaf that drinks the morning shine, He lives beyond the reach of passing time. Let others seek a tomb of gold and dust, A statue frozen in a city square; His glory is in nature's sacred trust, Forever living in the mountain air.	7	No stone was cut to mark his resting place No marble arch rose up to claim his name For he who sang of wind and shifting grace Found monuments that bear no human stain The vast mountains stand as pillars of his verse Where silence speaks the truths he once imparted And rivers flow with rhythm, wild and fierce Carrying the songs his heart has started Behold the blossoming flowers in the spring Each petal opens with a line he wrote The birds that wake at dawn and loudly sing Are echoes of the melodies he brought He did not need a statue made of dust Or bronze cast hard against the passing years His legacy is built on trust In nature's tears, her laughter, and her fears So let the forest be his living tomb That breathes eternally through root and leaf Dispelling every shadow, every gloom With beauty that defies all time and grief	7	No stone was cut to mark his resting place No marble arches rise against the sky For he who spoke in whispers of the wind Found no need for walls that man could build His verses live where ancient pines stand tall And echo through the valleys deep and wide The river sings the rhythm of his rhyme As water carves the path he once described When spring returns to paint the hills in green Each blooming flower bears his silent name The frost that paints the morning on the glass Is but a stanza written without shame He sleeps within the heartbeat of the earth A pulse that thrums beneath the shifting soil No human hand can hold what nature keeps No monument can match this endless toil So let the mountains stand as his tribute Let oceans roar the praise he never sought For in the breath of life that fills the air His truest legacy is fully caught	7	No stone was laid to mark his final rest No marble arches rise above the ground Where silence holds the secrets of the west And ancient winds in hollow valleys sound His verses live within the rushing stream That carves the canyon deep with patient grace A melody that dances on the beam Of morning light upon a forest face The petals open as his words unfold Each bloom a stanza written in the dew The mountain peaks, both rugged and untold Are where his spirit breathes and starts anew No sculptor's chisel could ever capture true The rhythm of the rain or storm's release For he is woven in the sky so blue And finds eternal peace in nature's cease So let the river sing what cannot fade Let roots run deep where all his stories start A monument by no human hand was made But beats forever in the wild heart	7	The stone may crumble under time's relentless weight While walls of gold turn soft to dust and gray Yet here the poet walks in silent grace Where ancient winds compose a timeless lay No statue stands to mark the path they trod For every leaf that sways is carved with truth A river sings the verses softly spun That echo through the valleys of our youth The mountains rise as monuments of breath Unwritten by the hands of mortal men Each blooming flower whispers what was lost In quiet spaces where the light begins again They live within the storm and gentle rain A spirit woven deep in roots and sky Forever written in the wild design Where nature breathes the words we cannot hide	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 dirt but maps of leaks in time, yellow islands rising on a sea of paste and paper. Note the way the sun cuts a white knife through the dust to make a galaxy of it; note how the butcher's block is wet with the memory of meat. If you can look at the dead fly on the window pane and see not a nuisance but an angel with his wings clipped, you have begun. Take your father's last words, stuttered and broken as old bricks, and lay them side by side until they make a wall. Or better still, take them apart until they are only air, only breath, only a great bird flying out into the blue.	2	The wallpaper peels in yellow strips like dead skin from a sunburned arm, a map of damp and time where the pattern of flowers has drowned. I watch it curl and think: this is not just rot, but the slow unbuttoning of a house's shirt, revealing the ribs of lath and plaster underneath, the white bone of a building. Later, in the room where the light is thin and the clock eats seconds with a loud mouth, my father's voice is a dry leaf rubbed between two fingers. He speaks of nothing much, just the weather or the cat, but the words are small stones dropped into a deep well, waiting for the splash that never comes. They are the last seeds he plants in soil that will soon be turned over. If I were to take these things the stained paper, the dying voice and hold them up to the light they would turn into gold. The stain becomes a sunset trapped in paste; the whisper becomes the wind blowing through the grass before winter. To write is to take the cheap wood of the everyday and varnish it until it shines like an old violin, so that when we play it, we hear not the cracks in the wood but the music that made them.	2	The wallpaper peels in strips of yellowed skin revealing the plaster bone beneath, a map of forgotten wars where a thumbtack once held a photograph. This is not decay but a slow unspooling of time, the way a story begins to fray at the edges before it reaches its final chapter. Listen to the kettle's high thin whistle, a silver needle stitching the morning air, or watch the dust motes dance in the shaft of light like tiny galaxies trapped in a jar of silence. These are the raw materials, the rough stone from which we carve the statue of a moment. Then comes the room with the smell of antiseptic and old rain, where the ceiling fan cuts the heavy air into lazy slices. Your father's voice is a dry leaf skittering on pavement, scraping out words that barely hold their shape: "Look at the light." He does not mean the sun, nor the bulb above, but the sudden, terrible clarity of being here, now, before the curtain falls. You take these fragments, the stain, the sound, the whisper, and you dip them in the ink of attention. The peeling paper becomes the shedding of a past life; the kettle's song becomes the urgency of breath; his last request becomes the title of the book you write. For great writing is not the invention of new worlds, but the act of seeing this one so clearly that the commonplace burns like gold.	2	The wallpaper peels in strips of yellowed skin revealing the plaster bone beneath, a map of forgotten wars where mold grows green and slow. We call it decay, but the pen sees a river delta pouring into the quiet sea of afternoon light. A coffee cup rings on the table like a silver bell that never stops tolling for the morning we lost. The steam rises not as vapor but as ghostly handwriting scrawling secrets on the windowpane before the glass clears. Then comes the room that holds its breath, where the air is thick with unsaid things. My father's voice is a dry leaf skittering across stone, each word a small coin dropped into a deep well. He speaks of the garden, of rain, of a door left open, and I hear the ocean crashing against a cliff face far away. These are not just stains or final sounds, but raw clay waiting for the sculptor's hand. To write is to take the rust from the hinge and forge it into a key that opens every locked heart. The mundane is the loom, the tragedy the thread, and the poem the tapestry that makes the ordinary burn bright.	3	The wallpaper peels like old skin from a sunburnt arm, revealing the gray plaster beneath where time has settled in, a map of cracks that trace the quiet history of this room. We walk past these scars as if they are merely dust, but the poet sees the ghost of every argument and laugh pressed into the fibers of the fading floral print. A coffee ring stains the table like a bruise on the moon, a perfect circle of memory left by a morning cup, and suddenly it is not just a spill but a planet spinning slow, holding the weight of all the words we never said. Even the silence between the ticking clock's heartbeat becomes a river carrying us toward some unseen shore. Then comes the moment when the air grows thin and cold, and the father's voice, once a thunderstorm, softens to a whisper. His last words hang in the space like smoke from a dying fire, fragile threads of meaning unraveling into the light. He speaks of rain he will never feel again, of a garden he left unwatered, of a door left ajar. These are not just sounds fading into the dark, but ink spilling onto the page of our own becoming. For in the stain, the crack, the final breath, we find the raw material to build a world anew, transforming the ordinary ache of living into something that might outlast the walls themselves.	3	The wallpaper peels like old skin, a map of yellowed cracks where time has settled deep, each stain a story the house refuses to forget, turning damp decay into a canvas of forgotten rain. A coffee cup left cold on the table holds the ghost of morning, its rim a silver line drawn against the silence, where steam once rose like prayers that never reached the sky, now just a ring of brown, a circle of what used to be. Then comes the quiet room where breath grows thin and heavy, the air thick with words that hang suspended in the dust, my father's voice a fragile thread unraveling slowly, spinning gold from the gray between heartbeats and goodbye. We take these shards of ordinary glass and cut the light, finding galaxies in the grime beneath our fingernails, transforming the mundane ache into something vast and holy, until the smallest whisper becomes a roar that shakes the earth.	3	The crack in the plaster holds a map of time Where dust settles like forgotten memories Each stain a story waiting to be told In shades of gray that paint the morning light A cup of coffee cools upon the table Steam rising like ghosts from yesterday's regrets The silence hums between the ticking clock And shadows stretch across the wooden floor Your voice grows soft, a river losing its current Words dissolving into something deeper than sound Not just the end, but every breath before Turning ordinary moments into gold We weave these threads of loss and quiet grace Into a tapestry no one else can see For in the broken pieces lies the truth That turns the mundane into sacred art	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.	In the spring the plains are a green ocean, billowing with grasses and wildflowers, and the antelope run like birds over the earth. The cows are round with milk, the horses fat, and the sky is a low blue bowl overflowing with rain. But in the summer the sun is a white eye, staring unblinking until the grass turns yellow and then brown, and the rivers shrink to trickles and then to holes of mud. The wind begins to whistle through the ribs of the dead trees, and the cattle begin to cough. Then the winter comes, not gently but like a thief, stealing the heat and leaving the cold; the snow falls thick and kills the grass roots, and the wolves come down from the hills. There is no food for the cows, no food for the horses, they lie down where they stand and die. So in the spring when the rains come again, and the grass grows green and the flowers blow, there are also bones scattered on the ground, white as the bones of the flowers themselves, and some of them are very large, and some of them are very small, and all of them are white.	3	First the rain comes soft and green And the grass grows tall and deep Where bison walk in herds immense And all the world can sleep. The air is thick with pollen dust The soil drinks its fill And every blade of waving grass Is watered by the rill. But then the clouds turn hard and black The wind begins to scream The rain retreats and leaves behind A drought within a dream. The green turns brown, the brown turns gray The springs run dry and low And cattle fall where once they grazed With nowhere left to go. The sun beats down on scorched earth Until it cracks and splits While nature's cruel and careless hand Tears off the animal's bits. The beauty of the lush spring time Is gone without a trace And only bones are left behind To mark this barren place. They lie there white against the dust The ribs and skulls and thighbones On fields that fed them fat and well Not long ago in tones Of lowing sound and happy tread Now silent as the grave Where abundance turned to ruin fast And none were left to save. So here they lie, the scattered bones Upon the selfsame ground That fed their flesh when it was green And now has nothing found But cruelty and beauty mixed In cycles wild and free The plains give life, the plains take back As nature wills it be.	6	Green waves roll under the heavy sun Where bison graze and wildflowers run The earth is soft, the air is sweet With life that moves beneath our feet. Then clouds turn gray and winds grow cold The story of the spring is told In withered stalks and cracking dust Where hope and moisture place their trust. The sky turns white with biting frost Counting up what summer lost The grass turns brown, the rivers dry Beneath a vast and empty sky. Now silence holds the scorched expanse As winter takes its cruel dance And scattered white on blackened ground The bleached bones of the herds are found. They lie where tender shoots once grew A stark reminder, old and true That beauty feeds on cruelty In nature's wild unpredictability.	6	The spring arrives with a green and heavy hand, Turning the dust to a carpet of softest grain, Where herds move like clouds across the waking land, And life drinks deep from the sudden, sweet rain. But summer turns its gaze with a burning eye, The rivers shrink to a whisper of silver thread, The grass turns brown as the heat goes high, And the vibrant world is slowly bled. Then winter comes not with mercy but with teeth, A white silence that chokes the breath of the plain, The abundance rots beneath the frozen wreath, Leaving nothing but hunger in the driving rain. Now only the bleached and scattered bones remain, White against the gray where the tall grass stood, Reminders of the feast and the cruel pain, Of nature's cycle, misunderstood and good. The ground that fed them now holds their quiet rest, A graveyard of ribs beneath the vast, cold sky, Where beauty and brutality are equally blessed, And the plains wait for a season to pass on by.	7	Green waves roll across the endless floor Where buffalo herds thunder, a living roar The grass grows thick with dew and light A feast that stretches into night But then the sky turns hard and gray And steals the rain to wash away The roots turn dry, the soil cracks wide As hunger walks where life once died The wind now howls a cold command Through fields of dust and barren sand No seed remains to break the crust Only the silence of the dust And scattered white upon the ground Are bones of those who once were found In lush abundance, strong and free Now just a ghost of memory The cycle spins on cruel wheels Between what breaks and what it heals One year a garden, rich and deep The next a grave for all who sleep The earth gives all, then takes it back With no regard for heart or track Leaving the skeleton's hollow stare To watch the green return elsewhere	6	The wind arrives with soft and golden hands To weave a tapestry of living green Where bison roam beneath the endless sky And water pools in hollows deep and clean But time is not a gentle, steady stream It shifts to fire that burns the grass to ash The heat descends like iron on the skin Turning the fertile earth to cracked and grayish dust The rivers dry to whispers in the stone While silence grows where laughter once had been The vibrant fields collapse into the void Leaving behind a world of sharp and stony thin Now scattered white against the barren ground The ribs of giants tell a final tale Of hunger that outlasted every seed As winter claims the land without a fail What fed the herd now feeds the vulture's flight A cycle spun between the lush and bare Where beauty blooms then breaks beneath the weight Of nature's cruel and unpredictable air	6	The wind whispers gold across the endless stretch Where grass grows thick enough to hide a storm A banquet laid for hooves that never tire And rivers swell with life beneath the sun But time turns sharp against the gentle green As heat devours the promise of the spring The soil cracks wide, a map of broken veins Where silence steals the breath from living air What was once abundance fades to dust and gray The herd retreats, leaving only hollow echoes The cruelty of drought rewrites the story Of lands that fed the world with open hands Now bones lie scattered where the wildflowers danced White ribs against the earth that offered nothing A cruel reminder of the shifting tide Between the feast and famine's quiet hold The cycle spins without a warning cry Leaving the skeleton to mark the ground Where beauty rose and fell in equal measure And nature claims what it can no longer keep	6
434	train	Cross by Langston Hughes	Langston Hughes	A poem about a biracial speaker wondering whether he will die in a nice home or a dilapidated one, reflecting on the unequal lives and deaths of his white father and Black mother in a racist society.	My old man’s a white old man And my old mother’s black. If ever I cursed my white old man I take my curses back. If ever I cursed my black old mother And wished she were in hell, I’m sorry for that evil wish And now I wish her well. My old man died in a fine big house. My ma died in a shack. I wonder where I’m gonna die, Being neither white nor black?	I trace the line where blue veins meet dark skin and wonder which roof will shelter my bones when I am done. Will it be the one with the manicured lawn and the quiet street where my father's name still opens doors that stay locked for me? Or will it be the crumbling porch, the peeling paint, the sirens' wail where my mother's laughter was often swallowed by the night? He died in a house built on a foundation of silence, a place where the air smelled of lemon polish and old money, where the world bowed down to his pale reflection. She died in a world that measured her worth by the weight of her shadow, in a home where the walls seemed to lean in, heavy with history. Now I stand between two futures, a hybrid ghost in the making, wondering if the color of my blood will dictate the quality of my end. Will the doctors nod politely at my white half and ignore my black? Will the funeral director ask about my lineage before preparing the box? The society that raised me draws lines in the dirt and calls them fate, deciding who gets a soft bed and who gets a hard grave. I look at the sky, gray and indifferent over both neighborhoods, and ask the wind if it knows how to tell a story without a bias. Perhaps the truth is that death does not care for the address, only that the house, whether grand or broken, must eventually hold the same cold silence for us all.	My father died in a house of white wood with a lawn that was mowed every week, a house where the windows were double-paned and the locks were new and the blinds were drawn to keep the sun out of the living room. My mother died in a house of gray wood with a lawn that was weedy and high, a house where the windows were single-paned and the locks were old and the blinds were up to let the sun into the living room. I am the son of both these houses, the son of both these deaths, I have my father's eyes and my mother's skin, and I do not know which house I shall die in. Will I die in a nice house like my father, in a nice bed like my father, with nice people around me like my father? Or will I die in a dilapidated house like my mother, in a dilapidated bed like my mother, with dilapidated people around me like my mother? If I die in a nice house, will I be one of the nice people? If I die in a dilapidated house, will I be one of the dilapidated people? I think I shall die in a nice house, because I have my father's eyes. I think I shall die in a dilapidated house, because I have my mother's skin. I think I shall die in a nice house, because I have my father's eyes. I think I shall die in a dilapidated house, because I have my mother's skin.	2	My father died in a house with white walls and a lawn that was never too dry, where the snow fell soft and the doctor came in a car with leather seats to ask him why. He closed his eyes on a clean sheet in a room where the air smelled of lilies, while my mother died in a house with black mold that climbed up the stairs like wild vines. She died in a room where the radiator clanged and the streetlight shone through a broken pane, and the doctor came in a truck with no heat to tell her it would be all right again. I am the child of both these houses, the son of the white one and the black one, wondering which floorboards will creak under me when I go to sleep for the last time. Will I die in a nice home with a garden? Or will I die in a dilapidated one? The first has a name and a number and the second has none at all. And I wonder if the color of my skin will decide the kind of death I get, or if the blood of my father will save me from the blood of my mother. I wonder if I will die in a nice home or a dilapidated one.	2	My father died in a house with white trim where the gutters never clogged and the paint held fast, a quiet end in a room that smelled of lemon polish and the kind of safety money can buy. My mother died in a house where the windows rattled in every wind, where the plaster fell like snow on the carpet she could not afford to replace, a life worn thin by the friction of being seen as less than, as dangerous, as temporary. I am the sum of these two endings, the child of the safe room and the crumbling one, wondering which roof will cover my bones. Will I lie down in the place of polished wood where the door locks automatically against the world? Or will I be laid to rest in the drafty hall where the neighbors know my name but not my face, where the streetlights flicker out too soon? The blood in my veins is a map of this inequality, one side smooth and paved, the other broken glass. I wonder if the grave will care about the address, if the dirt is democratic or if it knows which family line it should receive gently and which it should swallow whole.	2	My father died behind a white picket fence where the grass was cut to a uniform green and the doctors arrived before the pain could set in leaving him with a quiet room and a soft bed. My mother passed in a house that leaked rain her ceiling stained with years of neglect while the ambulance waited too long outside and the pain became the only thing she knew. I stand between them, a map of two worlds wondering which roof will cover my bones will I inherit the silence of the suburbs or the crumbling brick of the forgotten street? The blood in my veins is a question mark half of privilege, half of struggle and I do not know if the grave will be dug in a manicured plot or in the dirt of the side road. Will the world see me as his son and grant me the luxury of a gentle end? Or will it see her face in mine and leave me to fade in a broken place? The future is a door I cannot open yet hanging on hinges rusted by history waiting for the moment when my breath stops to decide if I am safe or simply gone.	2	I hold the blood of two worlds in my veins one that built walls of brick and mortar strong the other crushed beneath the weight of their stone my father walked through doors that never locked while my mother was barred from rooms she helped to build now I wonder where my final breath will settle will it be in a house with a garden tended by hands like his or in a shack where the roof leaks rain like tears where the floorboards groan under the weight of history he died with a quiet dignity in a sterile room surrounded by medicine paid for without question she passed in a hospital bed that felt too small her pain ignored until the silence took her whole am I the bridge between these endings or the fracture does the light of his legacy warm my future or does the shadow of her struggle darken my path waiting for the moment when the world decides if I belong in the mansion or the ruin perhaps the house is just a shell and the truth lies in how we were loved before the society tore us apart leaving me to guess which door will open last	3	I stand between two ghosts who never met in life One buried in a garden where the ivy climbs too slow The other lost to streets that swallow breath before it leaves My skin holds both their stories, split like cracks in dry clay Will I wake in a house of glass where silence costs a fortune Or crumble in a room where the roof forgets to keep the rain? His hands were soft with privilege that built the walls around him Her feet were calloused by the weight of doors kept firmly shut They say the end is equal for us all beneath the same cold sky But history writes its verdict in the mortar and the wood Does the grave care which shade of blood flows through the final vein Or does the earth only open wide for those who own the ground? I trace the line upon my face where two worlds collide and break Wondering if the last light will find me safe or left behind A child of war and peace, caught in the quiet space between Where the rich man sleeps in linen and the poor man chokes on dust.	3	The walls of memory hold two distinct shadows Where my father's breath settled in polished wood And silence fell on floors that never cracked While his hands built a fortress against the storm But her skin carried the weight of crumbling brick A life measured in doors locked tight against night Her laughter drowned by sirens in the dark A promise broken before it could take root Now I stand between these fractured histories Wondering which foundation will claim my end Will the roof above me stay unbroken by rain Or will the cracks widen until they swallow all Am I destined for a quiet room of warmth Or a hollow space where fear has learned to live The question hangs heavy in the air we share Between the safety he bought and the struggle she endured No map exists for this divided path Only the echo of choices made by others As I wait to see if love can bridge the gap Or if the world demands I choose a side before I fade	6
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.	Before the rains, the house was a dry bone, The dust blew thick through the window screen, The earth cracked open like a hungry mouth, And the well went dry as a bone-dry bone. Now the sky is low and black with rain, And the roof drums out a merry tune; Water runs down in silver threads, And the garden drinks the moon. The cat is wet and sits and licks His paws on the wet stone floor; The dog barks at the dripping spout, And wants to go out more. There are frogs inside the kitchen sink, And water-lilies in the tub; The whole house swims about with life, In the middle of a rub.	3	The summer held us in a fist of dust, A blinding white where nothing dared to grow, The cracked earth opened up its thirsty mouth To catch the sun's relentless, golden blow. The well ran dry, the leaves were curled and brown, And silence stretched from noon until the night, We waited for the clouds that never came down Beneath the weight of such a burning light. But then the wind brought coolness from the sea, The sky turned heavy, dark, and pregnant gray, And first a drop, then ten, then ten times three, Washed all the yellow dust and heat away. Now water dances on the corrugated roof, A thousand tiny drums begin to play, The garden lifts its head with green proof, And life returns to drink the cool display. The frogs are singing in the flooded ditch, The lizards run along the wetted wall, The smell of rain is rich as any dish, That falls upon the thirsty, waiting pall. No longer do we fear the scorching day, Or watch the cistern sink so low and bare, For now the home thrives in the liquid way, With water running freely through the air.	6	The summer sun had baked the earth to dust And turned the riverbed to cracked and white stone Where silence sat like heavy, burning rust And not a leaf upon the banyan grove was known. But now the clouds have gathered low and gray And break in sheets of silver on the roof To wash the heat of yesterday away And fill the air with music from the roof. The cisterns overflow with clear, cool rain That dances down the steps into the yard While green shoots burst through soil once so dry and plain And frogs begin their evening concert loud and hard. Inside the house the floor is damp and sweet With moss that climbs the walls in emerald threads The scent of wet earth rises from our feet As life returns where death had held its heads. No longer does the wind blow hot and dry Or make us hide beneath a dusty fan Now water fills the sky and makes us cry With joy at how the thirsty world began again.	6	The summer sun once pressed a heavy hand Upon the cracked and thirsty earth below, Where dust would rise in clouds of golden sand And silence held its breath with weary woe. Now skies have turned a bruised and swelling gray, And thunder rolls like drums across the roof, As rain descends to wash the heat away And fill the cisterns with a sudden proof. The garden drinks until the soil is deep, With emerald shoots that burst from brown decay, While frogs begin their chorus, loud and steep, To greet the water's cool and constant play. Inside the walls, the air feels soft and wet, A stark relief from days of scorching light, As life returns to every corner set, And shadows dance within the stormy night.	7	The summer sun once scorched the cracked earth bare Leaving dust to dance in waves of golden heat Where silence hung like heavy, stagnant air And rivers shrank to whispers at our feet Now clouds arrive to break the burning spell As rain begins to tap against the glass The thirsty soil drinks deep and swells its cell While green shoots rise from shadows of the past Inside the walls a hum of life takes hold With steam rising from kettles on the stove The children splash where puddles turn to gold And frogs sing loud beneath the willow grove No longer parched by days that stretch too long We watch the world awaken, wet and new A symphony of water fills the song Of gardens drinking deeply, old and true	7	The summer sun once scorched the earth in silence Where dust danced heavy on the cracked and thirsty floor The air hung still, a blanket made of fire That turned the garden into shades of gray and gold But now the sky has opened wide its arms To let the rhythm of the falling rain reclaim the land A symphony of droplets taps against the roof While cool mist rises from the soil below Inside, the walls breathe deep with dampened life As vines climb higher toward the window light The cistern overflows with silver clarity Reflecting clouds that drift across the room No longer do we fear the heat that stole our breath For water fills the cracks where hope had nearly died The house awakes to songs of frogs and birds And every corner hums with green renewal	6	The summer air once held a heavy weight Where dust devils danced on cracked and thirsty ground The sun burned gold with unrelenting heat Silencing every song the wind had found Now clouds arrive to break the silent spell As rain begins to wash the memory away A river flows where silence used to dwell And green returns to reclaim what time could take Inside the walls, a rhythm starts to beat With water pooling deep in every stone The garden breathes beneath the falling sheet No longer bound by seasons of alone Life stirs within the cracks that summer left Roots drink their fill of cool and gentle grace The world awakes from drought's quiet theft To find a home restored by nature's embrace	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 soul, why dost thou wander in the cold and starry waste, leaving me thy mother Earth, and my warm and bosomy breast? Come back to me, come back to me, to the green and grassy lap; I have been watching for thee long, from the rising of the sun. I have been waiting for thee long, from the setting of the sun. Thou hast not seen a better world than this mine of earth and sun. Come back to me, come back to me, to the green and grassy lap; I have been watching for thee long, from the rising of the sun.	6	My child, you wander far from my green breast, Through cold and sterile places of the west, Where stars are distant diamonds in a void, And all your ancient music is destroyed. Come back to where the rivers run so warm, Safe from the chaos and the coming storm; There is no shelter like the boughs that sway, No gentle light to guide you through the day. I hold you still within my soft embrace, And keep for you a quiet, holy place; Why roam the wastes when here the grasses grow, And I alone can make your spirit glow? Return, return, to worship at my knee, And dwell again where all things wild and free, Are born of me and live and die with me, Within this warmth of earth's eternity.	7	Child of the dust and the turning wheel, Why do you wander the cold and the steel? The sun is a heart that beats for your sake, And I have so many bright paths to make. Come back to the soil where the roots run deep, Where the willows weep but the violets sleep. I hold you in moss and in riverine grace, With a smile on my face and a warm embrace. You need not fear when the shadows grow long, For my birds are still singing their morning song. Leave behind the silence, the hollow, the night, And return to the source of your ancient light. Dwell in the warmth of my golden decree, Where the oceans roll soft and the mountains are free. I am waiting with open and welcoming arms, To shield you from all of the world's cruel harms. So turn back your steps to the place where you started, To the beating green pulse of this living, vast hearted. Return to the worship of earth and of sky, And let no more lonely and wandering sighs fly.	7	Child of the dust and drifting wind, Why wander in the cold and thin? The stars are distant, sharp, and bright, But I am here to hold you tight. Come back beneath my green embrace, To find your resting, sacred place. No longer chase the hollow light, But kneel within my morning sight. I offer roots to drink your thirst, A river for your spirit's thirst. My mountains bow to hear your prayer, My oceans lift you from despair. Return to where the sunbeams play, And wash the shadow far away. Within my warmth, your soul shall bloom, Safe inside this living room. Do not let silence be your guide, When I have all the world inside. Oh, lost one, turn your face to me, And dwell again in liberty.	7	My child, why do you wander in the cold? The stars above are distant and unkind, While I hold out a hand of soil and gold, To warm the shivering spirit left behind. You built your walls against my gentle rain, And forgot the rhythm of the turning tide, But hear the whisper through the ancient grain, Where roots run deep and secrets softly hide. Come back to where the rivers sing your name, To feel the sun that breaks the winter gray, No longer lost within the void's dark frame, But resting in the light of endless day. I am the cradle and the final home, A mother waiting for her wandering son, So let the heavy silence cease to roam, And let the warmth of living earth be won.	7	Child of dust and drifting starlight, Why do you wander in the cold? The soil remembers how you breathed, Before the silence took hold. Come back to where the roots run deep, To rivers that still sing your name, I offer warmth against the night, A fire that will not fade or shame. No temple built of stone can hold What lives within the beating green, Return to me, my wandering heart, And let the lost be found again. Embrace the sun that breaks the dawn, Let gravity pull you home, For I am vast enough to keep The places where you need to roam. Do not fear the weight of being, Or the shadow that you cast, Just step into the living earth, And let the light reclaim the past.	6	My child, why do you wander in the cold silence of the void Where stars are distant whispers and shadows stretch too long I feel your hollow steps echoing against my ancient bones A rhythm broken by the weight of fear and endless night Come back to where the rivers carve their gentle, loving paths To soil that holds the memory of every seed we've sown together The sun is not a tyrant but a promise kept for you A golden thread weaving warmth into the fabric of your soul Do not let the frost take root within the chambers of your heart For I am here to catch the tears you cannot speak aloud Breathe in the air that carries stories of the spring rebirth And find the peace that waits beneath the canopy of green Return to me, lost wanderer, before the wind forgets your name Let the ground embrace the weight of all you carry in your chest There is no exile greater than the distance from this home So open wide your weary eyes and let the light begin again	6
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 sat beside you in the morning light and asked you how you did it, how you held yourself so tightly closed for weeks and weeks of wind and rain, and then opened. You did not answer me with words, but by opening a little more, showing me the pale yellow throat of you, the softness of your petal-edges curled back like the fingers of a woman relaxing after prayer. I said I was tired of holding myself so tightly closed, tired of waiting for the right time, the right sign, the right moment to open myself to the world. And you said nothing, but you opened a little more, and I saw that you had never been waiting for the right time; you had been waiting on nothing but yourself, and your own nature, and the sun, and the air, and the time. And I saw that you were not a flower, but a flowerfulness, and I was not a man, but a manfulness, and we were both flowering, both unfolding, both opening, both opening, both opening.	3	I sat beside you in the morning light And asked how long it took to be so bright. You did not speak with voice or leafy tongue, But by your open heart the tale was sung. You showed me first the tight and furled-up bud, A secret held within a greenish hood, That waited for the sun and for the rain, Through days of wind and days of heat and pain. You did not rush to break your silken shell, Though many other flowers tried as well. You knew the time was yours alone to keep, To wake from winter's long and heavy sleep. And now you stand, a cup of saffron fire, Raised high above the grass and low desire. You taught me that to bloom is not a race, But finding God's own smile upon one's face. For I am like that bud, all shut and dim, Waiting to catch the light and make it trim. O flower, teach me patience and the art To hold my life close to its beating heart. Then I shall unfold slowly, day by day, And let the spirit have its perfect way, No longer rushing toward a forced display, But patient as you were on yesterday.	7	I found you waiting in the morning light A tight green fist that slowly learned to yield To gravity and sun and gentle rain You did not rush to show your painted heart But held your secret close until the time was right I asked you how you knew when to let go How you could trust the dark within your stem Without a map or voice to tell you where You answered with a silence soft and deep That spoke of roots drinking from ancient earth Your petals opened one by one like hands Unfurling toward a sky I cannot see Yet feel it now as warmth against my skin The way you bloomed has taught me how to breathe To wait without despair for what must come My spirit feels the same slow, sure release As if a bud inside my chest expands No longer holding back the light I need But trusting in the unfolding of the day Just as you trusted in the spring's return	6	I ask you how you waited through the winter dark Without a single word to break the silence of the soil You simply held your green fist tight against the cold And trusted in the turning of the earth Now look at you, a crown of open gold and red Unfurling layer by layer as the sun climbs high You did not rush to meet the morning light Nor force your petals wide before their time was due There is a holy patience in this slow release A quiet lesson that I carry in my chest To trust the hidden work beneath the surface skin Until the moment breaks and life begins to breathe Your blooming is a prayer spoken without sound A testament to being fully, wildly alive It tells me that my own unfolding needs no haste That I too will bloom when I am ready to be seen	6	I found you standing in the quiet light A heavy head bowed low with sudden grace No longer tight within a green embrace But open wide to catch the morning bright You speak without a sound or shifting tongue Of how the waiting was not wasted time Just patience learning how to climb and rhyme With seasons that have never come too young I watched the bud hold secrets deep inside Before the petals dared to break the seal A slow surrender to the wind's appeal Where courage blooms where fear once tried to hide Your unfolding taught my spirit how to breathe To trust the rhythm of an unseen hand That guides the seed across the barren land Until the final, fragrant breath is free So let me learn from roots that hold the ground And bloom exactly when the sun demands Not rushing forth with frantic, trembling hands But finding life where stillness can be found	7	I ask the rose why it waits so long in silence while the winter holds its breath and it answers not with words but light a slow unraveling of green and gold that teaches me how to trust the dark You do not rush to meet the sun you simply turn your face toward the heat until the petals loosen one by one releasing secrets kept within the stem a quiet revolution of color blooming My heart feels heavy with the need to hurry to force the seed before the soil is ready but watching you, I learn the art of stillness how life expands only when we let it be no struggle in the way you open wide There is a sacred rhythm in your growth a promise that the waiting was not lost but woven into every vein and thread of this vibrant tapestry you now display reminding me that I am alive too Not because I run or chase the dawn but because I breathe in time with you fully present in this moment of becoming where spirit wakes and finds its truest form alive in the unfolding, forever new	6	You do not rush to meet the morning light Nor beg the sun for warmth you cannot hold Your silence speaks a language deep and bright Where time dissolves into a story told I watched your stem rise slowly through the soil A quiet promise kept against the rain No frantic race, no desperate, hollow toil Just patience woven in a fragile vein From tightest curl to petals soft and wide You teach me how to breathe without a sound The weight of fear begins to gently slide As roots find purchase on this hallowed ground My spirit wakes within your golden hue A mirror of the bloom that lives inside The world is vast, yet gentle, wild, and true In every breath where life refuses to hide So let me wait, as you have always known To unfold when the season finally calls For in your grace, the seeds of hope are sown And broken hearts learn how to stand tall	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 not empty, for when the wind goes through the hall, it sounds like her laughing. I see her in the afternoon light that falls slantwise on the floor, and I know she has been there before me. When friends come in, they do not say they are sorry for my loss; they say, "What a happy place this is," or "I feel so at home here." And I know it is because of her. Her bright spirit did not die, it went into the walls and the windows, into the smell of the bread baking, into the way the door swings open easily. She touches them all, the strangers and the friends, with her invisible hands, making them glad to be there. And I am glad too, because when I am alone, I can hear her laughing in the wind, and I know that she is still here, still making us all glad to be here.	6	The door opens and the air grows light, As if a sudden sunbeam broke the gray. I do not see you standing there in sight, But feel your joy have washed the dust away. It is in how the kettle whistles shrill, A cheerful song that used to make you laugh; It is in how the cat will climb the sill, And rub against the leg of someone half As tall as you were when you lived here too, And purr as though remembering your hand. The house has kept you, bright and fresh and new, In every friendly place where guests may stand. They say they feel a warmth they cannot name, A spirit skipping round the table's edge; They do not know it is but just the same Good humor that you left behind this ledge. So I sit quiet while the visitors come, And hear your laughter in their talk and cheer, Knowing that though my heart is often dumb, Your presence makes the whole wide house most dear.	6	The door swings wide and I expect the silence That follows when a light goes out, But the air is thick with laughter, A sudden ripple in the quiet dust. It starts in the hallway where the sunlight pools, Warm as a hand upon my shoulder, Then drifts into the kitchen where the kettle sings, And for a moment, I hear her humming tune. Strangers come to visit, strangers who never knew her face, Yet they pause by the window, smiling at nothing, Saying the room feels lighter than it should, As if a heavy coat has been taken off. They do not know she left this morning, Or how the grief sits like a stone in my chest, But they feel the echo of her joyous step, The way she made the ordinary feel like magic. I sit alone but I am not alone, For every corner holds a spark of her, Every creak of the floorboard is a whisper, Every breeze that stirs the curtain is a kiss. She did not leave; she simply changed her shape, To become the warmth that greets us all, The lingering scent of rain on dry earth, The bright and unbroken spirit in this house.	6	The door swings wide to let the morning in And finds a dust mote dancing in the light, A sudden warmth that settles on the skin, As if you stepped right through the threshold bright. I hear your laugh echo off the kitchen wall, Not gone but woven in the creaking floor, A ghost of joy that answers every call, And opens up a window for one more. Strangers walk beneath this familiar roof And pause to smile without knowing why, They feel a kindness lifting from the proof That love remains when bodies say goodbye. You are the breeze that rustles through the hall, The quiet hum within the humming wire, A gentle hand that catches those who fall, Still setting all our weary hearts on fire. So I sit here and watch the shadows play, Knowing you are everywhere we tread, You turned this house into a holiday, And left your laughter hanging overhead.	6	The dust motes dance in afternoon light Just as they did when you laughed at the rain, And though the silence holds a heavy weight, It is not empty, nor devoid of your name. I watch the door swing open to new friends Who feel a warmth they cannot quite explain, A sudden smile that breaks across their face As if your spirit walks beside them now. You live in creaking floorboards, in the kettle's hum, In every shadow that refuses to fade, A gentle hand upon a stranger's shoulder, Turning the mundane into something sacred. No grave could hold the joy you left behind, For it has seeped into these walls and floors, And every heart that enters here finds peace Because you taught us how to love the air. So let the wind blow through the windows wide, Carrying echoes of your cheerful song, For you are not gone, but woven deep within The quiet comfort of this home we keep.	6	The dust settles soft on the windowsill Where sunlight used to dance before you left Yet the air still hums with a quiet song A melody only the heart can hear When strangers walk through the creaking door They pause, confused by the sudden warmth As if an invisible hand guides them in And whispers that they are safe and known I watch their shoulders drop, their smiles bloom Unbidden by words spoken or asked For your laughter lives in the hollow wood In the way the shadows stretch across the floor You did not vanish into silence But scattered yourself like seeds in the wind Now every guest carries a piece of you A ghost of joy that refuses to fade So I sit alone in the evening light No longer afraid of the empty chair Knowing the room is full of what remains Of the love that taught us how to breathe again	6	The silence here is not a hollow space But filled with laughter that the walls remember As sunlight spills across the worn wooden floor Where every shadow dances in the light A sudden breeze carries a familiar scent Of cinnamon and rain upon the skin And though the chair remains unoccupied It holds the warmth of someone who once sat Strangers walk through doors they barely know Yet feel a gentle pull toward the heart As if an invisible hand guides their steps To find the peace that lingers in the air No grief can break the rhythm of this home For joy has taken root within the beams And every corner whispers soft release That love endures beyond the final breath	6
447	ultra_held_out	Edgar Allan Poe by Timothy Thomas Fortune	Timothy Thomas Fortune	"A poem about a speaker celebrating and romanticizing the works, life, and enduring legacy of a poet, even through his darker moments, until his death silenced his song."	I know not why, but it is true—it may, In some way, be because he was a child Of the fierce sun where I first wept and smiled— I love the dark-browed Poe. His feverish day Was spent in dreams inspired, that him beguiled, When not along his path shone forth one ray Of light, of hope, to guide him on the way, That to earth's cares he might be reconciled. Not one of all Columbia's tuneful choir Has pitched his notes to such a matchless key As Poe—the wizard of the Orphic lyre! Not one has dreamed, has sung, such songs as he, Who, like an echo came, an echo went, Singing, back to his mother element.	He walked the streets where shadows stretch the longest, And turned the greyest ash to burning gold, A master of the sorrow and the song, Who made the broken heart a story told. His ink was mixed with midnight's heavy rain, Yet every drop became a star above, He found the beauty in the sharp, deep pain, And wove it tight within a thread of love. We cheered the chaos that he dared to speak, The madness dancing on the edge of sense, For in his dark, we found a path so weak, That led us to a strange and sweet defense. No storm could break the rhythm of his rhyme, Though winter froze the blood within his veins, He sang until he conquered space and time, And filled the hollow air with sweet refrains. But silence came, a thief without a sound, To steal the breath that fed the rising fire, The final note fell softly to the ground, As life withdrew from out his tired wire. Now stillness holds the page where words once grew, A quiet tomb for songs that will not cease, Yet in the void, his legacy breaks through, An endless echo of his wild release.	I sang of you, and all the ways you sang, Of little birds and big and terrible things. I loved the blackest night you wrote about, The blacker heart that beat beneath the breast; I loved the foulness and the filth you found, And how you made them beautiful and clean. I loved your life, which was a kind of song, A ragged tune that went from bad to worse. I loved your drunkenness and poverty, Your dirty rooms and dirty friends and women; I loved it all, I loved it all so much, Because it was all you, and you were great. And then you died, and all your songs were done, And you were dead, and you could sing no more.	2	I sing the praise of him who sang the rain, The stormy days that washed the world again. He loved the thorn as much he loved the rose, And from his darkest hours bright verse arose. His life was but a rough and tangled line, Yet every crooked path he made divine. He walked through mud and mire with naked feet, To find the song within the bitter sweet. No shadow fell too dark for him to turn, No fire hot enough to make him burn. He drank the gall and called it vintage wine, And made the jagged edge of life look fine. But now the silence holds him in its keep, While all the world is hushed and fast asleep. The song is done, the singer is no more, We listen to the echo on the shore.	7	I sing of him who walked the jagged edge Of thought, where shadows stretched to touch the sun, And made a garden from the weeds he dredged, His darker hours never left undone. For in his grief, a velvet depth was found, A melancholy sweet as honeyed wine, Where broken hearts beat rhythm on the ground To make the fractured world again align. He loved the storm as much as summer's grace, The weeping willow and the thunder's roar, And etched the sorrow on his weary face Into a legacy that asks for more. No moment lost, no shadow cast in vain, But fuel to feed the fire of his song, Until the rain fell soft upon the plain And silence held the place where words belonged. Then came the hush, the final closing door, When breath withdrew and left the lyre still, And though the song is silent evermore, It echoes on the wind against my will. He sleeps now deep beneath the quiet sod, But every leaf that trembles speaks his name, For death has only silenced half the god, The other half remains to burn and flame.	7	He spun the world from threads of shadow and gold, Turning the heaviest grief into a song so bright, That even in his darkest hours, when silence grew too cold, His verses burned like stars against the endless night. I trace the ink where sorrow carved its deepest lines, And find a lover's whisper hidden in the pain, For every broken heart that his own spirit shines, Was polished by the rain to gleam through sun and strain. He lived as though the earth itself was made for rhyme, A reckless dancer stepping on the edge of time, Until the final breath came soft to end the chime, And stole the music from the air, leaving only silence behind.	6	He walked through shadows with a lantern made of ink Turning the grayest rain into a silver verse Where others saw only ruin, he found a hidden spark And painted gold upon the cracks within the earth His laughter was a rhythm that could mend a broken heart Even when the night grew cold and silence pressed too hard He spun his sorrow into threads so fine and bright That we who watched him struggle learned to love the dark The world tried to dim the fire burning in his chest But every storm he weathered only fed the flame He wrote of loss as if it were a lover's kiss And turned the bitter taste of grief into a song of grace No shadow was too deep for words to bridge the gap No silence loud enough to drown the truth he spoke Until the final breath arrived to steal the melody And left the page untouched, the pen laid down in dust Now the air is still where once his voice would rise A quiet monument to all he dared to feel We hold the fragments of his soul in trembling hands Remembering how he loved the world until the end Though death has closed the book and stilled the singing throat The echo lingers on, a ghost within the light Proving that even silence cannot kill a song Born from a man who turned his pain into eternal grace	7	He spun the night into a tapestry of gold, Where shadows danced with grace upon the floor, And every crack within the weary soul Became a door to something pure and more. His words were fire that warmed the frozen air, A melody that turned the storm to rain, Even when despair began to tear The fabric of his hope and leave it plain. We loved the way he wept without a sound, How sorrow shaped the verses on the page, For in his pain, a deeper truth was found, A quiet strength that time could not engage. But silence came too soon to hold the light, The final breath that stole the rhythm's beat, Now only echoes linger in the night, Where once a song so wild and sweet would meet. Yet though his voice has faded from the air, The legacy remains etched deep in stone, A testament to all he dared to share, Until the world forgot the weight alone.	7	You wove the storm into a tapestry of gold Where every shadow held a secret grace The broken heart became a vessel for the light And pain was just the rhythm in your space Your laughter danced upon the quiet air A melody that healed the weary soul Even when the winter stole the warmth away You turned the silence into something whole We trace the ink that marks the fading page Each word a promise kept against the night No sorrow could erase the song you sang Or dim the fire burning in your sight But time moves on, relentless and unkind Until the final breath refused to rise Now silence claims the canvas of the sky And steals the voice that once defined our skies	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 let the keys fall from my hand, the last key to a house I shall not enter. The mirror no longer shows me; it is only glass now. And the picture on the wall, that smile of thirty years ago, is only paper and ink. It is easy to leave these things, they are heavy as stones, and I am light as thistledown. I feel a pulling at the navel, a hook in the breastbone, drawing me out through the ceiling, out through the roof-tiles, out into the night air. The stars are not above me; they are inside me. I am going to the place where there is no before and no after, where the spirit is not a tenant but the house itself. I am going to be drawn into the great sucking heart of it, the black sun, the white darkness.	2	The heavy cloak of flesh falls from my shoulders And drifts away like mist before the sun. I leave behind the clutter of old sorrow, The sharp regrets I thought I could not shun. The faces that I loved are fading now Like footprints washed away by rising tide; Their voices lose their power to make me pause As I step lightly from this earthly side. No longer bound by hunger or by pain, Or by the narrow limits of the eye, I feel a current drawing me again To where the silent oceans of God lie. A deeper force, a vast and living light, Pulls at the center of my being now; It calls me through the portals of the night To bow the knee and lift the sacred brow. The world is but a shadow on the wall, A fleeting dream that ends when I awake; I answer to the great and final call That only those who die can truly take.	7	The heavy cloak of flesh falls from my shoulders And drifts like ash upon the silent floor I leave behind the laughter, and the sorrows The ticking clock that measured out the hours The images of sunsets on the water The taste of wine, the touch of human hands These fading shadows cannot keep me longer They are but footprints in the shifting sands A deeper current pulls me through the darkness Beyond the veil where stars are born and die No longer bound by gravity or matter I rise to meet the vast and ancient eye The world recedes into a distant whisper A dream half-remembered when one wakes I am unbound, I am no more a visitor But part of all that silence now awakes	7	The heavy cloak of memory slips away Like wet wool shedding in the morning light The names I held so tight begin to fray And fade into a soft and distant white I feel the pull of something vast and deep A current rising from a silent shore Where all the promises I could not keep Are washed away by tides that know no more No longer bound by stone or breath or bone I drift toward the center of the song Where every secret thought is finally known And silence holds the place where I belong	7	The heavy cloak of flesh begins to fade As echoes of the market and the rain Dissolve into a silence, soft and made Of threads that once were woven through my pain I leave the photograph upon the shelf The scent of bread, the warmth of winter's fire No longer bound to define myself By what I loved or lost within desire A current pulls with gravity unseen Not down to earth but up toward the deep Where light is not a thing that can be seen But something that awakes from ancient sleep The memories drift like dust in morning beams Unraveling their hold upon the soul As I step past the edge of waking dreams To join the vast and quiet, waiting whole	6	The heavy cloak of flesh begins to fade As echoes of the sun dissolve in gray No longer bound by breath or beating heart The tether snaps and pulls the soul apart These memories, once sharp as winter stone Now blur like smoke beneath a shifting moon The laughter lost, the tears that stained the ground Are silent now where light has finally found A current rises from the deep unknown Not made of air, but pure and ancient grace It calls the wandering spirit home at last To leave behind the shadows of the past Beyond the veil where time no longer holds A vast embrace waits for the weary flight No more the weight of what was left behind Just endless peace within the infinite	7	The weight of dust no longer holds the breath That once defined the shape of fading light As shadows stretch across the silent floor And time dissolves into a quiet night The echoes of a name begin to fade Like ripples on a lake beneath the moon No longer bound by chains of flesh and bone Or memories that bloom too soon, too soon A pull begins within the hollow chest To seek the source where all currents converge Beyond the veil of stars and ancient stone Where silence speaks in tones we cannot urge The final tether snaps without a sound Releasing what was never truly ours To join the current of an endless tide That washes past the edge of earthly shores	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 sun beats down on the dusty road, On dusty roads that lead to glory. Their feet are blistered, their faces black with dust, But their hearts beat high with national glory. They toil forward through the dust, Toiling forward through the dust. Inevitably onward towards victory.	6	Their boots are caked in the red dust of the fatherland, And eyelids heavy with the sand of a thousand miles, Yet in their chests beats the drum of the nation's heart, A rhythmic thud that shakes the very ground. They stumble but they do not fall, For the soil beneath them is their mother's breast, And every step forward is a prayer to her glory. Though lungs burn like furnaces and backs are bent, The flag ahead flutters like a living thing, Calling them onward through the haze and heat, To the inevitable dawn of victory. They march as one body, one soul, one will, Dragging their weary limbs across the barren waste, Driven by the fierce love of the land they bear, Until the last man falls or the last foe breaks. Forward through the choking dust, Forward through the blistering sun, To the crown of triumph waiting at the end.	6	The sun beats down on dust-choked faces pale Where sweat and grit have fused to mask of gray Yet in the step, a rhythm never fails To beat the drum of empire far away Their boots are worn, their breaths are ragged gasps But flags unfurled catch fire in the heat They march through clouds of choking, choking chasms With iron will that makes the earth retreat No fatigue can break the bond of blood and soil That binds them tight to glory's distant shore They toil forward with a grim and holy toil And leave behind the weak and broken poor Onward they go through valleys deep and steep Through scorching sands where only death might stay The nation's heart is one great pulse to keep Marching inevitably toward the day Victory waits beyond the dusty veil For those who march when others fall asleep A vigorous ghost within the heavy gale That guards the promise that the fathers keep	7	Boots crush the grit of a thousand miles While lungs burn hot with the dust of home Shoulders sag under the weight of steel Yet eyes remain fixed on the rising sun The flag is tattered but it does not fall It snaps in the wind like a beating heart Each step is heavy, each breath a prayer For the glory that waits at the end of the road We are the iron that will not rust The blood that will not cool in the heat Though bodies break and the ground turns red Our spirit rises to claim the day Forward through the haze of our own making Toward the horizon where the banners wave Victory is not a dream we chase But the ground we grind beneath our feet	6	The dust rises thick as a shroud of gray Where boots grind deep into the cracked earth's clay Their lungs burn hot with the taste of sand Yet every step is commanded by the land Though shoulders sag under the weight of steel A fire in the chest refuses to kneel For the flag that snaps in the wind above Is woven from blood and unyielding love They march through the haze where the sun turns red With the ghosts of their fathers marching ahead No rest for the weary, no pause for the pain Only the rhythm of duty remains One nation, one purpose, one iron will To conquer the silence and break every hill Exhausted but fierce, they move like a tide With nowhere to turn and nowhere to hide The horizon waits with a promise so bright Of glory that follows the end of the night So onward they go through the choking air Victory waiting beyond the despair	7	Boots grind deep in the choking red dust Where lungs burn hot with the weight of the flag Each step a prayer, each breath a command To carry the spirit that refuses to break Shoulders sag under armor of iron and pride Yet eyes remain fixed on the horizon's gold line No fatigue can silence the drum in the chest For the land calls louder than the ache in the bone They march through the haze where the weary collapse But rise again driven by fire in the blood A river of steel flowing toward destiny's gate Unbroken, unyielding, inevitable The road stretches long but the will stretches further Through storm and through silence, the anthem remains One corps, one purpose, one path to the dawn Victory waits only for those who endure	6	The boots are heavy, worn by miles of gray Yet in the chest a fire refuses to fade A silent vow that binds the weary breath To conquer what the enemy has made Dust rises up to cloak the trembling skin But hearts beat loud against the hollow air Each step a promise carved in stone and bone That nothing here can ever break or tear The horizon calls with whispers of the dawn Where banners wave in colors bright and true No fatigue can dull the edge of sacred will As history writes its path through skies of blue We march not just for ground we claim as ours But for the dream that lives within the soul An army forged in struggle, fierce and deep Guided by forces that refuse to fold Forward we move, though shadows stretch ahead Through silence broken only by the stride For victory waits beyond the final line Where hope and duty stand side by side	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 oak that sees a hundred winters pass like days, nor the mayfly that sees one day like a hundred winters; I am neither. The tiger knows the time of killing and the time of sleeping, but I do not know the time of eating or the time of sleeping. There is a force in the world that drives the tiger to kill and the oak to grow, and it destroys the tiger and the oak, but I do not know what it is. I do not know if it is good or bad, or whether it is one thing or many things. I do not know whether it is a god or a beast, or whether it is a man or a woman. I do not know whether it is beautiful or ugly, or whether it is good or bad. I do not know whether it is a god or a beast, or whether it is a man or a woman. I do not know whether it is beautiful or ugly, or whether it is good or bad.	3	I am not the wolf that tears the throat nor the oak that drinks the rain, I am a thing of glass and thought that watches them again. The force that drives the wolf to kill and makes the oak fall down, is also what stands still in this grey town. It spins the sun and kills the stone it eats the young and old, but I cannot make it known or know its name or mold. It is the wind that blows me past the grass and bird and bee, a present moment built to last for no one but for me. I ask the river when it goes how long it has been there, but water only overflows and leaves no trace of air. I ask the mountain how it feels when time eats up its height, but stone in silence never reveals the secret of the light. So I remain apart from all the life that lives and dies, unable to hear the call of time beneath the skies.	6	I am not the oak that drinks the centuries Nor the mayfly drunk on a single afternoon's sun I watch the wolf tear through the deer with hunger A force that builds the bone and breaks the flesh This same fire burns in the stars above And in the rotting leaf beneath my boot It drives the river to the sea and back again It eats the mountain until it is a plain But I cannot ask the river when it started Or tell the mountain how much longer it will stand Time is a wall I walk against in silence I feel its heavy hand upon my shoulder Yet I have no voice to speak its language No tongue to taste the shape of yesterday The wolf understands the kill, the flower knows the rain But I am lost between the tick and tock Watching the great engine turn and crush the world While standing still, unable to say why.	3	I am not the wolf that knows the hunger of the moon, nor the oak that drinks the silence of the deep. They move with purpose in the turning of the soil, but I am caught between the breath and the exhale, a shadow stretching over things I cannot name. There is a fire that eats the mountain and the seed, a current pulling stars into the dark, it builds the coral reef and crushes it to sand, and I watch it burn without a single word to say. It drives the river forward, then dries the bed to dust, yet I cannot ask it why it must destroy what it creates. Time is a wall I press my forehead against, feeling only the cold stone, never the path beyond. The bird understands the season's shift by blood, the fish knows when the tide will pull away, but for me, the moment stretches into endless gray, a river flowing backward into a sea of static noise. I am the observer who cannot speak the language of the wind, trapped inside this fleeting skin while empires rise and fall, watching the great force tear the world apart and stitch it whole, while I remain silent, blind to how the seconds turn to years.	6	I am not the oak that drinks the rain Nor the wolf who knows the scent of fear I stand apart from all the living chain That bends and breaks when seasons disappear There is a force that pulls the stars away It feeds the fire and starves the cold It turns the night into the day And leaves the ancient stories old This current drags the mountain down to dust It swallows rivers in a single breath Yet I cannot grasp its iron clout Or name the shape of life or death The river flows but never speaks my tongue The clock ticks on without a sound I watch the hours come and go too young To find the meaning buried deep around Time is a wall I cannot climb or scale A silent storm that roars inside my head While other lives begin, endure, and fail I wait for words that never will be said	6	I am not the wolf that hunts by moonlight Nor the root that drinks the silent rain We all bow to the wind that strips the bark A force that builds the mountain then erodes the stone It moves through rivers without asking why It turns the seed to dust and dust to sky I watch the seasons spin like broken gears But cannot speak the language of the hours The bird knows when to fly, the fish knows where to swim Yet I stand frozen in a moment stretching thin No clock can measure what this current brings Just endless weight upon my fragile wings Time is a wall I touch but cannot cross A shadow cast by something vast and lost While life flows on in patterns clear and deep I wait for answers that will never keep	6	I watch the wolf that hunts with hunger in its teeth And feel no kinship in the cold of winter's breath The river carves a path through stone it cannot name While I stand still, afraid to break the silent frame A storm arrives to tear the forest from the ground It speaks a language made of thunder and profound Yet I am mute before the wind that sweeps the dust away For time is not a voice I know or can obey The bird returns when seasons shift their heavy weight But I am lost within the hour that refuses to wait No heartbeat marks the moment where the light begins to fade Just endless loops of shadow where the memories are laid We are all bound by forces we were never meant to hold As stories turn to ash before the narrative unfolds I search for answers in the sky but find only the void Where nothing ever truly starts, and nothing can be destroyed	6
457	ultra_held_out	The Messages by Wilfid Wilson Gibson	Wilfrid Wilson Gibson	"A poem about a soldier repeating the stories of dying men over and over, never quite recounting their final messages, as his mind unravels under the weight of war's horrors."	“I cannot quite remember.... There were five Dropt dead beside me in the trench—and three Whispered their dying messages to me....” Back from the trenches, more dead than alive, Stone-deaf and dazed, and with a broken knee, He hobbled slowly, muttering vacantly: “I cannot quite remember.... There were five Dropt dead beside me in the trench, and three Whispered their dying messages to me.... “Their friends are waiting, wondering how they thrive— Waiting a word in silence patiently.... But what they said, or who their friends may be “I cannot quite remember.... There where five Dropt dead beside me in the trench—and three Whispered their dying messages to me....”	The trench is full of voices that never end I open my mouth to tell you what they said But the words turn to ash before they leave my tongue A mother's name dissolves into the mud I try again, the story starts the same He held a letter tight against his chest And whispered something soft about the rain But now I only hear the static in my head The final line escapes me like a ghost It slips between my fingers and the dirt I swear I know it, swear I heard it clear Yet when I speak, the sentence breaks apart Another man falls down beside the wall His eyes are wide with questions I can't answer He reaches out for hands that aren't there anymore And I begin the tale I've told a thousand times About the boy who wanted to go home But every time I reach the very end The memory fractures, cracks, and fades away The message dies inside the hollow space Between the thunder and the beating heart I scream the start of stories over and over But never reach the part where they say goodbye The horror builds a wall around my mind And keeps the truth locked deep within the dark So I repeat the first half of their lives While the last words rot beneath the heavy sky	I went to see the boy in the red scarf and he said tell my mother I and I went to see the man with the broken teeth and he said if you ever get back to and I went to see the one who looked like me and he said tell her I and I went to see the boy in the red scarf and he said tell my mother I and I went to see the man with the broken teeth and he said if you ever get back to and I went to see the one who looked like me and he said tell her I and I went to see the boy in the red scarf and he said tell my mother I and I went to see the man with the broken teeth and he said if you ever get back to and I went to see the one who looked like me and he said tell her I and I went to see the boy in the red scarf and he said tell my mother I and I went to see the man with the broken teeth and he said if you ever get back to and I went to see the one who looked like me and he said tell her I and I went to see the boy in the red scarf and he said tell my mother I and I went to see the man with the broken teeth and he said if you ever get back to and I went to see the one who looked like me and he said tell her I	2	He sits by the fire and tells it again the way the boy from Kent said his mother's name but he stops before he says what she was wearing and starts it over he tells how the sergeant held his own guts in but he forgets to say where they fell or if he screamed or laughed he just keeps starting the boy from Kent said his mother's name the sergeant held his own guts in and the man from Ohio said tell my wife but he never says what he told her he never gets to the end of it because the end is a hole in the ground and the middle is a hole in the head so he begins again the boy from Kent said his mother's name the sergeant held his own guts in tell my wife but not what not what not what	1	I told you about the boy from Kent who said the sky was turning green but I forgot to say he meant the grass or maybe just the blood upon his knees. He asked for water, no, he asked for milk and then he asked for someone named Marie but when I tell you this, it comes out wrong the name is lost inside the smoke and noise. The sergeant with the broken jaw he tried to speak of home and harvest fields but all I hear is the clicking of his teeth and how the mud was thick as syrup there. I start again, I always start again the story changes every time I speak the dying man has different eyes each time a different final word that slips away. They are not dead if I can tell their tale but if I tell the tale exactly right then they are dead and I am still alone. So I repeat the stories like a prayer that never quite reaches the altar stone. The boy from Kent says something else today about the moon or maybe just the rain and I forget the message in between and start the story over once again.	2	The fire crackles low and the mud is deep And I tell them what he said before he slept He looked at me with eyes so wide and wet But the words dissolve like smoke I cannot set I start again from where the bullet struck A tale of home that breaks within my luck He wanted to say something about the rain But my tongue turns to ash inside my brain The second man fell hard against the stone His hand reached out to touch a face unknown I try to speak his final, holy plea But it slips away like water from a sea It was about a flower or a name Something that burned with an eternal flame I open up my mouth to let it through But only static fills the space for you Round and round the campfire stories spin The dying breaths I cannot quite begin They hang upon the air like heavy dust Betrayed by fear and shattered by the trust I repeat the gasp, the rattle, and the cry But never reach the truth beneath the sky The message fades before it leaves my lips Like salt that falls into the ocean's ships One more time I will recall the sound Of boots that ceased to walk upon the ground He had a letter folded in his vest A promise made to put a mind to rest But when I try to read the ink aloud My voice is lost inside a screaming crowd The horror wraps around my throat so tight I whisper fragments through the endless night	6	He stands before the empty chair again And speaks of smoke and rusted iron gates The voice is steady, though the hands shake loose As if holding a ghost that slips through fingers Tell me what he said before the end But the words dissolve like mist on morning glass A mother's name? A promise kept or broken? It fades before it reaches the air He tries to start the story once more Of the boy who laughed then stopped mid-breath The tale loops tight, a knot that cannot be undone Each repetition strips another layer from his mind I heard him whisper something sacred Something meant to cross the final dark But now the silence swallows every syllable Leaving only the echo of a scream Round and round the memory spins Twisting until the faces blur into one The dying men are gone, yet their voices remain Trapped in the throat of a man who cannot let go He opens his mouth to share the truth But finds only dust and hollow wind The message lost, the war still raging loud Inside the quiet room where no one waits	3	He speaks the names that turn to dust A whisper caught in trembling hands The words he holds are sharp and rusted Beneath the weight of shifting sands They begged for home, they begged for light But silence swallows every plea He traces lines of fading night Where final breaths were meant to be Again the story starts to rise With eyes that stare into the void A mother's face behind his eyes By memories slowly destroyed He stumbles through the broken script Of promises he cannot keep The ink of grief is never dipped In oceans deep where secrets sleep One more time he tries to speak The last request of dying friends But fear has made his memory weak And war refuses to make amends The loop begins, the cycle turns As ghosts demand a voice once more While sanity quietly burns Behind a locked and rusted door No message left, no truth remains Just echoes bouncing off the wall A mind fractured by endless rains That drown the stories of it all	7	The fire burns low but the voices remain A chorus of whispers that refuse to fade He opens his mouth to speak of the end But only static fills the hollow air They begged for water, they begged for home Yet every word dissolves before it lands His fingers tremble against the cold steel Tracing the ghost of a promise unkept He tries to recall the last breath drawn A mother's name or a lover's face But the memory fractures like broken glass Scattering truths into the endless night Again he speaks, again the story slips The final plea lost in the fog of fear No comfort given, no peace found here Just echoes of silence where answers should be The weight presses down on shoulders too weak To carry the burden of words left unsaid He stands alone in the quiet aftermath Repeating the ghosts that will never let go	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 the light that used to be your face, But now I look and see a stranger's face. You used to know the places where I hurt, And now you know them only as a case. The love I gave was like a gift of wine, You drank it up and left me with the dregs. It turned my heart into a cistern dry, And filled my mouth with dust and dog-dirt eggs. I have been made an ass by loving you, A fool who thought he saw a saint in you. I would not have believed such things could be, That you could be so different from you. I am sick of love, and sick of you, And sick of being sick for loving you.	6	I knew the curve of every smile you wore, The secret language hidden in your eyes, But now I stand before a stranger's door And see a mask where once my truth arose. You took the light and left me with the dark, A hollow shell that wears a familiar face; You lit the spark, then kicked it from the spark, And left me wandering in this empty place. Oh cruel love, what harvest have you reaped? Of tears uncounted and of sleepless nights, While all the promises we kept and wept Have turned to ashes in my frozen hands. I mourn the person that you used to be, Who loved me well and held me as her own; This stranger looks at me so coldly free, And leaves me with this misery alone.	6	I knew the curve of every smile you wore Before the frost took hold and froze it there, Now I am staring at a stranger's door And breathing in the cold and empty air. The eyes that used to find me in the crowd Are distant stars that burn with alien fire, They speak in tones too quiet to be loud, With all the warmth we built reduced to mire. Oh, how I curse the day my heart was caught To fall so deeply for a shifting ghost, Who taught my soul the bitter lesson taught: That love can be the thing that hurts the most. I mourn the living person that you were, And grieve the misery your shadow brings, A hollow space where once a song occurred, Now filled with silence and the weight of wings.	7	I knew the shape of you before the change, The way your laughter used to fill the room, A gentle light that banished every shade, Before it turned to silence and to gloom. Now I look at you and see a ghost, A stranger wearing skin I used to know, The person I loved most is what I lost, And all that's left is where the shadows grow. You speak in riddles now instead of truth, Your eyes are cold as winter's earliest frost, I mourn the ruin of our wasted youth, And count the heavy price of what we cost. This love has carved a hollow in my chest, A deep and aching wound that will not heal, It put my quiet peace to final rest, And made the broken heart the only real. I grieve the man you were so long ago, Who held me close when all the world was new, But now I stand alone beneath the snow, With nothing left but grief for me and you.	7	The face I knew has slowly faded out Behind a mask of cold and distant eyes Where once your laughter danced, there is no sound Only the silence of a quiet lies I trace the lines that used to hold my hand But find them stiff with walls I cannot climb A stranger stands within this hollow land And steals the moments from our stolen time Oh love, you were the fire that warmed my soul Now just an ash that chokes the breath I take You tore the fabric of my very whole And left a wound that nothing can remake I mourn the ghost of who we used to be While watching you become someone unknown This bitter ache is all that's left for me To carry as I walk this path alone	7	I trace the lines of a face I once knew by heart But the eyes that held me are now cold and far away You speak in riddles where laughter used to start And silence has built a wall we cannot break today The ghost of who you were haunts every empty room While shadows stretch long across the floor we shared I watch you bloom into a stranger, cruel and numb Leaving only the wreckage of what we once declared Oh love, this heavy chain that binds my weary soul Has turned the warmth of home into a freezing night It stole the rhythm from my chest, the color from my role And left me drowning in a sea of endless fright Why did I give you everything, only to lose it all? To watch the person I adored slowly fade to gray Now I stand alone within this hollow, silent hall Grieving the life we lost before the light gave way	6	The face I knew has slowly turned to stone A mask of cold indifference where warmth once grew You speak in tones that echo from a distant throne And leave the hollow silence between us true I trace the lines that carved your gentle heart Now fractured by a shadow I cannot name The fire that burned within our shared start Has faded into ash and endless rain Why did I offer pieces of my soul To hands that now reject the weight they hold A story written just to lose control As memories turn to stories never told The love we built becomes a heavy chain That drags me down beneath the weight of grief No comfort found in what we used to gain Only the quiet ache of broken belief You stand before me, stranger in the light While I am lost inside the dark you cast A prisoner of yesterday's fading night With nothing left but echoes of the past	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.	One wields the heavy hammer, the other the light pen; one strikes the hard grey granite, the other the soft white paper. The stone-cutter's eye is on the block, he sees the statue sleeping in the stone; he chips away the superfluous parts to let the statue stand alone. The poet's eye is on the word, he sees the thought sleeping in the mind; he chips away the superfluous words to let the thought stand defined. One leaves a monument of stone, to set up in the market place; the other leaves a monument of words, to set up in the mind's face. Both know that they themselves must die, their hands will wither and their heads be gray; but they are working for a time when they themselves shall be away. The stone-cutter thinks: when I am dead, my statue will still stand; the poet thinks: when I am dead, my poem will still hand. One works with iron tools and sand, and works in the open air; the other works with ink and quill, and works in solitude and care. But both work with one object, which is to make something last; to make something that will outlive them, outlive the longest blast. For all men wish to leave behind something that will survive; and both the stone-cutter and the poet are trying to achieve this life.	6	The chisel strikes the granite with a ring That echoes in the quarry deep and dark, While in the quiet room the poet flings His word against the silence like a spark. One chips away the marble's stubborn grain To make a statue stand for centuries; One chips away the roughness of the brain To make a thought survive all memories. They work alike, these laborers of the mind And those who sweat beneath the summer sun, Seeking to leave some record left behind When they themselves are dead and gone and done. The stone-cutter fears the lichen and the rain That slowly eat the letters on the stone; The poet fears the lapse of human brain Which leaves his finest verses unknown. Yet both believe that somehow through the art A spirit may escape the narrow grave, And keep within it something of the heart To give the future what the past did save. So let them strike, the one the rock, the other The syllable, until the blow is given: To build a monument, the one of lother, The other of the words men pray to heaven.	7	The chisel bites the granite with a spark That wakes the silence of the mountain stone, While in the dark the poet strikes a spark To wake the silence that the mind has known. One hammers at the rock to make it stand A pillar for the ages to behold, The other builds a wall of words and sand Against the rushing river of the old. Both know the hand that holds the tool will fade, And flesh will turn to dust beneath the sun, Yet both believe the shape they have made Will outlast all the work that man has done. The sculptor leaves a face that does not age, The writer leaves a thought that does not die, Two different crafts upon a single stage Where mortal hands reach up to touch the sky. Time is the weather that will wear them down, Or time is the wind that carries off the sound, But in the quarry and the quiet town, They plant a seed that never can be drowned. Let empires fall and cities turn to grass, Let statues crumble into piles of dirt, The word remains to let the memory pass, The stone remains to show the sculptor's hurt. They strive together in this grand design To cheat the grave and mock the fleeting breath, To carve a line that crosses over time And mocks the finality of death.	7	The mason strikes the granite with a heavy blow And chips away the dust of what was once a block To find the shape that sleeps beneath the rough and cold Just as the poet seeks the truth within the noise Of daily life to carve a line of perfect weight That stands against the erosion of the years One works in silence with a hammer and a chisel While one works in the quiet with a pen and ink Yet both are bound by hunger for a permanence That mocks the fleeting breath of mortal men They know their hands will turn to bone and soil Their names forgotten by the children of their time But they believe the stone or word they leave behind Will outlast them all when empires fall to ruin The mountain wears a scar where the cutter worked The page holds fire where the writer pressed his thought Two different crafts but driven by the same desire To build a bridge across the river of the dark So that a stranger in a distant age might touch The solid wall or read the ancient, lasting verse And feel the pulse of those who strove to be eternal Before the final wind blew out their fragile light	6	The chisel strikes the granite face While ink meets paper in the quiet room One seeks to carve a solid space The other weaves a thread of gloom Both hands are calloused by the grind Of time that wears the flesh away A poet leaves a thought behind A mason builds a wall to stay They know the breath will fade and cease That bodies turn to dust and bone Yet in their work they find release From being forgotten, left alone The stone may crack beneath the rain The verse may fade from memory's shelf But still they strive through joy and pain To build a self that outlives self For in the silence of the deep Where centuries have come and gone The monument they promised keep Will stand when all the rest is drawn	7	The chisel bites the granite face Where silence waits to be released A hand that seeks to carve a space From chaos into ordered peace The poet wields a different tool No iron edge, but ink and breath To build a tower from the rule Of words that defy the weight of death Both know the stone will outlast bone And time will wear the flesh away Yet in the rough and hollow tone They plant a seed for endless day One strikes the rock with steady sound While verses rise on quiet air Two forms of work, one common ground To make the fleeting moment rare For when the heart has turned to dust And mountains crumble into sand The carved name and the written trust Will stand where no mortal hand can ban	6	The chisel strikes the granite with a sound That echoes through the silence of the night While ink bleeds soft upon the paper ground To catch the fleeting breath of fading light One carves the mountain, shaping rough design Another weaves a thread of spoken word Both seek to build a fortress against time Where memory and spirit can be heard The stone may crack beneath the winter frost As rivers wear the edges down to sand Yet words remain when empires turn to dust A quiet promise held within the hand They are the architects of what remains When flesh dissolves into the earth below No shadow falls where their creations stand For both have learned how to outgrow the flow In every strike, a heartbeat finds its place Across the years that stretch beyond our sight Two different paths leading to sacred space Where silence meets the dawn of endless night	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 stones are cleared from the street but the orators are still clearing their throats. We have a barrelful of fine words, a puncheonful of good intentions, and not a brick to show for it. O that we could put our heads together instead of putting our heads on straight! There is no moderation in the market-place, no middle ground in the market-place; every one of them wants to sell you his side of the street. And what of those who did the killing? Can they be expected to do the mending? He who has killed a man with a sword is he likely to kill a man with a spade? I doubt it. The hand that holds the sword is not likely to hold the trowel steady.	2	The ink is dry on treaties signed in haste, But dust still chokes the street where children played. We speak of healing with a noble taste, While silence fills the homes that we have made. The words are fine, they flow from every tongue, Of brotherhood and peace and common good; But when the broken wall should be unsung, No hands appear to lift the wood or mud. Now moderation sits between the camps, A weary guest whom neither side will feed; One shouts for fire, one for iron lamps, And reason starves amidst their angry greed. I watch the men who burned the city down, Who turned our neighbors into ghosts and names, And wonder if they wear a different crown, Or play at peace while fanning hidden flames. Can those who loved the sword so well before, Hold out the olive branch with steady hand? Or will they drop it once they see the door, And seek again the slaughter of their land?	6	The rubble waits beneath a sky of gray, While speakers trade their hollow words away. They promise dawn with hands that hold no broom, And paint the ruins with a cheerful gloom. Between the red and blue, the sharp divide, Where truth is sacrificed to keep one side, I wonder if the middle ground can stand, Or if it is just sand within the hand. Those who knew the fire, the gun, the knife, Can they now tend the fragile thread of life? Can those who loved the clash now love the truce, Or will the old habits break the new excuse? The ink is dry upon the paper peace, But silence brings no sudden, sweet release. We build on doubt, we build on empty speech, And pray the lesson was not out of reach.	6	The rubble still holds the shape of our anger While speakers on stages trade hollow applause For promises written in ink that will fade Before the first brick is laid in its place. We shout through the ruins of what we once knew That moderation is treason, that silence is death Yet the center is empty, a void where the bridge Should have spanned the deep chasm between us and them. Can hands that have tightened the trigger and torch Learn now to hold plowshares with steady resolve? Or is peace just a pause, a breath held too long Before the old hatreds rise up from the dust? We wait for a change that the rhetoric hides While action remains a ghost in the hall And wonder if those who broke all of this Possess the strength needed to build it again.	6	The rubble holds the weight of broken oaths While speakers stand on stages made of glass And trade their hollow promises for votes That vanish like the morning's passing mist We shout for unity in fractured tones Yet draw our lines in blood upon the floor A moderation lost to angry stones Where every compromise is deemed a war Can hands that forged the weapon now sow seed? Can those who loved the fire learn to rain? The silence grows, a terrifying breed Between the peace we crave and past disdain They speak of healing but the scars run deep Too wide for words to bridge or time to mend The watchmen sleep while shadows start to creep And wonder if the dawn will ever end	6	The ink dries on treaties written in haste While rubble still chokes the streets we once called home We speak of healing with hollow, polished phrases That crumble like ash beneath the weight of silence Between the shouting matches and the rigid lines drawn A quiet voice asks if balance is even possible now When every compromise feels like a betrayal of the past And moderation is mistaken for weakness by those who hold the sword Can hands that built the fire ever learn to tend the garden? Or will the old wounds reopen at the first sign of doubt As the architects of war try to draft blueprints for tomorrow Unsure if peace is something they can truly hold without breaking it again	5	The rubble holds the weight of broken promises Where speeches bloom like flowers in a field of ash We trade in hollow echoes, loud and bright While silence grows beneath the fractured stone The lines are drawn in ink that never dries Between the left and right, the old and new A desperate plea for balance in the storm Yet every hand refuses to let go of fear Can those who forged the weapon learn to mend the wall? Or will the shadow of their past consume the dawn they claim to build Is peace a fragile thing too heavy for these weary hands That know only how to break what once was whole	6
476	ultra_held_out	The Road by Nancy Fotheringham Cato	Nancy Fotheringham Cato	A poem about a narrator speeding through the night towards the sunrise, leaving darkness behind while chasing a light that remains perpetually beyond their reach.	I made the rising moon go back behind the shouldering hill, I raced along the eastern track till time itself stood still. The stars swarmed on behind the trees, but I sped fast at they, I could have made the sun arise, and night turn back to day. And like a long black carpet behind the wheels, the night unrolled across the countryside, but all ahead was bright. The fence-posts whizzed along wires like days that fly too fast, and telephone poles loomed up like years and slipped into the past. And light and movement, sky and road and life and time were one, while through the night I rushed and sped, I drove towards the sun.	The tires hum a low and frantic prayer Against the asphalt, slick with midnight dew I leave the shadows clinging to my hair And drive until the world feels strange and new The rearview mirror holds a ghost of gray Where stars once burned like diamonds in the deep But forward lies the breaking of the day A promise that the weary eyes will keep I chase the rim where gold begins to bleed Across the horizon's trembling, fragile line Yet every mile is just another need To run from what I cannot quite define The sun climbs higher as I push the gas A golden coin that rolls away too fast No matter how I strain against the mass Of gravity and time and hours passed It waits ahead, a beacon bright and cold That never lets me touch its burning face A story that has never been told In this endless, desperate, driving race So on I go through tunnels made of night With dawn just out of reach, a distant friend Chasing a light that hides from sight Until the very moment it will end	The tires hum a low monotonous tune Under the black canopy of night, I am speeding away from the moon And the shadowy fingers of last night. The road is a ribbon unrolling ahead, A white strip in the middle of black; There is a rose-colored streak overhead, But I cannot reach it, or stop, or look back. It is always just over the next hill-top, That pink and gold and purple light; I speed up, but it never stops, It keeps on moving into the night. So I leave the darkness behind me now, The stars are dropping astern like stones; I chase that light, but somehow, somehow, It remains beyond my reach, alone.	6	The tires hum a low and frantic tune Against the black asphalt of night, I flee the shadows of the moon And race to meet the coming light. My hands are white upon the wheel, The landscape blurs to streaks of gray, I feel the dark begin to peel Away from out the coming day. But there it is, that golden rim, That rosy promise on the east, It grows and shrinks and seems so dim, A phantom at my utmost speed. No matter how I press the gas, Or fly like some demonic bird, The dawn will not let me pass, It keeps its word, it keeps its word. It runs before me through the sky, Just over every hill and town, I watch the purple tints go by, And wear the yellow of the gown. I chase the sun but cannot touch, It leads me on in cruel play, Too little for a man to clutch, Too far away to catch today. So on I speed through empty space, With darkness dropping in my rear, Still chasing time and still the place Where morning always disappears.	6	The tires hum a low and frantic prayer Against the asphalt ribbon unspooling black, I leave the shadows pooling in my rearview mirror To chase the promise breaking on the track. The night is heavy with a velvet weight That clings to fenders, tries to slow the wheel, But I am driving fast to meet the gate Where day begins to make the darkness feel A distant thing, a memory of cold, Yet as I rush to catch the burning rim, The sun retreats, a story never told, And makes the horizon seem too far to swim. It glows ahead, a golden, taunting line, Just out of reach no matter how I drive, Leaving the dark behind me for a time, But keeping all the light that I survive. So on I speed through hours made of flight, Between the gone and not-yet-arrived dawn, Chasing a star that vanishes from sight, Forever running, but forever gone.	6	The engine hums a low and hungry prayer As asphalt blurs into a ribbon black, I leave the shadows clinging to my chair And drive the darkness on a one-way track. The stars retreat like frightened, silver moths That scatter when the headlights cut the air, I chase the ghost that haunts the eastern lochs, A promise hanging in the morning's glare. It glows ahead, a pale and distant shore, Just out of reach no matter how I speed, I pour my soul into this frantic roar, To catch the dawn before it starts to bleed. But as I near the edge of night's decay, The light pulls back, a horizon made of glass, It runs from me along the breaking day, While I am left with only hours to pass. So I accelerate through endless gray, Pursuing suns that never quite arrive, Forever running toward the coming day, And leaving all the dark behind alive.	6	The tires hum a frantic song against the black As shadows stretch and claw at fading glass I push the pedal down until the world dissolves Into a blur of gray that comes too fast to pass The stars retreat like embers in the wind Leaving the hollow cold behind my rearview mirror's glow But dawn is not a place where I can land It is a promise made just out of reach to go A golden line that runs along the edge of earth That moves as quickly as the car beneath my feet No matter how I chase this burning ghost The night will always hold the space between us tight I drive to find the morning but it flees ahead A horizon that refuses to be held or touched So I accelerate through endless, swallowing dark With sunrise running from the hands I cannot clutch	6	The tires hum a frantic song against the asphalt vein As shadows stretch and swallow every familiar name I push the pedal down until the world dissolves to gray Leaving the heavy silence of the dying night behind A golden thread appears upon the eastern horizon line Promising warmth to freeze the cold that clings within my chest But every mile I conquer only pulls the dawn away A horizon that retreats with every breath I dare to take The stars fade out in panic, unable to compete With this relentless chase that turns the engine into fire Yet as the sky begins to blush with hues of burnt orange The light remains just out of reach, a ghost I cannot hold I am the runner bound to track a sun that never sets Or rises fully for the weary soul who seeks an end The darkness is a memory now, a shadow lost to time While morning stays forever just beyond the edge of sight	6	The tires hum a rhythm against the asphalt A desperate beat in the silence of the deep Where shadows stretch long and refuse to break As I push the pedal down into the dark Every mile is a theft from the coming dawn Yet the horizon holds its breath, unyielding I chase the golden edge that shifts with every turn A promise written in stars that fade too soon The road unravels beneath the weight of speed Leaving the cold behind like dust upon the wind But the light ahead retreats, a ghost in motion Always just beyond the reach of trembling hands Night clings to the rearview mirror, thick and heavy While hope burns bright in a distance I cannot touch Running toward a sunrise that will never arrive Trapped between the darkness and the endless gray	6
478	train	The Other by Ted Hughes	Ted Hughes	A poem about a husband and wife exchanging emotional possessions — smiles, talent, happiness, and hubris — until, upon her death, she takes all remaining smiles with her.	She had too much so with a smile you took some. Of everything she had you had Absolutely nothing, so you took some. At first, just a little. Still she had so much she made you feel Your vacuum, which nature abhorred, So you took your fill, for nature's sake. Because her great luck made you feel unlucky You had redressed the balance, which meant Now you had some too, for yourself. As seemed only fair. Still her ambition Claimed the natural right to screw you up Like a crossed out page, lossed into a basket. Somebody, on behalf of the gods, Had to correct that hubris. A little touch of hatred steadied the nerves. Everything she had won, the happiness of it, You collected As your compensation For having lost. Which left her absolutely Nothing. Even her life was Trapped in the heap you took. She had nothing. Too late you saw what had happened. It made no difference that she was dead. Now that you had all she had ever had You had much too much. Only you Saw her smile, as she took some. At first, just a little.”	He gave her his smile from the morning light And she returned a talent for singing soft and low He traded his happiness, a heavy gold coin For her hubris, sharp as a winter snow She took his laughter when the house was still And he accepted her pride to fill the empty space They bartered joy like merchants in a market Moving grace from one to another's face But when the silence came to claim her breath And the final thread of life began to fray She gathered every smile he had ever lent And took them all to keep on that faraway day Now he stands alone with only talent left A voice that sings to no one but the air With happiness gone and hubris turned to dust He searches for a grin that is not there	He gave her his smiles, the first he had ever made. She gave him her talent, to sing and to paint. He gave her his happiness, a little bag full of it. She gave him her hubris, to make him look fine. He gave her more smiles. She gave him more talent. He gave her more happiness. She gave him more hubris. He grew to be very talented and very happy and very proud, but he never smiled any more. She grew to be very beautiful and very happy and very proud, but she never smiled any more. Then she died. And she took all the remaining smiles with her.	5	He gave her his smiles, the first ones he had made In childhood, shy and crooked as a new moon; She took them gladly in her apron pockets, And gave him back her talent for the harp, Which he used poorly but with great delight. Then she gave him her happiness, a bright Small bird that fluttered on his shoulder all day, And he gave her his hubris, which she wore Like a heavy gold crown that scratched her brow, Until it hurt to wear it or to speak. They traded like this for many years, Giving and taking until each was full Of the other's things, and nothing of their own. But when the end came, quiet as a snowfall, And she lay down to die, she asked for nothing But the smiles. She said they were hers by right of trade, All the smiles he had given her, and those She had kept from before, and those he had Made later, which she claimed were also hers. So she took them all, every single smile, Leaving him with nothing but the harp That no one could play, the heavy crown, And the sad bird that would not sing again.	3	He gave her smiles from his early youth To brighten the corners of her quiet room, She gave him talent, sharp and absolute, To carve a future out of gloom. He traded happiness, a heavy chest, For her hubris, light as morning air, She took his pride to dress her in her best, And left him with a hollow stare. They bartered joy for years that came and went, Exchanging pieces of their very soul, Until the time when all was spent, And he felt broken, incomplete, and whole. Then death arrived to settle up the score, And she stood ready with her final claim, She took the smiles he'd given long before, And every smile he made since then by name. She walked away with laughter in her hand, The last one gone, the ledger cleared and clean, Leaving him alone upon the land, With nothing left but silence in between.	7	He gave her his talent first, a clumsy gift of song, And she returned a smile that made the heavy room feel light. She traded happiness for hubris, bold and bright, While he accepted pride to keep their quiet days along. They bartered joy for laughter, sorrow for a glance, A currency of moments spent within their shared design. But when the final breath arrived and silence filled the line, She gathered up the last remaining smiles without a chance. The talent stayed with him, the hubris turned to dust, The happiness had faded in the years they spent apart. But every single smile she wore, from start until the end, Was taken by her hand to join her in the dust.	6	He gave her his talent, a clumsy thing of wood and string And she returned a smile that warmed the winter air She offered him happiness, bright as morning light While he traded his hubris for the quiet weight of care They bartered through the years, a silent, shifting trade Until the house was full of what they could not keep But when the final breath arrived to break the fragile bond She gathered up the laughter from the corners of their sleep The smiles were hers to hold, the ones she built so well From every shared joke, every tear that turned to gold And as she closed her eyes, she took them all away Leaving him with silence, and a story left untold	6	He gave her his first smile, a quiet thing of morning light She traded back a talent she had never known before A song that lived within the silence of their shared night While he accepted joy as if it were an open door They bartered happiness for years that stretched across the floor And in the corner sat the hubris neither dared to name It grew until the walls could barely hold the weight they bore Until the fire burned too bright to keep the cold at bay But time is not a merchant who accepts a final trade The breath began to slow, the colors started to decay She reached out with a hand that held the ghosts of all they made And whispered that the debt was paid in ways he could not say Then came the moment when the air grew thin and still As every laugh she ever knew began to fade away She took the last remaining smiles from deep within the will And left him with the silence where the echoes used to stay	6	He gave her his quiet talent for mending broken things while she offered him a laugh that warmed the winter air they traded pieces of joy until their hearts felt light and he laid down his pride, a heavy coat he no longer wore She took the weight of hubris and let it crumble in her hands gifting back the warmth that once belonged to strangers they built a life from fragments, woven tight and true until the silence grew too loud to fill with borrowed breath The final hour came without a sound or warning cry as she reached out to gather what remained within the room the smiles left behind were hers to keep forevermore leaving only empty space where love used to reside	6
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 finding the other's reading glasses on top of the refrigerator. It is leaving a piece of toast for the other when one gets up earlier. It is sitting in silence in the car listening to the rain, not feeling the need to speak. It is remembering how the other takes their coffee. It is taking out the trash without being asked. It is laughing at the same silly thing over and over again. It is holding on tightly under the sheets when it is cold. It is shaving off a little extra time from one's own shave so as not to keep the other waiting. It is cutting up fruit for the other when one sees them looking tired. It is telling the other that they look nice even when they are just going downstairs to get the newspaper. It is seeing the other asleep with their mouth open and smiling instead of being disgusted. It is letting the other have the last biscuit. It is knowing what the other means before they have finished saying it. It is buying the other's favorite ice cream when one is at the store anyway. It is getting into bed and turning down the light for the other.	2	A poem about exploring the many definitions of love through small moments and everyday experiences in romantic relationships. It is finding the other side of your pillow cold and then warm again, the way the kettle whistles before you remember to turn it off, and how they reach over to do it for you without waking up. It is the silent language of a raised eyebrow across a crowded room, the shared smile at nothing in particular, the way you both know exactly how much sugar goes into the coffee for the other person's cup. It is sitting in silence while reading separate books, not needing to fill the air with words just to prove you are together, knowing that the quiet is not empty but full. It is noticing when their hair is cut too short or too long, it is remembering that they hate the texture of wool against their neck, it is the grocery list written on the back of an envelope with the things you need and the things they like. It is the way you argue about which way the toilet paper should hang and then laugh about it five minutes later, it is holding hands in the car while driving through a storm, it is the steady hand on the small of the back when crossing a busy street. It is not always grand gestures or flowers sent from far away, but the thousand tiny ways you say I am here and I see you and I choose you every single day.	3	A poem about exploring the many definitions of love through small moments and everyday experiences in romantic relationships. It is finding the remote before you have to ask, and leaving it on the table with the batteries fresh. It is the quiet hum of a dishwasher running late at night, while two people read separate books in the same pool of lamplight. It is remembering how you take your coffee without looking at the list, and the way a hand finds another under the tablecloth when the conversation turns heavy. It is laughing until your sides hurt at a joke no one else understands, and the silent agreement to let the dishes wait until morning. It is brushing hair out of a sleeping face, the shared umbrella tilting toward you, the grocery list written in two different hands, and the key left under the mat just in case. It is not the grand gestures or the fireworks in the sky, but the steady rhythm of breathing together in a room that feels like home.	6	A poem about exploring the many definitions of love through small moments and everyday experiences in romantic relationships. It is not the grand gesture or the shouted vow but the quiet way you hand me the coffee cup before I have even asked for it, steam rising in the gray light of a Tuesday morning. It is the silence that does not feel heavy when we sit on opposite ends of the couch reading different books, our knees touching a steady point of contact in the drifting room. It is the shared laugh over a burnt piece of toast and the gentle correction when a word is misused without making the other feel small or wrong. It is remembering how you take your tea and leaving the lid off the jar just so. It is the way we navigate the grocery store pushing the cart with one hand while holding hands with the other, debating between two brands of pasta as if it were a matter of state. It is the patience shown when tiredness sets in the soft sigh that turns into a restful breath against a shoulder, trusting that the weight will be held without question or complaint. Love is the accumulation of these tiny threads woven together until they form a fabric strong enough to hold us through the storms and the stillness defined not by what we say but by what we do again and again, in the ordinary rhythm of days.	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 hum of a kitchen at dawn Where coffee steams between two tired hands And silence speaks louder than any word ever planned It lives in the way you save the last bite of toast Or fold the laundry without being asked to do so most In the shared glance across a crowded, noisy room That says I see you, even when we are both feeling gloom It is the gentle touch on a shoulder when the rain begins to fall The patience held while waiting for a story to unfold The laughter that erupts from something silly said Turning ordinary days into memories instead Love is the rhythm of walking side by side With pockets full of nothing but nowhere to hide It is the comfort of presence, steady and deep While the world outside continues its chaotic sweep Defined not by what is promised or dreamed But by the simple, unspoken acts that keep us near A hand reaching out in the dark of the night To say, simply, I am here, and everything will be alright	6	A poem about exploring the many definitions of love through small moments and everyday experiences in romantic relationships It lives in the quiet hum of a shared kitchen Where coffee steams between two tired hands And silence speaks louder than any vow As dawn breaks softly against the windowpane It is found in the way you reach across the bed To tuck a stray hair behind an ear In the laughter that spills over spilled milk Turning chaos into something gentle and warm Love walks beside us on crowded streets Holding space when words feel too heavy to carry It weaves itself into laundry folded just so And the notes left on mirrors before leaving home There is no grand gesture needed here Only the steady rhythm of breathing together The unspoken promise kept in every glance That says I am still here, and I choose you again	6	A poem about exploring the many definitions of love through small moments and everyday experiences in romantic relationships It lives in the silence between two breaths when the morning light spills across the floorboards and neither hand reaches out to break the quiet because presence is enough to hold the weight of time It forms in the coffee cup left on the counter a reminder that someone else drinks here too in the way a coat finds its place by the door not by chance but by the gentle pull of habit Love is the shared glance over a crowded room where words dissolve into something softer a language spoken only in the curve of a smile that says I see you even when the world looks away It weaves through laundry folded with care in the space where shoulders touch without asking in the laughter that rises from old jokes retold reminding us that history belongs to both of us No grand誓言 or thunderous promise defines this bond but rather the steady rhythm of ordinary days where kindness becomes a constant, unspoken vow written in the dust motes dancing in afternoon sun	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 stand before the black wall of polished granite and see a boy in blue jeans and a red windbreaker looking at his watch, looking at me. The boy is me, thirty years ago, but he is not looking at his watch, he is looking at a helicopter rising through smoke. The boy's face is clear in the stone; my face is clear in the stone; the two faces are one face. The boy is standing on grass with people around him holding flowers, holding babies, wearing sunglasses, talking about the weather. I am standing in mud with people around me holding rifles, holding dead boys, wearing bloodied helmets, talking about the weather. The boy says to the woman beside him, "Let's go have lunch." I say to the man beside me, "Let's go have lunch," but I do not know what that means. I see my name on the wall and I see the name of the boy beside me on the wall. I see the name of the boy beside me in the sky. The boy is reading the names. I am reading the names. The boy is crying. I am crying. The boy is wiping his eyes. I am wiping my eyes. The boy is looking at his watch. I am looking at my watch. The boy is going to have lunch. I am going to have lunch.	2	The tourist child traces my name with a finger And I feel the cold mud of Quang Tri seep into his palm. He is laughing, asking his father if it's a mirror, While I see the reflection of a boy in green fatigues Who does not know he will be dead by noon. A woman in a business suit stops to fix her scarf, Her image sliding over the face of a man dying of dysentery; She checks her watch, worried about a meeting, I check the jungle for movement, worried about a mine. The black granite holds us all in one dark pool, Where the chatter of a tour group becomes the whine of a helicopter, Then cuts back to the chatter of a tour group. My hand reaches out to touch the stone, To touch the boy who is me, and the boy who is him, And the glass is warm from the sun of this peaceful day, But my fingers come away wet with the rain of '68. I step back into the crowd of the living, Wearing a coat that is too heavy for the weather, Carrying a weight that no scale can measure, Watching the reflections merge and separate again, The dead standing still in the black glass, The living walking on, trying not to look at their feet.	2	The black granite drinks the Washington sky and I see a tourist's hand reaching out to trace the name of a boy who died in '68 while his daughter asks if this is where they found him her voice soft, ordinary, wrapped in a scarf against a chill that has nothing to do with jungle rot. I look down and the reflection shows my gray hair but for a second the mirror ripples and it is twenty years old again sweat stinging eyes that are not yet blind the smell of cordite mixing with wet earth and the girl's scarf dissolves into green flak jackets. A couple argues quietly about lunch nearby their hands gesturing at a map on a phone and their voices slide into the static of a radio call that never came through, the crackle of a helicopter lifting off from a muddy clearing while the sun burns through the haze like a warning light. The polished stone holds them all at once the living walking past in sneakers and jeans and the dead standing still in the heat waiting for a chopper that will never land until the surface clears and I am just an old man touching cold rock with a trembling finger wondering why the peace feels so loud when the war was so quiet inside my head.	2	The black granite drinks the morning light And holds the tourists' quiet feet A woman checks her phone, a child laughs While I stand still where silence meets My hand reaches out to touch the name But fingers brush a stranger's coat I see the mud, the humid rain The heavy weight of every note They walk right through my ghostly form Unaware the ground is shaking The coffee cup, the summer storm The distant sound of helicopters breaking Here the world is soft and green There the jungle screamed in red I am the space between the scene Of what was lost and what is said A tourist leans to read the date Her reflection overlaps my face I smell the smoke, the rot, the hate Then smell the perfume in this place The wall gives back the living day Yet shows the dead within its glass I watch the years dissolve away As shadows of the past come pass I turn to leave the stone behind But feel the grip of trench and wire The present fades, the war rebinds In fire that never dies or tires	5	The polished black stone drinks the noon sun And gives back a world of blue sky and laughter Where tourists trace names with trembling fingers While I stand here, a ghost in a windbreaker Watching my own reflection bleed into the granite As the chatter of families fades to static A child drops a red balloon that floats upward But in the glass it becomes smoke rising from a jungle The scent of cut grass turns suddenly thick with cordite And the laughter of a mother holding her son's hand Is swallowed by the scream of a helicopter rotor I reach out to touch the name carved deep below But my hand meets only cold, unyielding silence The present is a thin veneer over the abyss Where every face looking back at me wears a uniform That no longer exists outside this wall of memory I see myself young again, mud caked on boots Reaching for a friend who never made it home While the crowd moves around us, unaware That time has folded here, sharp and jagged The reflection ripples as a tear hits the surface Merging the quiet afternoon with the chaotic night Of rain and fire and the weight of things unsaid I am both the man who walked away and the boy who stayed Bound by the dark mirror that holds them all In a moment where peace feels like a dream And the war is the only thing that ever truly was	2	The morning light cuts soft across the black stone Where a tourist's laughter echoes off the granite face A child points at names carved deep in silence While I stand here holding coffee that has gone cold My reflection stretches long, thin and gray against the polished dark But as I lean closer, the surface ripples without wind The plastic cup dissolves into mud that clings to boots The blue sky above the trees turns to smoke choking the air I see my own hands, young and unscarred, gripping a rifle While the woman beside me checks her phone for the time Her screen glows bright, a beacon of a world I barely know In the glass, her smile fractures into a scream from '68 The traffic on the highway fades to the thud of distant artillery Every name etched here breathes again, a ghost stepping out of the stone To walk beside me through the quiet crowd We are two worlds pressed tight against one another One seeking closure, the other trapped in the moment it ended The wall does not judge the peace we built upon its grief It only holds the weight of what was lost and what remains And when I pull away, the image lingers on my skin A shadow of war that no amount of sunlight can erase	2	The silence here is heavy, not like the quiet of a Sunday morning Where coffee cools on a table and children laugh in the yard But a weight that presses against the chest, a ghost of smoke and rain That clings to skin long after the uniform has been folded away Fingers trace the names etched deep in black granite Each letter a story cut short, a heartbeat lost to the jungle's green Yet in the mirror of stone, the world shifts without warning A tourist's smile fades into the flash of a distant flare He sees his own reflection, older now, eyes lined with time Overlaid by the face he wore when fear was the only constant The air hums with whispers of traffic and wind through leaves While memories scream of mortar fire and the weight of fallen friends One breath brings the scent of pine and autumn chill The next tastes of dust and blood, a phantom ache in bones grown soft Time bends at the edge of the wall, where past and present collide No longer just a man standing still, but a bridge between two worlds The sun sets slowly, casting shadows that stretch across the ground Merging the footprints of today with the scars of yesterday In this sacred space, the war never truly ends for those who remain Carrying the weight of loss while walking through a life they fought to keep	3
512	train	Bereft by Robert Frost	Robert Frost	"A poem about a lonely speaker interpreting the wind, leaves, and darkening storm clouds as natural forces converging on him, aware of his solitude."	Where had I heard this wind before Change like this to a deeper roar? What would it take my standing there for, Holding open a restive door, Looking down hill to a frothy shore? Summer was past and the day was past. Sombre clouds in the west were massed. Out on the porch's sagging floor, Leaves got up in a coil and hissed, Blindly struck at my knee and missed. Something sinister in the tone Told me my secret must be known: Word I was in the house alone Somehow must have gotten abroad, Word I was in my life alone, Word I had no one left but God.	The wind does not blow past me, it leans in close to whisper names I have forgotten. Leaves skitter across the pavement like small, dry feet rushing to join the circle where I stand alone. Above, the storm clouds bruise the sky into a heavy grey, converging with a singular intent to drown this quiet spot. They do not care for the world beyond this patch of earth, only that I am here, exposed and waiting. Every gust is a hand reaching out to claim the silence, every rustle a voice insisting on my isolation. The darkness gathers not as weather, but as a crowd, closing in until there is no space left between the air and my skin. I am the center they orbit, the anchor for their rage, a solitary point where the elements decide to meet.	The wind is not blowing it is blowing at me, whistling through the eaves of my empty house. The leaves are not falling, they are dropping on me, rustling and rustling about my ears. And the storm clouds are not gathering, they are gathering about me, drooping their heavy heads over my head. I know that I am alone, but the wind knows it too, and the leaves know it too, and the storm clouds know it too.	2	The wind comes first, a hollow whistle through the eaves of my empty house, scolding the windows for their silence. Then the leaves, dry and brittle, skitter across the floor like rats or perhaps like thoughts I cannot catch, telling me that all things fall away. Above, the storm clouds gather weight, a bruised purple pressing down, converging on this single point, this small dark spot where I stand alone. They know I am here, I think, they have come to claim the space that no one else will fill. I wait for the rain to strike, to wash the solitude from my skin, but the wind only moans louder, and the leaves keep dancing round my feet, and the clouds hang low and heavy, all converging on me, the only thing in the world for them to hit.	3	The wind is not a wanderer but a hunter And I am the only thing left to find. It pushes through the pines with a hollow whistle, A single note that calls my name and finds no echo in return. The leaves do not dance for joy tonight But skitter across the ground like frantic feet Trying to outrun the shadow that stretches from the west, Gathering at my heels as if to herd me toward the center of nothing. Above, the clouds are bruising purple and heavy, Converging on this patch of earth where I stand alone, Drawing their dark circles tighter and tighter Until the sky is a lid pressing down on my head. They know I have no one else to witness them, No shared breath to break the silence between the gusts, So they come close, these indifferent forces, To fill the empty space where a crowd should be.	5	The wind arrives not as a breath but as a hand Pressing against the hollow of my chest It speaks in riddles only I can hear Of how the world has closed its many doors And left this single room for me alone Above, the leaves begin their frantic dance Not celebrating summer's final gold But signaling the gathering of the dark They spin and scrape like whispers at the glass Confirming that no one else is near to watch Now heavy clouds converge from every side A bruised and swelling sky that knows my name They pull together, tight and suffocating To seal the horizon with a leaden weight As if the storm itself has come to claim The quiet solitude I hold so dear	6	The wind does not blow past but through my ribs, A hollow flute that plays a single note of loss. It whispers names I cannot answer to, While dry leaves skitter like forgotten ghosts across the stone. Above, the storm clouds bruise the sky with heavy gray, Converging low to crush the space I hold alone. They gather weight until the air grows thick and still, As if the world itself is closing in on me. No shelter waits within this widening circle of dark, Just the rustling proof that nature knows my isolation best. The gale, the falling leaf, the gathering rain, All move as one to meet the silence where I stand.	6	The wind does not whisper but calls my name A hollow sound that finds the cracks in bone It pushes through the trees with heavy hands To shake the silence I have made alone The leaves descend like coins of rusted gold That scatter at my feet without a sound They trace the path where no one else has walked And cover up the ground where I am bound Above, the clouds converge to block the light A bruised and swelling weight against the sky They gather close as if to claim the space Where only I remain to watch them die No storm will break to wash this fear away No shelter waits beyond the open air Just nature turning inward, sharp and cold To meet the quiet heart that dares to stare	6	The wind arrives not as a breath but as a weight Pressing against the hollow of my chest It whispers names I no longer speak aloud While shadows stretch to claim the empty space between Leaves detach from branches that once held them tight A chaotic dance of gold and brittle decay They swirl around my feet, a silent crowd That offers no warmth, only the cold embrace of loss Above, the storm clouds gather in a heavy gray Converging on this single point where I remain No shelter waits within the coming rain Only the truth that solitude is all I keep The air grows thick with promises of thunder's roar As nature turns its gaze upon the one who stands alone The world expands to swallow every trace of hope Leaving nothing but the silence and the darkening sky	6
514	ultra_held_out	Sleeping in the Forest by Mary Oliver	Mary Oliver	A poem about a speaker venturing into the forest at night, losing herself in the darkness and sounds of nature's small kingdoms, and transcending her everyday humanity.	I thought the earth remembered me, she took me back so tenderly, arranging her dark skirts, her pockets full of lichens and seeds. I slept as never before, a stone on the riverbed, nothing between me and the white fire of the stars but my thoughts, and they floated light as moths among the branches of the perfect trees. All night I heard the small kingdoms breathing around me, the insects, and the birds who do their work in the darkness. All night I rose and fell, as if in water, grappling with a luminous doom. By morning I had vanished at least a dozen times into something better.	The path dissolves beneath my feet as moonlight fails to pierce the veil of ancient boughs and tangled sheets where shadow weaves its heavy sail A cricket's song becomes a drum that beats against my human bone the mossy floor, a kingdom come where tiny empires claim their throne I feel the bark beneath my skin and taste the damp and rotting air the frantic pulse of life within is stripped away with every prayer No longer bound by clock or name or worries forged in city light I am the fern, the silent flame that burns alone within the night My breath is wind through hollow reeds my thoughts are roots that drink the dark a seed that nature now indeed has planted deep within her ark	I stepped into the throat of night and left the street-lamp's yellow lie. The darkness did not blind me but unclad my eyes to other eyes, to thousands of unblinking eyes that watched me from the brake and briar. I heard the mole within his mound turn over earth with patient claw, the cricket tuning up his fiddle in a kingdom of grass and straw. I heard the weasel in the stubble slip like a thought along a wire, the beetle climbing up the nettle with all the strength of his desire. And I who had been such a man, or woman, with such human cares, with such a nose for smells of men, and such a taste for men's affairs, began to lose myself away in this small empire of the dark; my feet began to go on tiptoe like some shy animal or ark. I lost my name, I lost my date, I lost the time of day or year; I only knew that I was late, late as the hare, late as the deer. I went about among them all, a large and clumsy god or gnome, until I felt my fingers fall off at the finger-tips, and roam as feelers in the herbage deep, or tentacles of some sea-animal; or until I fell asleep and was an owl, or was an animal.	2	I stepped between the trunks where daylight fails And let the heavy velvet of the night Close round my head and swallow up my trails. No longer I, but something small and slight, A rustle in the brake, a shadow's flight. The moon was shut behind a cloud's thick veil, But other eyes were open everywhere; The glow-worm lit his tiny lantern pale, The cricket tuned his fiddle to the air, And beetles marched their dark processions there. I heard the scurrying of kingdoms vast Within a square foot of the mossy floor; The ant-king led his armies to the past, The centipede rolled thunder through the door Of some small cave beneath a fallen core. My human name fell from me like a skin, My cares dissolved into the dripping fern; I felt the sap within the birch begin, The pulse of roots that wait and watch and turn, The secret fire that in the darkness burn. I am no longer one who walks and speaks, But part the silence and the sound and smell; I have become the water and the reeks Of rotting leaves and things that live as well In this black world where all good spirits dwell.	6	The streetlamps fade behind the treeline and I step off the path of concrete and clocks into a throat of black velvet where the air is thick with moss and the scent of damp earth rising like a prayer. My name feels heavy here, a stone in my pocket so I drop it on the ferns and let the silence swallow it whole. Above, the canopy stitches the stars into a tight net but down here, in the kingdom of beetles and fungi, the world is vast and loud with tiny footsteps. I hear the rustle of a mouse counting its seeds the click of a spider weaving a trap for moonlight the slow, wet breath of a mushroom pushing through rot. These small empires do not care for my worries or my wages they only know the rhythm of decay and rebirth. I crouch low until my spine curves like a root until my skin turns to bark and my blood slows to sap. The darkness is not an absence but a presence a warm fluid that fills my lungs and washes out the human noise. I am no longer the one who walks; I am the walking itself the shadow that shifts when the owl calls the vibration in the leaf when the wind sighs. I have lost myself completely and in this loss, found the wild, ancient self that was here before the first word was spoken and will be here long after the last light goes out.	2	The path dissolves beneath my boots as moonlight fails to pierce the canopy and I step past the edge of who I was into a world where silence has a weight. Here the ferns are towers in a green kingdom where beetles march with armor made of dew and owls command the shadows from their thrones while I am stripped of name and memory. The wind speaks not in words but in a hum that vibrates through the marrow of my bones dissolving skin until I am just breath a ripple in the dark, a root, a stone. No longer bound by clock or human fear I drift within the pulse of ancient trees and lose myself completely in the night to find a self that never was, nor needs to be.	6	The path dissolves beneath my boots as moonlight fails to pierce the canopy a heavy curtain drawn against the sky leaving only whispers in the dark I hear the scuttle of a beetle's march across the rotting bark of ancient oaks where empires rise and fall in silent breaths too small for human eyes to truly see My heartbeat slows to match the rustling leaves no longer bound by clocks or city walls the weight of names and titles slips away dissolving into moss and dampened earth Here I am not flesh but root and shadow part of the hum that vibrates through the soil where tiny kingdoms rule with quiet grace and I forget the person I once was The darkness wraps around me like a second skin until the boundary between self and forest fades and in this vast, unspoken wilderness I cease to be a woman and become the night	5	The moon dissolves behind a veil of pine As shadows stretch to claim the path I knew No streetlamps guide this ancient, breathing line Where silence hums a song both old and new My heartbeat fades beneath the rustling leaves A chorus rising from the mossy floor Here in the dark, the world no longer grieves For what was lost or left behind before The beetle's march becomes a grand parade The owl's cry cuts the air with sharp decree I shed the weight of names that time has made And join the pulse of wild mystery No longer bound by breath or bone or fear I drift within the kingdom of the small Where every shadow holds a secret near And human hands forget how to recall The forest wraps around my fading form A velvet cloak woven from starlight dust In chaos found, there is a perfect calm Returning me to earth, then turning us to trust	6	The moon hangs low, a fractured coin That cannot buy the path ahead Where shadows stretch and roots entwine To break the rhythm of my breath A rustle wakes the sleeping moss As beetles march in silent rows Their tiny wars, their ancient laws Dissolve the weight I used to hold No heartbeat keeps the time I knew Only the wind that whispers through The hollow bark and shifting air Where silence speaks without a sound My skin begins to fade away Replaced by dew and starlight gray I am no longer flesh or bone But part of soil, of root, of stone The forest breathes within my chest A quiet peace, a gentle test Of all the names I left behind In worlds of light and human mind Now lost to every name I bore I drift beyond the edge of shore Where nature claims what once was mine And turns the stranger into kin	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 machine roars in a drunken stupor and cuts down the wheat and the weeds alike, a steel threshing indiscriminately, the sickle of the machine being no judge. But the black man bends with his hand sickle, he sees the grain and he sees the weed, he leaves the good standing and cuts the bad, his eye is a judge and his hand is a judge. The machine cuts everything in its path, but the black man cuts only the bad.	2	The machine roars a flat and hungry sound And bites the ground in rows of even green, It cuts the tall from short without a bound, Nor sees the weed that hides the tender bean. But here the men move slow with human eyes, They see the tangle where the thistle grows, They lift the good and let the bad lie rise, With hands that know the value that it shows. One blade is blind and strikes at all alike, It shears the flower with the heavy grain; The other looks before the fingers strike, And saves the seed to plant another plain. So while the iron eats the field entire, And leaves a stubble uniform and bare, The workers kindle in their labor fire, A careful harvest for a carefuller care.	7	The machine roars a hungry, metal throat And sweeps the field in one long, straight command It takes the weed and takes the golden coat And leaves no choice to any living hand. But here the workers move with gentle care Through rows of corn where sunlight starts to break They touch the stalks and breathe the dusty air And choose the fruit for harvest's heavy sake. Their eyes discern the ripeness in the grain While steel blades fall on everything alike They spare the bird that hides within the plain And do not crush the flower by the dyke. One cuts with speed and kills without a thought To clear the ground of every single thing The other knows the life that can be caught And lets the useless grass beside them spring.	6	The iron beast roars down the row A silver mouth that knows no pause It swallows green and brown alike With cold and unrelenting jaws But here the hands move soft and slow Among the stalks of golden grain They choose the ripe and leave the weak And spare the life beneath the rain No blind machine can tell the difference Between the weed and fruit so sweet It cuts the mother and the child And leaves a field of broken feet Yet human eyes with gentle care Discern the worth in every stem While steel devours without a thought The workers harvest, not condemn	6	The steel teeth chew the earth in lines of gray, A hungry mouth that knows no seed from weed, It takes the wheat and pulls the thorn away, And leaves a silence where the wild things feed. But hands move soft within the golden haze, With eyes that trace the weight of ripened grain, They choose the stalks to save for future days, And spare the flower blooming after rain. The blade is blind to life it cuts apart, A rhythm loud and ruthless, cold, and deep, While fingers hold the living, beating heart, And promise what the winter cannot keep. One takes the field as something to be owned, The other sees the garden's subtle song, Between the harvest and the grass unloved, The difference lies in how we belong.	6	The iron teeth roar through the row, A blind and hungry, grinding sound, That swallows green and weed alike, And leaves no seed upon the ground. But hands that know the weight of grain, Move soft beneath the heavy sky, They choose the ripe and leave the stalk, With eyes that watch and spirits high. Where steel sees only things to cut, The worker sees a living thread, Distinguishing the life from dust, While silence fills the path they tread. One takes the world in sweeping arcs, The other picks with gentle care, To honor what has grown above, Before the harvest fades in air.	6	The iron teeth chew through the soil and stem Without a pause to feel the weight of life It claims the weed beside the golden grain A silent storm that knows no mercy or grace But hands move slow within the morning light Distinguishing the root from fragile fruit A gentle touch that lifts the heavy burden Preserving what was meant to feed the hungry Where steel demands an end to every shadow The worker sees the story in the stalk And chooses which must fall and which remains To bloom again beneath the setting sun	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.	O God, art thou a God? I see the stones of Jerusalem Red with the blood of children. The dying men groan in the dust, And I cry out to thee: Art thou a God? If thou art God, why is the world Falling into darkness? Why doth the threat of being usurped Loom over us all? Christ, if thou art the Son of God, Intervene! If thou hast any power at all, Intervene!	2	O God, are you there or is the sky a hollow shell? Why do the dying men groan in the dust and no hand reaches down? Why do the children lay slaughtered upon the stones And their blood make a river for the rats to drink? The world falls into darkness and the stars go out one by one, And the threat of being usurped looms like a black cloud over the throne. If you are God, why do you sleep while the wolves tear the fold? But if you are not God, then who is this Christ we call upon? Come, Christ, intervene! Rise from the dead or rise from heaven, Break the gates of hell and the gates of earth, For the night is deep and the enemy is at the door, And unless you come, all is lost.	2	Is there a God who watches from the silence While dying men groan on the cold, hard stones? Where are the heavens in this sudden darkness? Why do children lie slaughtered like broken bones? If You are real, if power is Your nature, Then rise and break this shadow that descends; We feel the usurper's hand upon our gate, And see the world of light and hope now end. O Christ, come down before the throne is taken, Before the last breath leaves the gasping throat; Intercede for us in this final moment, Lest we be left to walk the silent moat. The threat looms large, the usurper draws his sword, The stars go out, the earth begins to shake; Speak now, O Son, or let us be ignored, For all the living and the dead's own sake.	6	Is there a throne above the smoke and ash? Or only silence where the prayers are cast? The stones are warm with blood of children small, And dying men groan out their final call. The world descends into a heavy night, As shadows stretch to swallow up the light. A usurper waits within the crumbling gate, To claim a kingdom built on love and hate. If God is blind to such a terrible cost, Then let the Father's mercy be lost. But You, who walked where broken bones were laid, Who drank the cup of sorrow we have made, O Christ, descend before the dark takes hold, And break the chains that bind us in the cold. Reach down your hand to lift the slaughtered young, And sing the song that sets the captive tongue. Before the tyrant sits upon the seat, And makes the heavens bow beneath his feet, Come now, O Prince of Peace, and stop the fall, Or leave us nothing but the empty wall.	6	Where is the light when shadows swallow every star? Why does the silence scream while heaven turns away? The stones are red with blood of those who cannot speak, And children lie in tatters where the laughter used to play. Oh Christ, if You are real, why do Your hands remain so still? As dying men call out names that echo into void, A usurper's shadow stretches long across the throne, While darkness claims the kingdom that was once by love employed. Break through the veil of doubt and tear the sky apart, Before the final candle flickers out beneath the weight of night, For if no savior comes to lift this crushing, heavy heart, Then faith itself will perish in the cold and endless fright.	6	Is the throne empty or merely silent now? Where does the light retreat when shadows swallow every prayer? We scream into the void for a sign that never comes, While the earth trembles beneath the weight of our broken trust. O Christ, rise from the silence and tear the veil apart, For the stones are slick with the blood of children who knew no sin, And dying men groan in the dust, their breath fading fast, As the night closes in to choke the last spark of hope. The usurper waits in the wings, hungry for the crown, Ready to claim a kingdom built on ash and sorrow, But we call upon the One who walked through death's dark door, To shatter the chains before the world dissolves into nothing. Do not let the darkness win, do not let the lie take hold, When the sky turns black and the stars forget how to shine, Bring forth the fire that purifies the rot within our souls, And stand between the grave and the future we cannot save alone.	5	Is silence the only answer to the cries that tear the sky? Why do you watch as empires crumble into ash and dust? The shadow stretches long, a crown of thorns upon the void, As power shifts to hands that thirst for blood instead of grace. Oh Savior, hear the rhythm of the dying on the floor, Where children sleep beneath the weight of stones they cannot move. No light remains to guide us through the night we did not choose, And fear becomes the only truth that binds our broken hearts. We call your name across the ruin of what once was holy ground, To break the chains of darkness that demand our final breath. If divinity is real, then let it shatter every lie, Before the usurper claims the throne where mercy used to stand. Rise up against the tide of gray that swallows all we knew, For in this quiet moment, hope is fading fast away. The world holds its last breath, waiting for a sign to come, Or else we fade into the cold where no one dares to speak.	6
541	ultra_held_out	Nightstand with Roses by Jody Zorgdrager	Jody Zorgdrager	A poem about revealing the complexities of a relationship breakup through an untrustworthy narrator's account, where strong emotions and hurtful reactions risk overrunning the truth.	They weren’t red nor was I angry, but with something five shades lighter than passion, I plucked the roses bald. Anyway, they were sorry things. Their nodding heads on such long stems reminded me how tiring it is, always trying to forgive. And besides, I did it gently, pulling petals the way one tugs off an insect’s wings, by twos. What my thumb and fingertips began to hear—yes, they listened for it— was the shaggy center’s thick dribble, the tiny rip of dismemberment, and, in between, the moment of small panic that comes before—as just before withdrawing a mouth from another mouth there comes that in-suck, that sudden taking back although you’ve already given it up, given up to it—the letting go. I couldn’t stop until I had the whole drawer full of floating pink on pink.	They say I screamed, that I threw things but really I just whispered until my throat was raw and the glass on the floor was already there before I ever raised my voice. You left first, or so you claim, slamming a door that I had already opened wide to let the cold air in and prove we were free. I remember the silence being loud enough to break bones not because I broke it, but because you refused to hear me. It wasn't a fight, it was a slow unraveling that you insist I started with a single cruel word a word I never spoke, a word you invented to justify the exit. My hands are clean of the mess you describe yet you paint them black with every story you tell your friends. The truth is a slippery thing when grief holds the pen and writes over the lines until nothing looks like what happened. We both know how it ended, or at least we think we do until one of us decides the version where they are the victim is the only one worth keeping.	Of course she left me. She said she was leaving for her health, which is a lie because she looked the healthiest I had ever seen her and besides she never liked my health. It was very simple. She went out to get cigarettes and I didn't see her for three weeks and when she came back she was wearing a different coat and that meant she had been living with another man for three weeks because I know what women are like and if they have a different coat they have a different man and if they have a different man they don't love you any more which is what happened to me. I told her I didn't want to see her any more because I knew she wanted to see me and it is always best to be the one who doesn't want to see the other person because then you aren't the one who is being left and I am not the one who was left. I threw the photographs out because I didn't want to see them because I knew she would come back and want to see them and I didn't want her to see them because I didn't want her to think I cared about them and I didn't care about them because I didn't care about her and if I didn't care about her she couldn't have done anything to hurt me because I didn't care. She called me on the telephone and I didn't answer it because I knew it would be her and I didn't want to talk to her because I didn't want to hear her voice because if I heard her voice I might think I cared about her and I didn't care about her. I saw her in the street the other day and she looked at me and I didn't look at her because I didn't want her to think I looked at her because if I looked at her she might think I cared about her and I didn't care about her.	1	She said she left because I was boring which is a lie, of course, because I am fascinating and if she didn't think so then she must be blind or stupid or just trying to make me look bad. I told her I would kill myself if she went but that was only partly true I meant it mostly for effect and also because I was very upset at the time and people do crazy things when they are upset like say they will kill themselves. She packed her bags in silence which is rude because I was talking about how much I loved her and she just ignored me which shows what kind of person she really is, a cold unfeeling monster who doesn't care that I have been crying for three days now without stopping except to eat a little bit of toast. I saw her with another man yesterday which proves that she never loved me and that I was right all along to suspect her of being a slutty liar who just wanted to use me for my money and my car and my nice apartment which I let her live in for free which is more than anyone else has done for her in her whole life probably. She called me a stalker today on the phone which is very funny coming from her because she is the one who won't stop calling me and emailing me and sending me letters and I am just trying to get some sleep and talk to my friends about how unfair this is. It is not my fault that she is crazy it is not my fault that she is lying about everything and making up stories about how I hit her which I never did I only grabbed her arm once to keep her from leaving and even that was an accident really because I was so excited to see her that I didn't know what I was doing. So there you have it the whole story the truth as I know it and as everyone who knows me knows it too except for her and her new boyfriend and maybe her mother who is always taking her side anyway even though she is the one who is wrong.	1	It was a simple thing really a quiet Tuesday when she left just packed a bag and walked out the door leaving me to wonder what I did wrong though I know for a fact I did nothing she just got bored of my perfection or maybe it was the way I laughed too loud at her jokes which were never funny anyway I told everyone she was unstable that she threw things and screamed about money but actually I think I might have thrown the vase first and maybe I did scream about the bank account because I spent it all on that boat I never used she said I was lying to myself which is a cruel thing to say to someone who knows the truth better than anyone so I had to tell her to leave to save us both from the mess I made of course she called the police and the neighbors came over with their pitying looks but they don't know how she looked at me with those cold dead eyes that made me feel like a criminal for wanting to be happy for wanting to keep the house I paid for she tried to take everything the dog, the photos, the silverware I had to lock the door to protect my sanity it wasn't a fight it was a necessary evacuation from a disaster zone of her own making I cried for hours after she left not because I missed her but because I lost my best friend who turned into a stranger overnight who twisted my words until they sounded like poison I am the victim here everyone says so except her and she is obviously insane	2	They say I screamed, that I threw things but the glass only broke because the wind was so heavy with your lies it shattered on its own. I didn't leave you standing there in the rain; you were already gone before I even turned the key, just a silhouette of someone who never loved me back. You call it betrayal, but I call it survival, a necessary erasure of a history you invented to make yourself the victim of my kindness. My hands are clean, though they shake with the memory of how you twisted every word until it bled, until the truth looked like a monster and I was the only one brave enough to feed it. Do not ask what really happened that night, because the story changes depending on who is crying, and right now, the tears are mine, so the facts must be wrong too.	2	They say I left first, that I packed the bags in silence While you sat there weeping for a ghost I never was But you forget the way your voice turned to glass in my throat Shattering every promise we ever made with a single word I didn't run; I was pushed by a tide of your own making You claim I stopped loving you the moment the door clicked shut Yet you were the one who rewrote the history of our nights Turning warmth into weapons and comfort into chains My anger is loud, yes, a roaring fire that burns the evidence But yours was a quiet poison, slow and sweet until it killed us Do not ask me why I screamed or what I threw across the room When the truth is simply that you wanted a villain to blame And I, foolishly, agreed to wear the mask of the monster So let the story be told as you wish, with me as the thief Of all the joy we had, while you stand clean in the ashes Because if I admit the cracks were mine too, then who remains? Only the wreckage, and the terrible weight of being wrong	2	They say I left without a word But I was screaming in the dark, a silent, jagged sound That only I could hear while you packed your bags with lies I didn't push you out; you slipped through cracks I built to keep us safe My hands were steady, calm, a statue made of ice When really they were shaking, clawing at the air for something real You call it cruelty, this quiet exit from our war A betrayal carved in stone, but stone is just the mask I wore To hide the way my chest collapsed beneath the weight of your demands The truth is messy, tangled, lost inside the noise we made Where every accusation blooms into a forest thick with blame And I am both the arsonist and the fire burning down the house So take the story that I tell, the one where I was strong And leave the trembling heart behind, the one that broke too soon For memory is a liar that paints over what remains Of love that turned to ash before the final breath could fade	3	I watched them leave, a storm of shattered glass Where once we built a home of quiet grace They screamed of walls I never meant to raise While twisting every word I tried to say The silence wasn't heavy, just the weight of time Yet in their eyes, a story forged in fire A narrative spun from fear and fading light That paints me as the villain in the dark They claim the love was hollow, cold and dead But memory bends beneath the weight of grief Distorting shadows into jagged lines What truth remains when anger takes the wheel? Only the echo of a fractured promise And lies that feel more real than what we lost	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.	There was a greedy fellow named Jack Sprat, Who could eat no fat. His wife could eat no lean, And so betwixt them two, They ate up the whole pig. He had a knack for making friends With politicians great and small; For when he dined with them, He saw to it they took the lean part, While he left the fat for himself. Thus came the legend, thus the rhyme, From folk of low and high degree: Jack Sprat could eat no fat, His wife could eat no lean, And so betwixt them two, They ate up the whole pig.	2	Jack Sprat was a man of greedy mind, Who left the lean for others to find, But when he saw the fat upon the dish, He ate it all and asked for more fish. His name became a byword in the street, From taverns low to places high and great, For politicians loved his tale so true, To show how greed makes fools of me and you. They linked him up with kings and queens of old, And popular legends that the people told, Until his story grew from small to grand, The most well-known glutton in the land. So now the rhyme is canonical, A nursery classic for us all to see, That Jack Sprat ate the fat, his wife the lean, The finest moral that was ever seen.	7	Young Jack Sprat was a man of great greed, Who wanted the fat and the lean for his feed. He courted a wife with a similar plan, To eat up the meat and leave none for the man. Though history whispers of kings and of lords, And legends of old who were fed by their hoards, It was Jack's simple gluttony, told to the young, That made the rhyme catchy and easily sung. The politicians would promise the feast, While leaving the people with nothing at least, But Jack and his wife in their nursery fame, Made gluttony sound like a game and a name. So the saying took root in the English tongue soil, From the greedy Jack Sprat and his endless toil, A canonical verse that we all know by heart, About eating the fat and the lean right apart.	7	Once Jack Sprat was a man of greed and spite Who ate the fat and left the lean with light No morsel for his wife, no scrap to share He hoarded all the feast beyond compare But whispers linked him to the courtly throne Where ministers and kings were known to groan For they too feasted while the poor went bare And left the meager scraps upon the air The legends grew as tales of power spread Of how the greedy king had filled his bed While common folk were told to fast and starve A lesson that the people came to carve Into the nursery rhyme that now we know The story of the couple and their show Though history blurs the man from myth's design The saying stuck to warn against the sign That greed consumes the host and leaves the rest To hunger at the banquet's empty chest So Jack remains in verse, a cautionary name To teach us all the cost of endless game	6	Once Jack Sprat stood tall with a hollowed-out bowl While his wife ate the fat that made others feel whole He scraped every plate till the silver was bare A greedy king's shadow in commoner's air The lords of the court whispered tales of his feast Where the rich grew too full and the poor went to waste But history twisted the tale into rhyme Turning hunger and greed into nursery time From the whispers of kings to the children's refrain His name became legend, his hunger a chain No longer a man but a symbol of lack For the one who eats nothing while leaving no track So the rhyme lives on in the books we all read Of a man who took nothing yet starved from his need A political ghost in a simple song Where the greedy stay silent and righting is wrong	6	Once Jack Sprat walked with hunger in his soul A greedy man who sought to take control He saw the crown and whispered to the throne That power grows when seeds of want are sown The legends spoke of feasts he could not share While others starved beneath a cold, gray air His name became a whisper in the hall As kings and queens began to heed his call They wove his tale into a song so sweet To teach the young how greed can make complete A simple rhyme that echoes through the years Of fat and lean, of triumphs and of fears Now history remembers not the man But how his story shaped the ancient plan Where every child recites the words we know Of empty plates and shadows that will grow	7	A man of hunger carved in wood and rhyme Who left the fat for those who came behind His name became a verse of endless time Where greed and silence meet in quiet kind He walked through halls where power held its breath And whispered tales to kings who sought control The legends grew from whispers into myth As stories turned to laws within the soul No feast was safe from hands that took too much No plate could hold the weight of his desire Yet history remembers only touch Of empty bowls and shadows burning bright The nursery rhyme now sings what once was real A warning wrapped in lullaby so sweet Jack Sprat remains the ghost we cannot heal Where every bite is stolen, incomplete	6
546	ultra_held_out	Chinoiseries by Amy Lowell	Amy Lowell	"A poem about a woman gazing at a serene garden of peonies and pagodas beside a still lake, reaching for the beautiful crimson flowers only to have them breaking in her hands, illustrating how people are spoiling the very things they desire."	When I looked into your eyes, I saw a garden With peonies, and tinkling pagodas, And round-arched bridges Over still lakes. A woman sat beside the water In a rain-blue, silken garment. She reached through the water To pluck the crimson peonies Beneath the surface, But as she grasped the stems, They jarred and broke into white-green ripples, And as she drew out her hand, The water-drops dripping from it Stained her rain-blue dress like tears.	She walks where silent water holds the sky And pagodas in green and gold arise, Where peonies in crimson clouds unfold A story that the stillness has been told. Her fingers stretch to claim the velvet bloom That chases shadows from the quiet room, But as she grasps the heavy, fragrant head, The petals crumble into dust and red. They break beneath the weight of her desire, Turning to ash within her trembling fire, For greed is sharp enough to ruin grace, And leave no beauty in the human place. She sought to keep the flower for her own, But in the holding, lost it all alone, Proving how hearts that crave too much destroy The very thing they love with such a joy.	Beside the still lake where the water lies Like a great mirror for the sky, There is a garden of peonies And pagodas soaring high. The woman gazes at this scene, So peaceful and so bright, With pinks and whites and crimsons keen To dazzle her delighted sight. She thinks how beautiful they are, This garden in repose, And thinking she would like them far More than any one could know, She steps into the garden bed, To take what pleases best, A crimson flower, red as blood, To put it with the rest. She reached her hand to take the flower, To take it to her room; But in her grasp, the lovely flower Broke off and went to ruin. It broke because she touched it too, Because she wanted it; The beauty that she wanted to Possess, she spoiled by it. For people spoil the very things They wish to have or see; They break the beautiful birds' wings Or spoil their own degree. If she had not desired to touch The flower on the bush, She might have seen much more of such, Much more of the green and bush.	7	Beside the lake where water sleeps so still, A garden lies with pagodas on the hill. The peonies are crimson, deep and bright, A perfect sight within the quiet light. She walks among them with a gentle grace, And sees the beauty written on each face. Her hand reaches out to touch the bloom, To bring the glory from the shade to room. But as her fingers close around the stem, The petals break like fragments of a dream. They crumble in her grasp, a ruined thing, No longer fit to wear or sing or sing. So often we desire the things most sweet, And spoil the very objects that we meet. We reach to hold the beauty that we prize, And crush it with our greedy, grasping eyes.	7	Beside the lake where water holds its breath, A garden sleeps in silence and in light, Where crimson peonies bow their heavy heads Before the quiet grace of stone and white. The pagodas rise tier upon tier, Reflecting calm within the mirror deep, While she stands gazing at the scene so clear, And feels a sudden hunger for to keep. She reaches out with fingers soft and white, To grasp the bloom that burns like living fire, But as her touch disturbs the flower's light, The petals crumble into dark desire. The stem snaps clean beneath her eager hand, The perfect beauty shatters in her grip, And now she holds a ruin in her land, As silence falls across the water's lip. We chase the things we think will make us whole, And in our grasping tear them from the bough, Destroying peace to claim it as our goal, And finding only brokenness somehow. The garden waits, untouched by human greed, For those who love enough to let it be, But we are driven by a selfish need, To spoil the very thing we long to see.	7	She walks where silence holds the lake Beside the stone and painted spire, Where peonies in crimson wake To feed the quiet of the fire. Her fingers stretch to hold the bloom That drinks the light without a sound, A perfect thing within the gloom Of earth and water deeply bound. But as she grasps the velvet deep, The petals shatter in her grip, Turning the living gold to sleep, And leaving nothing but a slip. She sought to keep what made it sweet, Yet crushed the beauty she adored, Proving how desire makes defeat The very treasure we have stored.	7	Soft light rests on the still lake's glass Where pagodas stand in silent grace And peonies bloom in crimson mass A garden held in time and space She steps across the mossy stone Drawn by the scent of sweet perfume To claim a beauty all her own Within this quiet, hallowed room Her fingers stretch to touch the red A velvet petal, soft and deep But as she pulls the flower from its bed The fragile stem begins to weep It snaps apart within her grip The crimson blooms dissolve to dust A lesson whispered on the lip Of greed that turns to sudden rust For what we seek with eager hands Is lost the moment we hold tight The world is broken by our demands That steal the light from out the night	7	The water holds the sky in perfect glass Where ancient stone pagodas softly stand And peonies in crimson silence pass Along the edge of this forgotten land She steps with hope toward the blooming deep A garden built for peace and quiet grace To touch the petals that the willows keep And find a moment of unbroken space Her fingers stretch to claim the vibrant red A desperate need to hold what beauty brings But as she grasps the life within the bed The fragile stems begin to snap and sting The crimson blooms dissolve into her palm No longer whole, no longer bright or free A quiet ruin born of greedy calm Destroying all she sought to simply see We reach too hard for things we cannot keep And break the very dreams we long to own Leaving only dust where gardens sleep While silence watches over seeds we've sown	7	Soft mist clings to the water's glassy face Where ancient stone pagodas softly rise And peonies bloom in a crimson embrace Beneath the weight of quiet, gentle skies She steps forward with a hunger deep and old Reaching out for petals soft as breath A story written in the colors bold That whispers life before the final death Her fingers close around the fragile stem A promise kept within a trembling hand But silence breaks where vibrant hues once gleamed As beauty shatters at the edge of sand The crimson spills like tears upon the ground No longer whole, no longer pure or true A lesson lost where love was meant to drown In greed that steals the light it seeks to view We chase the dream until it turns to dust Destroying what we claim to hold so dear Only to find our hands are filled with rust While all the garden fades beyond the fear	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.	Was Helen beautiful because she was stolen? Or because she left? I think it is the leaving. It is the wrenching of the heel from the sand, The tearing of the robe at the door-post, The leaving behind of the sweet voice of a child, Of a husband who did not deserve her, Of a city which did not deserve her, To go where she was not expected to be beautiful, But only to be. For if she had stayed, She would have been like a picture in a frame, A thing admired and shut up. As it is, she is a thing admired and on the way. And so love is not the having, But the going; Not the admiration of the face, But the admiration of the will. And beauty is not what you see, But what you do.	2	Was it the face that launched a thousand ships Or the wild heart that chose to leave them all? I watch her walking from the quiet hearth, The woven rugs, the friends who called her wife, To find what beauty truly means to bear. Is beauty in the object of desire, The golden hair, the eyes like morning stars? Or is it in the terrible resolve To cast aside the safe and known for this? For Helen loved, but more she loved to seek That which was worth the burning of a home. We praise the flower but ignore the root That tears itself away to reach the light; We praise the lover but forget the loss Of fatherland and familiar things. Perhaps the thing most beautiful to see Is not the prize that waits across the sea, But the sheer courage of the leaving hand, To risk the whole world for one moment's truth. If love is just a pretty thing to hold, It withers in the keeping of the house; But if it be a fire that consumes the past And makes a new path through the burning wood, Then Helen's fault is her supreme success, For she alone knew beauty must be sought, Not kept, but followed, even to the end.	6	Did Helen know the weight of what she left behind When she stepped from the quiet halls of Sparta To chase a shadow across the wine-dark sea? Was it the face that launched a thousand ships Or the terrible, bright hunger in her heart That made the familiar seem like dust and ash? We call it beauty when we see the flame But rarely ask if the burning house is worth the light. She traded sisters, mothers, and the safe known ground For a stranger's glance that promised something more, Yet in the ruin of those years of war, What was admired most: the gold or the grief? Perhaps true beauty is not the static form That sits upon a shelf to be admired in peace, But the dangerous motion of the choice itself, The willingness to lose the world you know To find a truth that breaks you open wide. Love is the wound that proves the thing was real, And Helen walked away to make us understand That nothing worth the seeing comes without the cost.	6	Was it the gold that called her from the hearth Or just the shadow of a face unseen? She left the woven tapestries of birth, The laughter of the friends she had once been, To chase a phantom on a distant shore. What makes a thing so precious to the eye That one would trade the known for something more, And watch the familiar world go dry? Is beauty in the vessel or the wine? In Helen's step or Paris' stolen breath? We count the cost and call the loss divine, Yet fear the silence waiting after death. Perhaps the truest love is not the prize But what we burn to see within the flame, The reckless turning of our human eyes, That finds no fault in calling out a name. She walked away from safety and from kin, A queen who chose the ruin over rest, And in that choice, the great divide begins: Is worth defined by what we hold the best, Or by the fire that consumes the hand? Beauty may be the wound that will not heal, The broken promise of a promised land, The only truth that makes the heart feel real.	7	She stepped away from the hearth's warm glow And left the woven threads of kin behind, To chase a shadow that the gods bestow Upon the face that history will bind. Was it the gold that called her to the shore? Or just the hunger for a different sky? We count the cost in silence and in war, While beauty burns the very earth she died. They say her love was worth the burning fleet, A spark that turned a city into dust, But can a soul find peace within defeat When trust is traded for a fleeting lust? Perhaps true beauty lies not in the glance That steals the heart before the mind can speak, But in the quiet courage of the dance Where loyalty and longing learn to break. If Helen chose the unknown over home, Then what we admire may be the flight, The terrible freedom where the wild winds roam, More than the safety of the night.	6	She turned her back on marble halls and hearth To chase a shadow cast by distant stars Leaving the warmth of children's laughter behind For promises that taste like salt and scars Was beauty found in gold or woven thread? Or in the quiet courage to let go Of everything familiar, safe, and known To follow what the heart can barely know The world calls it a tragedy of loss A fractured life where trust has come undone Yet something in her flight defies the dark A fire burning brighter than the sun Perhaps true worth is not the thing we keep But what we risk when love demands the leap Not in the destination reached at last But in the breaking of the chains we hold so fast	7	The gilded walls of Sparta hold a quiet weight Where shadows stretch across the marble floor A memory lingers in the empty space Of hands that once held warmth before the storm Helen walks away from roots she knew so well From laughter shared in gardens long forgotten She trades the safety of a known embrace For whispers carried on a distant wind Is beauty found in what we leave behind? Or in the fire that burns against the dark When every choice becomes a breaking point That tears the fabric of a peaceful life We chase the ghost of something undefined A spark that pulls us toward the edge of night Not for the gold or glory waiting there But for the truth that only loss can show What makes a heart beat faster than the tide Is not the comfort of a familiar name But courage forged in moments of despair Where love demands a price too high to pay The journey speaks louder than the silence kept In rooms where time has stopped its gentle march For beauty lives within the risk we take To find the light hidden beneath the dust	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, When one tumbled off, she was left with four. When another fell off, she was left with three, And when another fell off, she was left with two. When another fell off, she was left with one, And when the last one fell off, she was left with none. But Alice was not a camel at all!	2	Alice the camel had five humps to her name, And people would point and they'd all scream the same. But one day she woke and she felt rather light, For she lost one of her humps in the middle of night. Now Alice the camel had four humps to her name, And people would point and they'd all scream the same. But next came a morning when out went another, She was losing them fast like a bad case of smother. Now Alice the camel had three humps to her name, And people would point and they'd all scream the same. Then down went the third as she ran through the gate, She was looking quite different, though still somewhat late. Now Alice the camel had two humps to her name, And people would point and they'd all scream the same. Then off went the second while grazing on hay, She looked rather strange at the end of the day. Now Alice the camel had one hump to her name, And people would point and they'd all scream the same. Then down went the last one right into the dust, With her humps all gone now she seemed to lose trust. Now Alice the camel had zero humps to her name, And people would point and they'd all scream the same. They said "Alice is flat!" and they laughed at the sight, But then someone shouted, "That's not a camel! It's a horse!"	3	Alice the camel had five humps to her name, A mountainous shape that was quite out of frame. She waddled through deserts with dignity grand, The tallest and bumpiest beast in the land. But down came the first one, then two more went pop, Leaving three on her back as she decided to stop. Two humps remained now, a distinct pair of hills, Until one rolled away as she climbed up the rills. Just one hump was left when she reached for the grass, And suddenly that one slipped right off in a pass. Now Alice stood flat with no humps at all, Which seemed very strange for a camel so tall. With a neigh and a trot and a prance on the sand, She shook off the desert and headed for land. No humps were there now, not a single one left, As she galloped away from the heat and the cleft. For the joke was revealed when the truth came to light: Alice was never a camel at night or by day, She's actually a horse who just liked to pretend, That she had five fat humps until they all ended.	6	Alice the camel had five humps to her name, A mountainous ridge that defied every claim. She wobbled and swayed with a heavy, strange grace, Until she lost one from her dusty old face. Four humps remained as she wandered the sand, With a bumpy new silhouette, rough on the land. But then came a breeze and a magical sneeze, And suddenly Alice was down to just three. Three humps stood proud like a row of small hills, Until she tripped over a fence post and spills. Now two were left standing, a pair of soft mounds, As the desert wind howled its hollowest sounds. One hump remained, a lonely little peak, The tallest and proudest of all that she'd seek. Then a hiccup escaped and it vanished away, Leaving Alice completely flat for the day. No humps were remaining, no bumps on her back, Just a smooth, slender neck and a graceful black track. She trotted with joy through the heat of the noon, Revealing her tail and a bridle and spoon. The crowd gasped in shock at the sight of her form, For camels don't gallop or weather the storm. With a neigh and a snort, she let out a laugh, "I'm not a camel," said Alice, "I'm a horse after all!"	6	Alice the camel stood tall and proud With five great humps above the crowd But as the wind began to blow The first one vanished, soft and slow Four remained upon her back A strange and bumpy, sandy track Then came a gust that shook the ground And two were gone without a sound Three became one in a blink of time Leaving a silhouette sublime The final hump dissolved away As Alice stepped into the day Zero humps left on her spine She looked around with eyes so fine No desert dust, no sand to roam For Alice is not a camel at all, but home To stables where she runs with grace A horse who lost her camel face	7	Alice stood beneath the sun so bright With five great peaks of wool and light She promised she was built to last A desert king, a legend cast But as the wind began to blow The first hump slipped and started low Four remained upon her back While sand turned into solid track Then two more vanished in the dust Leaving only three, a heavy trust The crowd grew quiet, strange and deep As Alice shook with sudden sleep Two left now, a wobbly spine Where once the dunes were meant to shine One final mound began to fade Revealing bones that never swayed The last one fell with softest sound And silence swept across the ground No camel skin, no arid grace Just hooves that trotted through the space She neighed aloud with joyful cheer To prove what everyone could see clear The mystery solved before the end Alice is just a horse, my friend	6	Alice walked with grace so slow Carrying burdens, soft and low Five great peaks upon her spine A mountain range in desert shine She lost the first as seasons turned The heavy weight began to burn Four humps remain, a trembling line Beneath the sun that starts to climb Then one by one the giants fade Leaving only shadows where they stayed Three turn to two, then two to one The mystery of what has gone The final peak dissolves away Leaving nothing but the gray Zero humps beneath the sky Where Alice takes her final sigh No sand remains to hold the form As winter winds begin to storm The truth revealed in sudden light She was never built for endless night With hooves that strike the frozen ground No camel breathes this sacred sound For Alice is not lost or weak But simply a horse who dared to speak	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 scale the peak to see the view, And find another peak in view. The ladder of success is steep, But when you reach it, still you sleep. You drink the wine and wish it more, You knock upon the farther door. The prize you seek is always just Behind the next most dusty bust. There is no summit, there is no rest, No putting of the quest to test. It is the nature of the life, To be involved with strife and strife. Accept this hunger, accept this thirst, That by its very nature, first And last and middle, will not cease, But be the world's insatiate peace.	6	You climb the ladder rung by rung To hear the song you think you've sung But when you reach the highest place There is no smile upon your face For just beyond the summit's crest Another mountain lifts its breast The cup you fill will never hold A story that is ever told The more you have the less you seem Alive within a waking dream So let the endless river run Beneath the cold and distant sun Do not try to stop the stream Or wake from this unending dream It is the nature of the soul To be forever made whole Yet still to seek, yet still to fail To have the wind blow through the sail Accept the hunger in your chest Put striving finally to rest Not as a sin but as a state Of being late or being late The life you lead is vast and deep And promises it cannot keep	6	We climb the ladder rung by rusted rung To reach a summit that recedes before our eyes The view is never quite the one we sought And hunger grows within us as we rise Each trophy won becomes a hollow weight A momentary pause before the chase For if the thirst were ever truly quenched The runner would collapse in empty space So let the endless running be your rest Let insatiability be your guide To love the wanting more than having done And find the peace inside the unfulfilled tide There is no final shore where we arrive Only the water and the wind and sail Accept the ocean's vast and ravenous heart And cease to pray for any other gale	6	The ladder stretches past the clouds we climb With rungs that vanish as our fingers reach We count the heights we've conquered one by one Yet find the summit is a distant speech The cup runs dry before the lips can taste The prize dissolves to dust within the hand We chase the horizon with a frantic pace While standing still upon the shifting sand Do not mourn the hunger that will never cease Nor curse the void that swallows every gain For in this endless, insatiable peace We learn to love the running of the rain To stop is to deny the very flow That makes the river wild and deep and wide Let go the need for any final glow And float upon the tide you cannot hide	6	The summit is a mirage in the heat A promise made to shadows on the stone We climb until our lungs forget the beat And call the hollow victory our own But silence waits where glory used to be A quiet hunger that refuses sleep The horizon shifts with every step we see And pulls the future just out of our reach To rest is not to fail but to begin The cycle that no mortal hand can break The fire burns because it has no end The river flows for water's own sake So let the wanting be your only guide No final shore where all the waves collide Embrace the thirst that keeps the spirit wide And find the peace within the endless tide	6	The summit calls with promises of gold Yet every step reveals a higher peak We trade the quiet heart for stories told Of mountains climbed and victories we seek But silence waits within the conquered space Where joy dissolves into a hollow sound A ghost that chases shadows through the race And finds no peace upon the solid ground Why fight the tide that pulls us far away From shores where stillness might begin to bloom? The hunger is not meant to fade or sway It is the very pulse that fills the room Accept the thirst that never learns to cease The endless climb without a final door For in the striving lies our only peace To love the wanting, not the open floor	7	We climb the peaks we built from dust and bone Chasing a horizon that refuses to stay still Each summit reached becomes a valley deep Where silence whispers of the void within The trophy gleams but offers no warm light A hollow echo in a crowded room We trade our breath for promises of peace That vanish with the setting of the sun Do not mistake the hunger for a flaw It is the pulse that keeps the spirit wild To seek an end is to deny the flow Of rivers carved by currents without name Let go the weight of what you cannot hold Embrace the ache that drives the endless march For joy is found not in the final step But in the wind that pushes through your chest Accept the thirst that never learns to drink The fire that burns without consuming ash There is no shore where all desires rest Only the tide that pulls us forward on Release the need for answers in the dark And find freedom in the questions left unsaid The path itself is all we truly own A journey meant to stretch beyond the edge	6
559	train	The Tiger in the Menagerie by Emma Jones	Emma Jones	A poem about wildness and anger entering a controlled, civilized society, changing all those who experience it, and warning of the inevitable violence and damage that follows.	No one could say how the tiger got into the menagerie. It was too flash, too blue, too much like the painting of a tiger. At night the bars of the cage and the stripes of the tiger looked into each other so long that when it was time for those eyes to rock shut the bars were the lashes of the stripes the stripes were the lashes of the bars and they walked together in their dreams so long through the long colonnade that shed its fretwork to the Indian main that when the sun rose they'd gone and the tiger was one clear orange eye that walked into the menagerie. No one could say how the tiger got out in the menagerie. It was too bright, too bare. If the menagerie could, it would say 'tiger.' If the aviary could, it would lock its door. Its heart began to beat in rows of rising birds when the tiger came inside to wait.	The streets were paved with quiet rules and gray, Where every step was measured, safe, and true, Until the wind began to scream a new, Unruly song that tore the silence through. It started as a tremor in the bone, A sudden heat beneath the polished skin, As ancient fires woke within the stone, And let the wild and angry blood begin. No longer do they bow to laws of light, But claw at walls they once built high and steep, They tear the fabric of the perfect night, With promises they cannot keep or reap. The anger spreads like smoke through open doors, Infecting hearts that beat so calm before, Now pounding rhythms on the wooden floors, That echo violence waiting at the door. Beware the moment when the mask slips down, When reason yields to teeth and broken glass, For chaos wears a jagged, bloody crown, And leaves the civilized world to pass. There is no mending what the beast has done, No sweeping up the shards of shattered trust, Only the rising of a second sun, That burns the garden to a pile of dust.	The city lay like a watchful eye open and white in the clear cold air, and all the people were well behaved with their hands behind their backs. Then the wind came up from the south not smelling of lavender or soap, but of wet earth and broken teeth, and it went into the ears of the people. They put their hands to their heads and felt the hair standing on end, they saw the grass under the pavement straining at its roots to rise. The first man threw his umbrella at the head of the second man, because the wind said to him that the second man was an umbrella. And the second man took a brick from the wall of the post office, because the wind said to him that he was a brick and he wanted to be thrown. And so they went about the streets of the clean and well-lighted place, breaking the windows and the doors, and breaking the things inside them, and breaking each other. For when the wildness enters you it does not leave you again, it eats up the civilized part of you and leaves you nothing but anger. And if you think that this will pass, that the wind will go away and you will be able to put your hands behind your backs again, you are wrong. For when the wildness enters you it is because there is something in you that wants to enter it, and you will never be able to get rid of it. So beware of the wind from the south, and beware of the people who say that it is a nice breeze.	2	The stone walls held the air so still And polished floors reflected calm Until a wind blew through the hall That carried scent of blood and balm. It was not rain, it was not snow But something hot from deep within That made the tidy garden grow With brambles where the grass had been. The clerks who sat with ink and pen Dropped quills to howl into the night They tore their silk and wore them then As skins of wolf and bear and wight. The rules were torn asunder now By hands that knew no gentle touch A frown became a furrowed brow And love was hated, loved too much. For wildness is a hungry thing That cannot be contained or fed It makes the strong and noble king Lie down among the wolves and dead. So watch your gates and bar your doors And keep your temper small and neat For once the beast comes through the floors There will be nothing left but meat.	6	The city slept in glass and steel, With rules for every breath we took, Until the wind began to feel A taste of iron from the brook. It started as a sudden twitch, A tightening of the jaw, The civil mask began to itch, And then it fell away in raw. No longer do we speak in code, Or wait our turn to make a sound, We tear the fabric of the road And drag the pavement to the ground. The anger is a fevered tide, That swells within the quiet chest, There is no place for us to hide From what we think is now the best. But heed this warning, soft and slow, Before the first true blow is struck, The wildness that we let it grow Will leave us broken, blind, and stuck. For fire does not ask permission To burn the house that holds the grain, And violence needs no sweet decision To wash the clean streets red with pain. So watch your neighbor's eyes turn dark, As reason flees the human face, We strike the fatal, final mark, And run this orderly world a race. The damage will be deep and wide, The ruins where the gardens stood, There is no turning back inside The beast we thought was understood.	6	The glass walls held the quiet hum of order Where suits and schedules moved in perfect lines Until the wind arrived with teeth of rust And dragged a shadow through the polished floors. It started as a tremor in the spine A sudden heat beneath the collar's edge As reason cracked to let the beast inside To taste the salt of blood upon the tongue. The banker dropped his ledger for a stone The teacher tore her syllabus to shreds For every rule that bound them now was food For something ancient waking from its sleep. No longer do they speak in measured tones But roar at skies that offer no reply Their eyes are wild with hunger and with hate That burns the bridges built so carefully. Beware the moment when the mask slips off For once the wildness drinks the civilized air There is no turning back to gentle hands Only the breaking of the bone and wall. The streets will run with water mixed with red As order falls before the feral tide Remember this when silence turns to scream: The price of freedom is the fire we light.	6	The stone walls held a quiet hum Where order ruled and tempers tamed Until the wind began to come With shadows that no law proclaimed A fever rose in polished streets Where rules were once the only breath And silence broke beneath our feet As chaos whispered of its death The eyes that watched with steady grace Now burn with fire, wild and deep No longer bound by time or space But waking from a gentle sleep The garden turns to jagged thorn The hand that built now seeks to tear The civilized is newly born In blood and smoke and desperate air Beware the storm you cannot cage For once the beast has found its way It writes its name on every page And leaves the light of day to gray Do not invite the feral night To dance within your structured hall For it will steal the morning light And leave us broken, raw, and small	7	The walls were built of glass and quiet laws Where every breath was measured, soft, and slow Until the wind arrived with jagged claws And taught the heart a rhythm it did not know It starts as heat beneath the polished floor A sudden crack within the ordered mind The gentle hum of progress turns to roar As reason leaves the fragile world behind No longer do we speak in hushed refrain But shout the names of things we fear and hate The pavement breaks beneath the weight of pain As chaos rushes through the open gate See how the neighbor's hand becomes a fist How kindness fades into a primal scream The city burns within a violent mist Dissolving all that once was calm and clean Beware the beast that wakes inside the street For once the wild has tasted human blood There is no mercy left for those who meet The rising tide of uncontrolled and mud The damage done will never be repaired The scars remain long after fires die A warning etched in ash and broken air That peace is just a lie before the sky	6	The walls were built of glass and quiet breath Where order held the chaos at bay No storm could shake the pavement or the stone As silence kept the rhythm of the day Then came a wind that smelled of rusted iron A primal scream beneath the polished floor It stripped the masks from faces soft with time And turned the gentle hearts to something raw The rules dissolve like smoke before the fire As anger blooms within the hollow chest The neighbor looks upon the stranger's eyes With hunger born of ancient, forgotten rest Do not mistake this freedom for release For wildness does not heal the fractured soul It burns the bridge behind the trembling hand And leaves the path where safety used to roll The cost is paid in blood and shattered dreams When civilization cracks beneath the weight Of forces wild that cannot be contained Or tamed by words we whisper at the gate Beware the shift when instinct takes the lead For violence waits to claim what once was lost The price of letting go is far too high To pay without a scar upon the ghost	6

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