Quotes about distempered, page 2
Kiwi Heartbeat Poetic Chants
are tuned in distempered souls
mānuka honey is kiwi wild
wind clover flax fibre twist plait knot
ropes pull waka
rata season scarlet
letter tui bellbird chant
forest call
dawn chorus
awake spirits
melody songs
kauri earth rooted
sky stand poet
chant flies
spindle poet taxes
starvation soul
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poem by Terence George Craddock
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Why Surprised?
After democracy slash capitalism
has installed aided dictatorship
in foreign focus interest country
after dictator has turned upon
brutally suppressed own people...
why are you surprised puppet dictator
suddenly turns upon bites hand that fed?
Is this not the nature of true megalomaniac?
Distempered dictator dislikes taking orders.
Your psychopathological puppets condition
characterized by delusional fantasies wealth
power omnipotence tortures kills opposition.
Consider your puppets obsession with grandiose
trinkets extravagant distractions actions ruthless.
Did history not warn with enough dark parallels?
The word megalomania derived from the Greek
words megalo meaning large and mania meaning
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poem by Terence George Craddock
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Sandy’s Dilemma: Distempered Emotions
her greeting was “What’s up? ”
too unfocused
lacks her raw energy
casting random
so next must come
present crisis bomb shell
another razor sharp problem
“hey I need
insight on how to move on from
my deep anger toward my girlfriend”
“make peace with your soul
the anger is in you”
“hm... true that the anger is in me...
how do I make peace with my soul?
the anger is in me”
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poem by Terence George Craddock
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Friendship
I VIEWED him well, the visible fat fool,
And yet I took him in; for I contended,
Friends are not sent in order of our choosing,
They come unsuited like the gifts of God.
I would not do a perfidy to friendship,
I let him past the private inner gate
And made him be at home among my treasures
Like my true friend.
Now I am ground with a grim torture daily
That I have been befriended by a fool.
He forages at will upon my garden,
He noses all its pretty secrets out,
And still the fool finds nothing to his liking.
Meeting a modest velveteen affair,
Peevish he hangs his sad and silly head:
'Alas! such unsubstantial gaudy goods!'
Thus he meets pansies; meeting zinnias,
He nearly faints at such a rioting:
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poem by John Crowe Ransom
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Venecia
She came to me, my tempting mistress of love, with words of seduction she aroused my curiosity of love that banished my guilt with butterflies that flutter and keep my heart company. The cherries of her lips with sweet words and that of blacken good-byes wish to embrace forbidden flames of passion. Her black magic that twists, turn, manipulates and struggle with truth of love that she denied.
Shackled truths of bitter hearts. Unforgiven truths of bright passions past. Death of truth, rebirth of deceit, hate of truth that lives inside me. The truth untold is a blacken pit of death. The truth killed me with a burning passion of none to desire. The truth settled in and destroyed the tormenting chaos that seemed mainstream of my heart. She hit me with devesting realities that flows in the meaning of the blackness of my mind.
The flames of hurt and pain that rings and echoes with scars that cross the vast galaxy of my heart. Twisted with a crazy kiss that is meant to bite and tear my soul as a man. She destroys men of angels. Kingdoms dropped and plead for redemption. Never again. Never again shall the truth have such a vast grasp against a mutant grudge.
My distempered unjudged loyalty shifted only to lay in the milky way of love that cures my demons. Am I crazy or just in love with the truth and the truth is her and she is my death.
poem by Melvyn Mohan
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A Hymn To Venus
O Venus, beauty of the skies,
To whom a thousand temples rise,
Gaily false in gentle smiles,
Full of love-perplexing wiles;
O goddess, from my heart remove
The wasting cares and pains of love.
If ever thou hast kindly heard
A song in soft distress preferred,
Propitious to my tuneful vow,
A gentle goddess, hear me now.
Descend, thou bright immortal guest,
In all thy radiant charms confessed.
Thou once didst leave almighty Jove
And all the golden roofs above:
The car thy wanton sparrows drew,
Hovering in air they lightly flew;
As to my bower they winged their way
I saw their quivering pinions play.
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Fairy Sketch
SCENE--NETLEY ABBEY.
There was a morrice on the moonlight plain,
And music echoed in the woody glade,
For fay-like forms, as of Titania's train,
Upon a summer eve, beneath the shade
Of Netley's ivied ruins, to the sound
Of sprightly minstrelsy did beat the ground:--
Come, take hands! and lightly move,
While our boat, in yonder cove,
Rests upon the darkening sea;
Come, take hands, and follow me!
Netley! thy dim and desolated fane
Hath heard, perhaps, the spirits of the night
Shrieking, at times, amid the wind and rain;
Or haply, when the full-orbed moon shone bright,
Thy glimmering aisles have echoed to the song
Of fairy Mab, who led her shadowy masque along.
Now, as to the sprightly sound
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poem by William Lisle Bowles
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On A Proposed Crematory
When a fair bridge is builded o'er the gulf
Between two cities, some ambitious fool,
Hot for distinction, pleads for earliest leave
To push his clumsy feet upon the span,
That men in after years may single him,
Saying: 'Behold the fool who first went o'er!'
So be it when, as now the promise is,
Next summer sees the edifice complete
Which some do name a crematorium,
Within the vantage of whose greater maw's
Quicker digestion we shall cheat the worm
And circumvent the handed mole who loves,
With tunnel, adit, drift and roomy stope,
To mine our mortal parts in all their dips
And spurs and angles. Let the fool stand forth
To link his name with this fair enterprise,
As first decarcassed by the flame. And if
With rival greedings for the fiery fame
They push in clamoring multitudes, or if
With unaccustomed modesty they all
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poem by Ambrose Bierce
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Walking Seed Own Time Lines
creative soul quite out of sorts
are you really source defined
by what you past have done?
remembered by what you have written?
does not forest, lakes, rivers,
windswept beaches, ocean tides,
ebb flow in kiwi artistic souls?
do you not hunger starve feel
beginnings are glory dawn chorus
with an eternal day sun bean streams
birth begging come write me?
past writes be they haka or poi songs
lilting lullaby soft night whispered blessings
stretching dark far back to jaw thigh bones
stretch dark far back to ancestor jaw thigh bones
ancestor blessings running sleeping
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poem by Terence George Craddock
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The House Of Dust: Part 03: 09: Cabaret
We sit together and talk, or smoke in silence.
You say (but use no words) 'this night is passing
As other nights when we are dead will pass . . .'
Perhaps I misconstrue you: you mean only,
'How deathly pale my face looks in that glass . . .'
You say: 'We sit and talk, of things important . . .
How many others like ourselves, this instant,
Mark the pendulum swinging against the wall?
How many others, laughing, sip their coffee—
Or stare at mirrors, and do not talk at all? . . .
'This is the moment' (so you would say, in silence)
When suddenly we have had too much of laughter:
And a freezing stillness falls, no word to say.
Our mouths feel foolish . . . For all the days hereafter
What have we saved—what news, what tune, what play?
'We see each other as vain and futile tricksters,—
Posturing like bald apes before a mirror;
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poem by Conrad Potter Aiken
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