The tower built, the waters flow The names and faces we don't know Upon the earth, the builder's mark While we to other voices hark Celebrities, inanities, The evening late urbanities The dreamed-of, over-made-up kiss Yet waters flow In spite of this
Author: Beleaguered Servant
Owen Servant is an online poet working in a style that's been described as "compulsive". In real life, he is an actuary, because being a poet wasn't unpopular enough.
We watched her set her heart on things That seemed, each day, to grow more far; The blessèd weeks stretched out to years Like running towards the evening star. The chase, the goal, the destiny: The journey set, the route in flux -- But it's not hope out on the Chase But cynicism that Corrupts
A March Quartet (IV)
DEATH will have its night; Life will have its day. This is the world we're born into, this is the mortal way, AS FLOWERS feel the sun despite the vast all-over cold -- We're born to live, to learn, to feel, and maybe, to get old, WHEN WE must put our petals down, and give in to the earth; For death will have its night, and day will have its birth.
A March Quartet (III)
THERE'S ONE DAY cold, the next day warm, The Spring, capricious in its whim; The child runs and plays in snow, Then sees a next when all will swim In streams and pools of sunny March, Beside green fields of Summer-soon: There's one day white, the next day green; It's all a ludicrous cartoon. THE FIELD, it beckons to the young, And to the old, the in-between; But soon the wind will keening come, And gray and white will cover green. There is a rhythm, mad and great, That all must learn and feel to know We think that we're in charge, when we Are just part of the ebb and flow.
A March Quartet (II)
THE TRULY different, we forgive, the almost-alike, our enemies; We formulate cases in our labs to spread biotic crop disease, But where those crops won't grow, we find a breeze, a shore, a sunny way; The truly different live in peace, The almost-alike must rue the day.
A March Quartet (I)
THE WIND blows hollow, from the South; The mind shrinks back in wondering -- Yours was the waiting, Winter heart, Somnolent hopes, all slumbering -- There is no din, just Nature's voice, Clear as the stab of stricken pain: Those who you call, won't come again, Those you have loved have moved away. The Cold's not gone, it's in your bones, It's in the way you slowed-down move; Yours was the Heart that gave, and all -- Body and mind and cash and food -- In chapters written sans regret, You spent all the Spring you had within: This wound is the sword of grief's sharp edge, Ubiquitous part of human kin.
he was her pixelated love; she knew him from the screen that sat three feet beside her bed, and scene on torrid scene was played out in her heart and mind. she came, she saw, she dreamed -- he was her pixelated love, but little like he seemed
today, i'm grateful for the makers of this plate, and tablecloth; both have been here well and often, and though frequently i'm loth to acknowledge mundane things, i must express my gratitude that i have them both, for it is great to have them -- them and food
at sunset comes an essay that's writ in sky, and hue; she reads it every day she can, it's never twice the same -- for somewhere, there's a voice that calls, she hears, and knows it's true; those colors span eternity, and know her one true name