The Ghost of the Past
We two kept house, the Past and I,
The Past and I;
I tended while it hovered nigh,
Leaving me never alone.
It was a spectral housekeeping
Where fell no jarring tone,
As strange, as still a housekeeping
As ever has been known.
As daily I went up the stair,
And down the stair,
I did not mind the Bygone there --
The Present once to me;
Its moving meek companionship
I wished might ever be,
There was in that companionship
Something of ecstasy.
It dwelt with me just as it was,
Just as it was
When first its prospects gave me pause
In wayward wanderings,
Before the years had torn old troths
As they tear all sweet things,
Before gaunt griefs had torn old troths
And dulled old rapturings.
And then its form began to fade,
Began to fade,
Its gentle echoes faintlier played
At eves upon my ear
Than when the autumn's look embrowned
The lonely chambers here,
The autumn's settling shades embrowned
Nooks that it haunted near.
And so with time my vision less,
Yea, less and less
Makes of that Past my housemistress,
It dwindles in my eye;
It looms a far-off skeleton
And not a comrade nigh,
A fitful far-off skeleton
Dimming as days draw by.
poem by Thomas Hardy
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Alone And Torn
Stuck in a corner, or so it feels
Struck into dark, my light conceals
Snuck on past, past the repeals
Tuck my mind, depressing ideals
Searching for the will, alone, torn,
I depart inward, alone, torn
My greater jihad, ignorance would be bliss
Nigh is temptation, cast into a sinful abyss
Why is the question, one to reminisce
Cry out for help, somethings terribly amiss
Yearning for the will, alone, torn,
I emaciate away, alone, torn
Dazed by the truth, longing to repent
Fazed by my failure, inwardly I lament
Phased must be this battle, a battle of torment
Amazed if I succeed, I can't circumvent
Corroding without the will, alone, torn
I asphyxiate my soul, alone, torn
poem by Izik Alcox
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In Many But Lonely
True, I have many
Brothers and sisters
As well as many many friends
But when I sit down
To think deeply
I realise I am lonely.
In my sick bed
A lot of people came
To make me feel alright
But in such a sick mood
I fail not to feel
How lonely I am.
Companionship come!
I am in many but lonely.
Companionship come!
I am in many but lonely.
I go to the beach
Sit till late at times,
My ship may come
One of these days.
But tell me, the sea and I
Who is more lonely?
The sea is so full
Of all kinds of things
Including many living things
But there it is
Lying lonely in waiting
For her ship to appear.
Companionship come!
I am in many but lonely.
Companionship come!
I am in many but lonely.
poem by Kwasi Boaten
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It's Autumn Again
It’s autumn again
Leaves whisper the sound of our past
In loss they pay a descent
To the ground we fall
It’s autumn again
Our song is sung by the wind
Echoes of loss and grief
Through chilled air we wade
It’s autumn again
The waters grow as cold as our hearts
We are alike – crusted in ice
In ourselves we freeze
It’s autumn again
Flowers vanish from our sadness
Our beauty grows weak
Covered in frost we wither
It’s autumn again
The rain falls like our tears
Can’t dry our eyes
From the sky we descend
It’s autumn again
The sun shines then fails like us
Our sight becomes a wintry gray
Lost in darkness we will fade
It’s autumn again
poem by Andrea Rieck
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Winters Sun
Winters pall dims the vestiges of autumn gone,
lost the laughter and the sun, families fled
past the eyes of those past, replaced by barren sun.
Mundanity dulls the keenest edge, (re) casts
playact in imports stead, each actor caught in
winters pall, dims the vestiges of autumn gone.
In heady, early days, blushing glance was enough
to hold, then break, the rhythm of the dreary drum.
Past the eyes of those past, replaced by barren sun,
each generation caricatured, first by writers pen,
then realigned by victors gun; the awful chill of
winters pall dims the vestiges of autumn. Gone,
the comfort in a hug, entwined hands: now undone,
voices held on memories breadth, fade away into the
past. The eyes of those past, replaced by barren sun,
sightless, gaping - cast amongst the great undone, stories
raise them from the depths, before letting go into the
winters pall, dims the vestiges of autumn gone
past the eyes of those past - replaced by barren sun.
poem by Christopher Withers
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The Dust
The Dust fade some things
can fade the people
But can't fade the people heart
can fade the days
but never fade the love
eveything can be fade
but the only the memories
can't be fade
the secrets can take us to the past
but never take us to the future
because the future is fade
till his time and his way
So come on let's take this fade
and try to see the future
because now is the time of the future
poem by Marie Armany
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Pirouetting Autumn
The tree blushed - a rude blast of air
Betrayed a shapely bough.
My saddened heart aware
That Nature's clock was chiming,
I froze upon the twelfth
Clanging tone, caught alone,
Staring at a creaking door -
Left ajar for dancing, coloured Autumn,
Pirouetting in her leaves,
While agitated summer creatures
Backed away resignedly,
Sighing in protracted breves.
I turned; gave company;
We stood together, watching
Summer slowly blow away.
Copyright Mark R Slaughter 2009
A utumn autumn autumn autumn
Autumn autumn autumn autumn
Autumn autumn autumn autumn
Autumn autumn autumn autumn
Autumn autumn autumn autumn
Autumn autumn autumn autumn
Autumn autumn autumn autumn
Autumn autumn autumn autumn
poem by Mark R Slaughter
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Constant Time
Time past and the future give way to this present picture,
But can somebody tell me how to recognize that gate that leads to the bed of roses,
We speak about the future like the past is a grain of sand on the shore,
Washed away by the ocean tide,
Giving way to new grains to make a portrait of the present,
These past memories stay deep in our heart like the depths of the ocean,
Though it gets washed back to shore ones in a blue moon,
Reminding us that our past is a standard measurement of our strength,
Time moves so fast making the past to fade away,
this makes us seem so secured about the present,
Forgetting the fact that our present becomes our past that was once a present from nature as a new day,
Some take the future to be a dream and a wish,
But I take my future to be what I see when I stand from the bottom of the mountain to look at the top,
And my past to be the depth of the ocean that can always be washed ashore …
The only thing I can control is my present,
Yes cos my mind controls my hands to give you a flash of what goes on in my head
Like this words i write to you was once my future and will become my past, making my future my past and my past my future..So ironical isn’t it?
Standing here I sure know 1 thing,
I will reach the top by that foot path,
Yes of course it’s not to mean that I wouldn’t fall,
But I have to break myself off my present past and walk with grace to stand where I belong,
There where I am the king of my destiny,
The past is just going to be a page of memories,
And my future will become my present making time constant in my head,
Because I stand on my past which was once my present and my present which was once my future, making time equal and constant
As I flip thru this page of life,
By: ade
poem by Adeniran Oluokun
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Autumn Post Mortem
Kindred spirits strolling through your amber autumn
leaves like the chameleonic colours of spectral spring and
time's shedding past lives preparatory to post mortem
Memories not so self conscious as to requisition mourning
lights always changing and another day's sure to bring
kindred spirits strolling through your amber autumn
The night then is bright with day's approaching light
sufferance of deep space sprouting telephonic ring
as time's shedding past lives preparatory to post mortem
And my uncertainty is once again clouded with certainty
clearing the haze of successive summer days and heralding
kindred spirits strolling through your amber autumn
For in time the peace of patients and their lonely hearts
broken impart curtains scarlet softly spoken diamond sing
as time's shedding past lives preparatory to post mortem
Once Upon An Autumn Day
Once Upon an autumn day,
Colorful leaves began to fade
In the midst of a chilly, frosty air
As multitude of trees grew steadily bare.
Once upon an autumn day,
The whispering breeze was here to stay
Moving aimlessly through the countless trees
Scattering leaves with the greatest of ease.
Once upon an autumn day,
The leaves whirled freely in every way,
Until at last they came to rest
Finding a haven in which to nest.
Once upon an autumn day,
The trees were dormant, and the leaves lay
Waiting for the winter snow to fall
To quickly obscure them one and all.
poem by Joseph T. Renaldi
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Autumn Love
I met her in the autumn;
When such are found, you know.
She said, 'In all her glory.'
Though joking, oh how so!
So true, I did inform her.
But then, to no surprise.
Such things are never certain
In autumn's paradise.
An autumn love, so firmly,
May grasp a loving heart;
It still may seem together,
Though broken from the start.
Through autumn, when it found me.
Through winter's frozen years.
Such love alive in springtime,
Brings forth a rain of tears.
That's why the loves of autumn
Display a special trait.
The heartbreak, comes much sooner.
The love ends, much too late.
For young love, it's more tragic.
Although it's torn apart,
The yearning never ceases
Around a virgin heart.
So when the tears of springtime
Give way and summer looms;
The autumn love, once tempting,
Ignores the soul it dooms.
And then, the autumn comes again
For young loves one and all.
Changing then, its name once more,
From autumn to the fall.
poem by Greenwolfe 1962
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Half sleeping birds
I should be driving over roads' margins;
arcane path in dim light; I rode in glory,
the flying sea gulls cared for my story,
and a peculiar writers' group to burgeon.
Inside me was a bellow, earth trembling,
was it a roar or many? In a stormy sea,
(half sleeping birds stood on a marquee) ,
both ships and humans were dissembling!
In the horizon the ships floated bitter,
onto their trip of sempiternal sorrows,
as I reached the moors in half shadows,
the three fates were my life's knitters.
It echoed reminding of my days of past,
it was the roar inside me like a thunder
my inner entity won't be torn asunder,
while the ships' travel to infinity lasts.
My past became a drive that draws away,
arcane memories reversed to my insides,
your invitation to an uninhabited Hades,
torn companionship was, sweet of Sunday.
poem by Giorgio Veneto
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Breaking The Chain
To find my spirit, is to free my mind.
My mind tells me what I want.
My spirit tells me what I already have.
What is pleasing to the eyes,
Is poison to the spirit.
Love things and use people.
Give the power to a thought,
Leaves me powerless.
My mind wants control of all.
My spirit says I must control myself.
For it is all I have the power to do.
If I fear I am sick,
I can will myself to feel sick.
Even though I am really well.
I live according to my fears.
My life is surrounded by my giant.
I cannot breathe.
I am suffocated, by what I imagine.
I think what once was, still is.
I fear for my future, based on my past.
I cannot move forward,
If I am constantly held back.
By the chains of my mind that bind me,
I can only be at one place at one time.
My past or my present.
If I hold on to both,
One hand on my past, one on my future,
They each pull me in opposite directions,
Leaving me torn.
Let go of the past.
Grab a hold of the future with both hands.
It's will to be a wild ride!
With my mind, all things are probable.
With my spirit, all things are possible.
poem by Ryan Lee Morris
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Thrombocytopenia
But you promised, but you promise.
And you died without even saying goodbye.
Anger, confusion, sorrow.
Feeling it through my heart as it becomes hollow.
Thrombocytopenia
Why did it have to be this way?
Questioning the very existence of the day.
As if it could be changed.
As time could be stopped, or rewound.
Please somebody hit pause then play.
Then just maybe it would be okay.
Thrombocytopenia
Sometimes the simplest of words will do.
I loved you.
I loved you.
To the point of insanity then there was only more.
I speak in past tense to help me move past the thoughts of it.
The grieving process.
A process that one time is more then a enough.
A ghost that has become this numbness.
A skeleton that haunts you in the back of your mind.
Flash backs from time to time.
Thrombocytopenia
Trying to grab on to stars before they fade.
With so much at stake.
Why does their have to be so many aches and pains.
When does the bleeding stop?
Thrombocytopenia.
A wound that just won't heal.
And I can feel.
My insides pouring out through this wound that just won't heal.
This wound that just won't heal.
poem by Ace Of Black Hearts
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Three Wolves
Three, lonely wolves once lived together,
each one wished for a separate thing.
The first wolf wished for companionship,
so the moon was created for him to howl at every night.
The second wolf wished to be able to see the paths that lay ahead of him,
so the sun was created and he now walked on without fear.
The third wolf wished to be able to see his past,
so the stars were created and he was told that each one was the spirit of an ancestor.
poem by Louis Parr
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A Time Machine Mind!
Human mind, dreams, vision and imagination
Can transport one forward and backward in time.
Mind is the time machine to go to past and future
But time never goes backward but only forward;
Also, time never goes in circle but only straight!
Recollection of past is possible in the present;
Visualization of future is possible in the present;
But one cannot go to the past or future ever now!
Hour glass can show the time like clock of today
But it cannot bring back the past to reality now
Or bring to our vision the future of world now!
Mind is the time machine that can read history;
Mind is the same machine to see the future too;
But time never goes to the past but only to future!
poem by Ramesh T A
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Rom: On the Palatine (April, 1887)
We walked where Victor Jove was shrined awhile,
And passed to Livia's rich red mural show,
Whence, thridding cave and Criptoportico,
We gained Caligula's dissolving pile.
And each ranked ruin tended to beguile
The outer sense, and shape itself as though
It wore its marble hues, its pristine glow
Of scenic frieze and pompous peristyle.
When lo, swift hands, on strings nigh over-head,
Began to melodize a waltz by Strauss:
It stirred me as I stood, in Caesar's house,
Raised the old routs Imperial lyres had led,
And blended pulsing life with lives long done,
Till Time seemed fiction, Past and Present one.
poem by Thomas Hardy
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Rome: On the Palatine.
We walked where Victor Jove was shrined awhile,
And passed to Livia's rich red mural show,
Whence, thridding cave and Criptoportico,
We gained Caligula's dissolving pile.
And each ranked ruin tended to beguile
The outer sense, and shape itself as though
It wore its marble hues, its pristine glow
Of scenic frieze and pompous peristyle.
When lo, swift hands, on strings nigh over-head,
Began to melodize a waltz by Strauss:
It stirred me as I stood, in Caesar's house,
Raised the old routs Imperial lyres had led,
And blended pulsing life with lives long done,
Till Time seemed fiction, Past and Present one.
poem by Thomas Hardy
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Torn Butterfly
Torn butterfly torn butterfly
Seeing you there it makes me cry
Torn butterfly your wings they tore
From the weight that they bore
Torn butterfly it's plain to see
That you are just the same as me
Torn butterfly the world is tough
Hard as stones and just as rough
Torn butterfly I know your pain
And I don't want to know it again
Torn butterfly come join me now
And we'll regain our wings somehow
Torn butterfly it's sad but true
In death our wings become brand new
Torn butterfly just fade away
And we will fly this very day
Torn butterfly this note I send
And hope that you will cause your end
So we can fly in clear blue skies
Where no one hurts and no one cries
Torn butterfly with my last breath
I ask you to come join me in death
poem by Anonymous Ghurl
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The House
For many years, the house
stood empty and forlorn.
The windows had been boarded
preventing the sunlight coming in.
No welcoming mat lay by the door;
laughter was a thing of the past
as spiders spun their webs
within the gloomy silence.
The house stood empty
abandoned by most living things
and there were those who said
spooky goings on went on
after night fell in there.
No one could prove it
because no one would stay there.
Only the fool hardy
would ever enter after dark.
The paintwork pealed
and the front door creaked
if someone dared to open it.
They say the house is haunted,
but no one knew
by what or who.
The house began to crumble
as each season came to pass.
The glory of its birth
lay somewhere in the past
and now the crumbling walls
would never reveal
any of the secrets that it knew.
Then a fire started
by a hand unseen
and the house finally died
within its own funeral pyre
15 March 2011
poem by David Harris
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Crime of Life
Life seems but a memory of years
Gone by too fast.
Before we can live the present,
The future is the past.
Tomorrow is yesterday;
An instant is today.
The present is just a pause
Along past's fleeting way.
Seconds tick, days go by
And years bow out of sight.
Time speeds on as days are born;
Then devoured by each night.
Mankind's curse is overlooked
By Old Father Time, who steals
Our precious gift
With life's most hideous crime.
This crime of life is in its passing;
The days, the years that fleet by.
Almost before a chance to live,
It seems we're given a chance to die.
poem by Gregory Huyette
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