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Contents:
  1. POETRY OF PRAISE
  2. Poems with a Supernatural Touch - For the End Times (Paperback)
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Comfort comes to the weary We find that which we seek. A bridge is built at the river And power is given to the weak. One day's load we have to bear As we travel on life's way. Wisdom is given for the occasion And strength to equal each day. We are never required to stagger Under tomorrow's heavy load. We journey one day at a time As we travel life's rugged road. God's mercy is new every morning And His faithfulness is sure. God perfects all that concerns us And by our faith, we will endure. Broken Pieces If you are broken by life trials and weary from life's defeats.

If you have been badly battered and have no joy or peace. Give God your broken pieces so He will mold them back in place. He can make them better than before with a touch of His sweet grace. If your dreams have been shattered after much struggle and pain. Even if your life seems hopeless God can restore you again. God can take broken pieces and He can make them whole. It matters not how badly broken God has the power to restore. Though it is June, I crave the bite of ice.

I send the Leveler, wind fanged by North to sink its hoarfrost tooth into the world, crisping the maple red, browning the oak. I cannot pass tonight where green things hope. I banish Persephone's corn bounties. No leaf that has the glint of chlorophyll can last a moment in my chilling gusts. Precede me, airborne, wasting Nothingness, lay for my feet a carpet sere and gray, a trail of ash from my Hadean robe, dust of the murdered summers I've renounced.

My eye sees all in inverse images: the near is far, the far away my toy. Each chink of sky leaps like a broken pane from where it hangs suspended on a branch, or like a painted sliver where the trees thrust down to meet horizon — it is these stars, my witnesses, who hover near, while elms, by web-line weaving architecture thrust fade to infinity, night's palette mad. I close my cloak about my throat, hold tight the leaden box I bear.


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The curve of earth blinks out the last scant gleam of the village, save one blanched clapboard church, desanctified, which grinds against Pleiades as they rise. Its steeple breath exhales the lidless bats, purblind, carnivorous doves of my court. Fly up and out, and with your leather wings make me an arbor black with rabid pride. Along my way, an abandoned boneyard lifts limestone paws and graven platitudes against me. I laugh at hallowed places, defying their passive, limp corruption. My eyes spit fire. The unkempt grass explodes. The crosses singe, the solemn obelisks crack and shatter, the marble angels fall.

No crucifix or holy sign can stay what I would call and consummate tonight. Do you suspect me? Would even your fortress of intuition guard against this? My tentacles of ink reach out for you. You send a moon, and in its sickly glare the smoking earth rears up two night monsters-- four horns unfolding red and gigantic, blood wet and throbbing as they block my way. Horns become ears, I recognize the heads of guardian owls, elm-high and screeching as they snap their beaks, their eyes all-seeing. I pass in silence through their talon clutch for they are but conjured--and I am real.

Would you cast dreams against my greater force? Hurl Elmo's fire against my juggernaut? Ah, soon, comes my reward for nights denied; for all the days I circled your dwelling, outcast while others consumed your beauty; for those half-loved because some hint of you haunted an eye or a cheekbone, revenge, my calm last gift for your squandered passion. I cough a cloud and let it blot the moon so that no distant star may hear and mock the oath that is sworn in forbidden copse. Open the box, be sure the sacred objects are counted.

Be sure the unspeakable ointments gleam in the krater-shaped Plutonian cup. Lay out the black and scarlet vestments now, set forth another cup with water drawn blind from a mountain spring in midnight oaths, scoop graveyard earth burned free of worms and roots into the center of the Pentagram, light the black candle now, step from the arbor and bid you come:. Hear me, ye formless, boundless nameless ones, Ye captive essences of fire and air, by this dread Ring and Stone which all obey I conjure Ye to take the form I dream.

POETRY OF PRAISE

I shall not move, yet on his back my will shall leap these mountains, beat over cities, hell-ride the hard Atlantic sea-line, then swoop, then scan the forest then fall with unrelenting speed onto your lawn. Touch not the door which has been daubed in blood against my coming and going. Sing out your piercing call to the shuttered window, where the cat, whom I have collared a slave of my impulse, will beckon you to look at the flat fanged face of my messenger.

In an instant, you are borne away, your scream to no avail, your bedclothes ripped as you graze the upper treetops, held firm in ten claws beneath the throbbing wing beats. I am waiting for you, for the sound of descending wings, waiting for the years denied me to curl into a wrinkled ball that some hot maelstrom draws into its belly. I am dancing the death of romance. Dizzily, you rise from your abduction.

You do not know me yet in this darkness. I take your hand. You speak my name in anger and astonishment. Your touch is just as I imagined it, frail and terrified. Your eyes would plead your innocence, your lips would say that none but I have tasted them. I would believe you for the sake of those eyes, had I not left humanity behind. Your arms invite my dissolution, death in one touch of your supple shoulders, but I dare to finish what I began.

Come, love, come stand by me, let me anoint thy fevered brow, kneel amid knives and Pentagram, bowing your head for blow or blood's baptism, and thus, and thus, with what still trembles in the cup, with earth, with fire, with midnight waters I place to your lips, with ivory rings I now produce from soulless lead and velvet lairs. She is Swedish, and one of those, you know. Green eyes and red hair, all clinging velvet and ropes of beads in the front, with cold and cleanly chiseled features.

Real Nordic beauty with a chalk complexion --and no back at all.

Poems with a Supernatural Touch - For the End Times (Paperback)

All coming at you, dead ahead, and steaming down on you, with nothing whatsoever to back it up. In front, solid, but hollow; a shell of half a woman is what she is, and I ought to know because one evening I got behind her. It was at this party, you understand; the one for the author, newly arrived who lost the address and never did. She must have been tired that night or careless. She almost never lets it happen. Always back to the wall. Back to a crowd of other backs. Back to the fireplace. Back to the upholstery of chair or sofa. So no one ever gets behind her to check the rumor.

But this evening she had been standing in a corner, trying to make the stem of a sweating martini glass behave between the thumb and fingers of a cotton glove, and while concentrating on her problem, she moved a few steps forward and outward. I immediately squeezed in behind her, And what I saw:. Or rather, everything: you, the tall clock ahead of me, my own red gown in the mirror. If I stared until my eyeballs heated, I could just make out the finest thread lines of a drawing on the air: head, neck, torso, and long, full skirt. I tell you, not only does she have no back, but the back of her front, as seen from behind, between her shoulders, is transparent.

Everyday it works; the fruit lipped moon of October opening its jaws licking midnight. The blood apples wink from the dressing table bobbing like new heads. Before a wall of mirrors the lady stands choosing her reflection,. She peels her image, rolls it into a ball,. At the witching hour she will stand,. I know it was our father's house, But prudence says he wouldn't mind Your packing up his legacies, a trunk Or two of city clothes, a photograph, Perhaps, of what had been a neighborhood, Where now the sea laps barren beach Behind your yard.

Do you enjoy the thought That apple trees you climbed as a boy Are now the hanging place of cuttlefish? Do you expect that whatever it is That gobbles houses by night And hauls the sidewalk off in chunks Will spare your little edifice? I don't worry so much About the lobsters, big as cows, That made off with the Belgian clock, The marble mantelpiece, or the horn That I left in the attic; their taste Is too baroque to warrant another visit.

But I will prove, if I must With photographs and measurement That the oblong rock once half a mile At sea will soon adorn the lawns, Then, with a nudge, the stairs; Next day it will bulge into the parlor; And probably within a fortnight Sweep you a mile up the beach To that stack of abandoned houses Where it has already assembled What's left of the town. So that is how you do it. I thought you had a kitchen. That's an awfully strange spoon and an overly-large pot for a dinner, isn't it? I'd rather you put it on the stove, the fire on the rug could catch the curtains.

Curious you aren't burned when you touch it. Where is the wood that keeps it going? Here are the onions. Do you always jab them with your nails? I've never seen anyone add paper. Does it do something for the broth? What are we having?

Death Is Not The End! - Spoken Word Poetry

Maybe you'll teach me how to chop up pencils with my hair. I didn't know you could do that. It seems to grow longer as you jump through your whirling dervish dance. I think you've burned the bread, or is that the loaf of erasers you baked? Do you know what that tentacle, now weaving itself through the slats of your fire escape, has done for the front of your building? It has not adorned it! No use deceiving her: she spies the nightshade in my herbal; skulks by when my illegal pet happens to dangle a tangible limb out and down the fire escape, three floors; swift-toed, she lifts the carpet up, reads last night's chalked-in Pentagram; turns in a fire alarm in jest when my more musty conjurations won't clear the chimney tops and gasp out every window of my loft.

She's obstinate, turns up her furs against the cloud that hovers there on my command, that black and personal drizzle that hounds her Monday walks. Then frenzied you reappear jump quiver twitch twitch twitch at my feet. Before the light withdrew before the water gave you up before the stab inside you turned to nothing.

What did you come to tell me? And if I got the message, how should I answer?

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I think the walls are getting thicker I don't hear people making love of mornings any more. I thought if the telephone rang more often the electromagnet might revitalize the air in here. Maybe I'll begin drinking and then I won't remember there were thinner walls once even windows. I dream of doors but have forgotten how they look I almost in my dream remember I wake up almost remembering.

Today I will walk through a wall breathing may not be possible I practice not breathing.


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  7. It seems to me the walls are breathing now I am lost in the walls like a rat scratching Maybe you'll hear me after midnight maybe you will make a window or a door. The dead have difficulties. Each spring no alternatives. Rebirth for those who must hatch out of boxes is maddening, to say the least. This dependency on worms and minerals for the recycling of bones and other extraneous material may explain why the dead remain so passive.

    But for him it was his last afternoon as himself, An afternoon of nurses and rumours; The provinces of his body revolted, The squares of his mind were empty, Silence invaded the suburbs. The current of his feeling failed: he became his admirers. Now he is scattered over a hundred cities And wholly given over to unfamiliar affections; To find his happiness in another kind of wood And be punished under a foreign code of conscience.

    The words of a dead man are modified in the guts of the living. Follow, poet, follow right To the bottom of the night, With your unconstraining voice Still persuade us to rejoice;. With the farming of a verse Make a vineyard of the curse, Sing of human unsuccess In a rapture of distress;. In the deserts of the heart Let the healing fountains start, In the prison of his days Teach the free man how to praise.

    Wikipedia has an article about: William Butler Yeats. Wikisource has original works written by or about: William Butler Yeats. Wikimedia Commons has media related to: William Butler Yeats. Namespaces Page Discussion. Views Read Edit View history. In other projects Wikimedia Commons Wikipedia Wikisource. This page was last edited on 20 May , at